Appertura e Pizza Tonda

t seems that in most things, greatness comes in surges or spurts. One shouldn't seek to create always in times of negativity. Negativity is easy and can become a habit.

As today was probably the best day I have spent in Roma, it is also probably the day I should write about. Wednesdays always seem to be my best day in Roma, largely because it is the day of the week that the cyclopicnic falls upon. The cyclopicnic is a devout but small group of picnickers that believe in the bike revolution and good eats, but today's wonderfulness had many parts.

This morning I went to Andremo's pizzeria, in Travestere, and spent a few hours talking to Andremo about pizza and Italian food while he shaped countless pizzas to order and in taglio. Witnessing his work gave me confirmation that working with dough is a tender sort of therapy, that creating and shaping the most supple of culinary goods is next to godliness; dough is after all a living thing.

Probably the most exciting part of Andremo's method is his oven. He carefully calculates the temperature of his oven for each type of pizza. Hovering around a whopping 300 degrees celcius, his pizza proves that an electric oven can create blistered, extra crispy, ultra-risen, pizza with less energy and waste than a wood oven. Obviously wood oven pizza is very different, but the use of electricity is a noble pursuit, looked down on by some, and acknowledged by others for what it is: the future.

I have never seen a more pleasant afternoon in a restaurant: one man cooking to his heart's content and another schmoozing with the customers. It was a social centre of Zza.


I walked along the river after with my friend Francesco a bit, talking about Dante and movies and Italian culture, eventually he hooked me up with an internet connection and some movies to watch: one of the most generous souls I've met thus far.

I took a moment to read some of my book, "Mi chiamano la signora delle erbe. Non perché io abbia conoscenze di botanica, o erboristeria, o magia naturale, ma semplicemente perché ho imparato a vivere con le erbe e delle erbe, ad amarle e rispertarle, a chiamarle per nome, ad aiutarle quando posso, a cibarmene, a curarmi con loro."

I got lost along the river with my bike, a pleasant sort of lost as I was early for my picnic. I was basically on the lachine canal but in Rome (so it was deserted as their were no bikes). I eventually made it to Villa Borghese to sit with like-minded individuals to enjoy food and wine in the grass.

It seems that other than these select few, nobody bikes in this city. Long gone are the days that the bicycle was the main transportation necessity of a man. Now everyone rides motorbikes and scooters. I honestly think this is Europe's biggest problem. Many blame the rising numbers in obesity on the onslaught of American fast food corporations, and they may be right to do so (fast food is Satan), but if you look deep down into the culture of Italy, you might find the bigger piece of the puzzle. Italian culture has never been one to worry about fat or carbs. Let me stop you before you scream, "Sugar!" at me.
-nor sugar-
Buying juice at a supermarket is something I flat out refuse to do. The common juices, or at least any juice I've seen in the last month are mostly sugar. The ingredients usually list water and sugar within the first three, so the idea that the sugar in soda pop is a new ingredient for Italians is silly. Sweets are part of their culture. Cornetti, the popular breakfast food are just croissants coated in sugar syrup and stuffed with sweet custard. You don't taste the butter (if there is any), only the sweet. Thus perhaps it isn't the way Italians eat that is changing their country's physique from fab to flab, but the way they go from A to B.

In any case when you do see a bike it's either straight out of ladri di bicicletti (vechio o vintage) or a mountain bike. Who can blame them?

Shocks are important on cobblestone.

It is a frequent occurrence that a roman street is repaved to just about two feet away from the extremities of the length of the road. Whenever I'm biking along one of these streets I envision the man in charge of repaving the road. His workers ask him, "Why don't we repave this road all the way to the curb?" He taps his cigar and ash falls to the cobblestone. He answers, "Per che non mi piace le bicci."