CHAPTER XIX.

THE “GRECO”—SIGNOR GIOVANNI—FREQUENTERS OF THE BARCACCIA—PIETRO—THE ROMAN CIGAR—CAFFE DU BONGOUT—“PUNCH A LA ROMAINE”—ITALIAN EATING-HOUSES—THE LEPRI—OLD AURELIO—TERRIBILE—ROMAN BILL OF FARE—SWEETS—ENGLISH ERRORS—DESSERT—THE LEPRI GARDEN—THE “GABBIONE”—ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD—FRIED FISH—ALESSIO—“UNA BOMBA ALLA CERITO.”

As I could get nothing cooked in my new domicile, and do not even know whether it possessed a kitchen or not, I was compelled to take my meals at the Caffé and Eating-house. Of course I patronized the Greco, which was not only close to me in the Via Condotti, but the resort of most of my artistical friends. Signor Giovanni, its padrone, a good-humoured old man of eighty, was at one time a waiter in the establishment, but having married its mistress, may now be seen every day inside the counter, raking up the mezzi-paoli. The Caffé is also known by its original name ofBarcaccia, derived from the adjacent fountain in the Piazza di Spagna, and was famous during the war, as the scene of some noisy political meetings. Having beenhallowed by the constant presence of men, whose names can never be lost to fame, and will be remembered when their works have perished, the marble tables and well-worn benches of the Greco, possess a charm for the artist, which no other Caffé in Rome can boast. It opens at four in the morning, when it is resorted to by the Vetturini, who take theircaffé rhummeggiata. After them, about daylight, come the Italian shopkeepers of the Condotti, who make their early breakfast of chocolate and little rolls calledchiffa, in shape like the crescent of Diana. These give place to the Danish and German artists, men with fierce moustaches and grizly beards, who dim the grey-light of morning by the clouds of smoke inseparable from the proper enjoyment ofmischio[25]andcaffé latte. These frequent a middle room, to which they seem to possess an exclusive right, and there they lounge, all dull and gloomy, sipping and smoking. At about eight o’clock, the little round tables in the front room are occupied one by one, whilst at a side bench, over which the notice of “non si fuma qui,”[26]seems to promise a few cubic yards of atmosphere less densely impregnated than the rest, may be seen two or three individuals drinkingthé á latte, and conversingconfidentially in an under tone. These are great men, whose chisels and brushes have astonished all Europe. And yet the eye of theministrowith the coffee-biggin is no oftener directed towards them, than to the humblestalliere, who is smacking hisrhummeggiataon the opposite bench, nor is the customary obeisance of the Signor Giovanni, a whit lower to one party than the other. And now Pietro, the waiter, who has been fanning himself at the open door-way, suddenly arouses us by a prolonged cry of, “dolcissimo,” and we know that in another minute we shall see ——, whose scriptural subjects have gained him so great a notoriety, whilst a similar call for “mezza crema con poco zucchero,”[27]betokens the approach of the less sweet-toothed author of the “Life of Raffaelle.” Pietro knows and never fails to remember the peculiar taste of each of his customers, and I have heard him give the order for my “pane bruscato,” or dry toast, the moment that I have turned the corner of the Piazza di Spagna.

About the middle of the day, there is a sprinkling of Frenchmen, who drop in to open their appetites by a taste of the “gialla bottiglia,” so called from the amber-coloured abscynthe, without which preparative, and the subsequentchasse, their mid-day meal would be considered incomplete. During the afternoon, there is a constant succession of applicants forcaffè-noir, accompanied by the regulation weed at one bajocco, a cigar generally supposed to have been born in a cabbage-bed, and baked brown in an oven, and which, after lying a month on the shelf of aspaccio normale, returns to dust in the Greco. In the evening, the caffé is generally filled with a miscellaneous company from all quarters of Europe, who indulge inmezzi-caldiand hot discussions, mixing punch with politics, and debating knotty questions bearing upon “art,” until midnight, when the house is closed.

Whilst speaking of Roman coffee-houses, I must not omit to mention the “Bon Goût,” in the Piazza di Spagna, certainly one of the best in the city, and although not much frequented by the generality of artists, its benches are often occupied by the older stagers, who mumble through an elaborate breakfast, unannoyed by the combined odours of tobacco and abscynthe. Here too, will always be found some of that peculiar class, so justly idolized by the Roman dealers in bronzes, mosaics, and marbles, men who carry with them to England, boat-loads ofgialloandrosso-antico, and fill their carriages with camei and green lizards. Thenagain, the “Bon Goût” is the resort of those who prefer a French roll and newspaper, to the monotony of a hotel breakfast in their bedrooms, and is therefore crowded in the visiting season. In the afternoon, its tables are arranged outside, under an awning, and there is a constant demand for ices and barley-water, and as the genuinepunch a la romaine, ought, if it really does not, to date from the Bon Goût, and may there be had in perfection, the ladies can want no excuse for a free indulgence therein.

