Market Seduction
Roman artichokes. Photo: Naoki Nitta
April 14, 2021
Like many visitors to the Eternal City, I fell in love with Rome through its food and its beauty. Sure, I ate my way through its fabulous ristorante and quaint but nondescript trattorie, downed shots of espresso in piazze big and small, and marveled at the endless splendor of its art and architecture. But that was just infatuation. What captured my heart were the bustling open-air markets, where the beauty of Roman life reveals itself in the colors of fresh produce and the animated interactions of those who come to revel in the most public of forums.
For half a glorious year in the late nineties, my husband and I lived in Rome’s centro storico, its historic center. The city seemed to move at a slower pace then: there was no common European currency, mobile phones were still rare novelties, and aside from a single McDonald’s on Via Nazionale near the train station, Rome seemed impervious to the reaches of globalization. Shops shuttered their doors after lunch and didn’t reopen until late afternoon. On Thursdays, most businesses closed for the day at 1 pm, leaving a strange tranquility along the tight medieval streets and alleys that made up the centro. The calm was interrupted only by the occasional diesel bus roaring down Corso Emmanuele, the chiming of hourly church bells, and the sounds and aroma of cooking escaping through open windows.
It was a quick walk from our rented apartment to Campo dei Fiori, Rome’s famed medieval piazza. Built atop a field of flowers, it’s the “centro del centro”—the epicenter of the historic center, where a daily market has been running since 1869. A statue of Giordano Bruno, burned at the stake in 1600, supposedly in the very same spot, looms over the Cinema Farnese and the outdoor tables of the restaurants, bars, and cafes lining its perimeter.
Vendors set up shop in the four quadrants around Bruno six mornings a week beneath big, well-worn canvas umbrellas. The majority sold a dazzling array of fruits and vegetables heaped high on tables and wooden crates, with prices scribbled on paper bags in uniform penmanship. A butcher commanded a prominent corner in a food truck-like meat counter; other vendors specializing in fish, different varieties of mushrooms, garlic, sausage and cheese rounded out the daily offerings.
Sonia and her mamma, Francesca at their market stall, 2002. Photo: Naoki Nitta
For everything fresh, Rome has a season, and as the late days of winter gave way to the softer, warmer days of spring, the change seemed nowhere more apparent than at the market. Carciofi cimaroli, or long-stemmed top artichokes (mammole in the Roman dialect) debuted in the Lenten weeks preceding Easter, growing in size and abundance with every passing week while their prices dropped accordingly. Although they generally resemble the globes found here in the States, mammole have thornless, petal-like leaves in beautiful gradations of purple and white. And they often sport foot-long stems, making them look more like large, exotic flowers.
Softer and more tender than their American cousins, mammole lend themselves to being prepared and served whole. The quintessential preparation is, of course, carciofi alla romana, or artichokes stuffed Roman-style, with parsley, mentuccia, a wild strain of native mint, and garlic, then braised in olive oil and a drizzle of water. The deep-fried carciofi alla giudea, or Jewish-style artichokes are also popular, but the unlikely pairing of parsley and mint has a freshness that captures the essence of spring. They’re often served alongside spit-roasted lamb, but served on their own, the whole chokes make a commanding antipasto, setting the tone for a hearty pasta alla amatriciana or carbonara to follow.
By peak season, the market vendors seemed to spend hours snapping and paring away the tough outer leaves, removing the inner choke above the heart, and trimming the fibrous stem, all while rubbing lemon halves on the pared artichokes to minimize discoloration. Chattering away, their rubber-gloved hands dexterously whittled them down to their edible essentials: the soft and tender inner leaves surrounding a meaty heart and thick, long, stalk. Shoppers often put in their orders, moved on to other stalls, and returned to collect the prepared chokes before heading home. Vendors typically packed appropriate handfuls of parsley and mentuccia into the bags of regular customers.
One particularly hopeful day, I decided on a whim to give it a go. I picked up my ingredients from Sonia Proietta and her mother Francesca, who ran the family stall on the northwest corner of the Campo, right by the flower stand. They were always a generous source for quick tips on cooking local dishes, and as usual, they discussed—debated really—the recipe out loud as I furiously scribbled down notes.
In typical Roman fashion, the ingredients and preparation are simple, and as such, very loosely codified: the pared artichokes are stuffed with a mixture of chopped parsley, mentuccia, garlic, olive oil and salt, dropped head down and stems up in a covered pot, then braised with more olive oil and a drizzle of water until soft. Prodding mother and daughter for exact proportions provoked yet another animated interchange; both finally agreed to some random measurement as demonstrated by the joints on their pinkies. They were both adamant, however, that I lay a clean paper bag under the lid of the pot during braising. This tip, they assured me, would absorb the steam and give the edges of the leaves a delicious crisp.
And with this noted, I grabbed my ingredients, handed over a bunch of lire notes and bid them a quick “ciao, grazie!” After picking up half a loaf of crusty lariano at the bakery and a bottle of young Frascati made in the nearby hills of the Castelli Romani, I headed back to the apartment as church bells rang in the noon hour. As the streets quieted down past the midday crescendo of activity, I went to work in the kitchen, hoping to get lunch on the table by the time my husband came home. It wasn’t too long before the unmistakable aroma of garlic, mint, and olive oil wafted out of our kitchen window, joining the other alluring scents of la vita romana.
Carciofi alla romana. Photo: Naoki Nitta