Having disposed of theCaffè, I will devote another page or two to the unintellectual subject of gastronomy, and beg my reader to accompany me into a Trattoria, or Italian restaurant. Those of Rome are numerous and generally good, but as it is with that of the “Lepri,” that I am more particularly concerned, and may hereafter have frequently to allude to it, I will endeavour to give a short description of it and its frequenters. The “Lepri” is in the Via Condotti, exactly opposite the Caffè Greco, and takes its title from the palace which adjoins it. The head of the establishment is, or lately was, a wealthy widow, who would never scruple to render a service to an artist, and would lend her stock of plate, or tend a sick couch with unhesitating kindness. Her son lives upon hisrentes, which aresufficiently good, and enable him to keep his carriage and shooting-box.

On the ground-floor, are two public rooms and an enormous kitchen, but as the former are chiefly frequented by Italians, we will ascend the dark and greasy staircase to the first-floor, where we shall find three distinct entrances to as many tolerably spacious rooms. The presiding deity of the first, is the old Ferrarese waiter, Aurelio, with his attendant sommelier rejoicing in the high-sounding name of Ferdinando Terribile, who seldom sees a customer dine three times in his room, before he bestows upon him some appropriate soubriquet.[28]Aurelio is a character possessing some of thesuaviter in modoof his Imperial prototype, and will also be found, if pressed for two consecutive portions of pudding, (which he stoutly maintains to be unnecessary,) equallyfortiter in re. In Aurelio’s room are three tables, which, at twelve o’clock, or thereabouts, are appropriated by hungry yellow-haired Danes and Saxons, deep in the mysteries ofpurèeandgiardinetto, their flowing beards and moustaches, lubricated and unctuous with the greasy fluid, which appears by its effects to be as conducive to a luxuriantgrowth, as the genuine Macassar. The application of a piece of bread puts them in train for the next course, and now Aurelio may be observed confidentially whispering, and touching upon the excellence of such items of his bill of fare, as he knows will suit the taste of each particular customer. To one he dictates afritto misto, a sort of omnium gatherum, as its name implies, consisting generally of small portions of calve’s head, liver, brains, artichoke, cabbage leaves, cauliflowers, and young gourds, fried in fat. Then an Irishman interrupts him, with a demand for twomezzi-manzi, or bouilli, by which little dodge, he hopes to secure a larger portion, than if he had ordered a wholego. To another, Aurelio recommends anagrodolce, a villainous compound of sweets and sours, or astufatinoof beef and celery, stewed to rags. The rattling of knives and plates is now almost deafening. Terribile, in his capacity of canava, or butler, rushes about with wine-flasks andfogliette,[29]of the white and rednostrale,[30]having already taken care, like a ship’s purser, to withhold a thumb-toll from each bottle in the process of decanting. A courseof sweets then follows, and of these, there is such an alarming variety, that the bill of fare rather puzzles than assists one in making a selection. Under this head, comes theZuppa Inglese, a name which leads our uninitiated countrymen to suppose that ox-tail, or mutton broth, has got by chance into a wrong column, and if ordered, makes its appearance in the form of a flat sponge-cake, soaked in rum, with an upper coating of plaster of paris, and blue sugar-plums. Here also is the delicatericotta, a curd much eaten by the Italians at their breakfast, but usually fried in oil or made into pudding, when served at dinner. Dessert is rarely eaten, and I should think never called for a second time by any one at the “Lepri.” I was once rash enough to express to Aurelio, my desire for some fruit. He assented, with a stare of astonishment, and brought me, on a plate, a shrivelled apple, two lumps of sugar, two figs, some unripe almonds, a piece of cheese, and four large green beans, in the furry pod. The latter are eaten as a delicacy, but I should think a taste for overgrown scarlet-runners, would be acquired with difficulty by an Englishman.

The adjoining rooms will be found very much to resemble that to which I have endeavoured to introduce the reader,saving that people of other nations will be found there, and instead of his mother-tongue or the silvery Italian, his ears will be greeted with the harsh gutterals of Germany, or the still less-intelligible Russian. Behind the Trattoria there is a garden, where we sometimes dinedal fresco, under odd-looking trees, of questionable appearance. If the wind happened to be stirring, there would sometimes drop upon us and into our plates and dishes, a shower of green beetles or caterpillars, whilst our feet and legs were besieged by a legion of ants. As I never much enjoyed the forced presence of these little visitors, my rustic dinners were anything but frequent.

Such is a rough outline of the mid-day meal at the “Lepri.” With some this is called, and really serves as a dinner, though the hour of Ave Maria is generally the busiest at the various Trattorie. Besides the “Lepri,” there are other eating-houses frequented by artists, who are often capricious in their tastes, and will walk a mile or more in quest of some dish of particularly good repute. In the Corso, there is a Restaurant called the “Bertini,” used by such as prefer being served in a somewhat more ostentatious style, and who do not object to pay a trifle more for it. Here the wines are better, and there is more choiceof them than at some other places, but the cuisine is very much the same. The Gabbione, the Falcone, and the Scalinata, are well-known houses, each remarkable in some way or other. The first, which was once a banking-establishment, is a cellar under a house, near the Fountain of Trevi, and is famed for its good wines, delicious water, and cheapness, but it has withal an appearance so murky and so very far removed from cleanliness, that the Germans have bestowed upon it the appellation of the “Dirty Spoon.”[31]The street which leads to it from the fountain, so celebrated by Madame de Stael, is a sort of vegetable shamble, and reeks with the perpetual odours of cabbage leaves and bad melons. A great deal of business is done here in thin lemonades and the opal-huedassensio, and it is the resort of Carbonari and big dirty men, who emulate thepieniof the Corso, in swallowing ices and coldbibite.[32]In winter the heaps of vegetables give place to fizzing cauldrons of fish, of queer shapes, indigenous only to the Tiber, among which the really delicatetriglie[33]figures conspicuously, while vast tin waiters of fried fish, which tempteven the very Jews from the Ghetto, are here displayed in close rank on either side. But let us now explore the damp cellar of the “Dirty Spoon.” Having descended four or five steps, we find ourselves in a sort of vaulted chamber, whose intense gloom is only relieved by the doubtful white of the coarse cloths which cover the narrow tables. Alessio the waiter, will be found either busy with his customers, or fast asleep upon a bench. These are his only two conditions, and he fulfils each to the letter. It is wonderful, with what accuracy he will remember the precise quantity and value of the dishes consumed by each of his customers, without having recourse to pencil and paper. Thechefof the Gabbione, like those of other Roman trattorie, appears to have an invincible objection to the introduction of any novel dish, and I was therefore much surprised one evening that I visited its subterranean, in company with Savill and “the Emperor,”[34]who were bent upon supping. We had hardly seated ourselves, ere Alessio pompously announced a new dish. “Signori, abbiamo Bomba alla Cerito!” Theplatappeared well-timed, inasmuch as the great artiste was at that very moment delighting the volatile Romans at theTeatro Aliberti, hard by. “Vediamo,” was our reply, and theBombawas introduced, but any thing less likely to recall even a faint recollection of a “pas seul,” I never saw. It proved to be a ball of rice, fried in green oil, and enclosing a solitary sparrow, of which the head alone was visible, and was remarkable only on account of its exalted name, and extremely ludicrous appearance. In taste it was excellent.

UNA BOMBA ALLA CERITO

UNA BOMBA ALLA CERITO!

FOOTNOTES:[25]Coffee and chocolate mixed.[26]“No smoking here.”[27]“Half a cream with little sugar.”[28]A practice rendered in some degree necessary, from Terribile’s inability to pronounce our Saxon names.[29]AFogliettois a small decanter, holding nearly a pint.[30]Nostrale, when applied to wine, means that grown in one’s own vineyards.[31]Zum schmutzigen Löffel.[32]Swizzle. (English Vernacular.)[33]Red Mullet.[34]Terribile had dignified one of our friends with the imposing title of “Imperatore.”

[25]Coffee and chocolate mixed.

[26]“No smoking here.”

[27]“Half a cream with little sugar.”

[28]A practice rendered in some degree necessary, from Terribile’s inability to pronounce our Saxon names.

[29]AFogliettois a small decanter, holding nearly a pint.

[30]Nostrale, when applied to wine, means that grown in one’s own vineyards.

[31]Zum schmutzigen Löffel.

[32]Swizzle. (English Vernacular.)

[33]Red Mullet.

[34]Terribile had dignified one of our friends with the imposing title of “Imperatore.”

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