Before our semester in Italy began, someone gave us a Rick Steves travel book of Italy. It turned out to be a great gift and we became big fans of Rick Steves, whose travel advice led us on many wonderful adventures. There were, however a few times when his guidance was lacking in some way or another–our trip to Rome being a prime example.
Our first few days in Rome were an absolute success with each of Steves’ recommendations turning out better than the last. In addition to the obvious destinations, (the Colosseum or the Roman Forum) his book led us to an off-the-beaten-path crypt of the capuchin monks lined with skulls of deceased monks (a momento mori– reminder of death). It took us to a spectacular cafe where we received free glasses of wine just for placing our book on the table. And, finally, on his recommendation, we planned to get dinner at a small pizzeria where he claimed the best pizza in Rome was produced.
He did mention that the service could be a little rude, but we thought the great pizza would be worth a little neglect in hospitality.
We headed down a narrow, cobblestoned side street from the Pantheon. As Pizzaria Baffetto wasn’t due to open for another 15 minutes, we were surprised to see a line already forming in front of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Waiting in line, we noticed a strange sign on the door. Two stick figures, one wearing a backpack and one holding a backpack in front of it. A big red “X” over the one wearing the backpack and a big “OK” was next to the one holding the backpacks.
Okay, a little strange, but Italians never fail to raise the bar on strangeness. When the doors opened, we took off our backpacks and carried them inside.
This little joint could have been straight out of Jersey. A cramped room jammed full of tables, tiled walls you could barely see for the jumble of pictures and memorabilia that covered them, and a wood-fired oven in the back corner.
Two Italian men were shaping and throwing pizzas in the oven and pulling them out again minutes later, crisp, golden, cheesy.
We ordered our pizzas, one with eggplant and another with zucchini flowers (an Italian delicacy). While we waited for them to arrive we scanned the pictures covering the walls. A short, squat, old man with suspenders, glasses and a cane made so many appearances we could only assume he was the owner.
Even as we were taking all of this in, that same squat figure appeared in the doorway; complete with suspenders, glasses, and cane. He stared intently around the room with a slightly crazed glare and then began shouting at the staff in Italian.
We sort of chuckled to ourselves about this, remembering Rick Steves’ warning about the rude service.
A moment later, another flux of visitors came through the door and the owner stared at them, unwelcomingly, with those beady eyes. The last to come through the door were two young people–a guy and girl–clearly tourists, wearing backpacks.
As soon as he laid eyes on them, the owner began yelling in Italian and the two kids turned to stare in surprise and confusion. “NO! NO! Solo in le montagne! No zaini! NO!”
The kids were stunned and tried to ask what was the matter. These tourists clearly didn’t speak a word of Italian; they were completely lost.
We tried to help, calling across the room “Take off your backpacks! It’s your backpacks! Take them off!”
At this point, the owner began beating their backpacks with his cane, still shouting “NO! Solo in le montagne!” In case you didn’t catch that, it translates, “No backpacks! Only in the mountains!”
In desperation, the bewildered kids pleaded, “We don’t speak Italian!”
The owner, still delivering blows with his cane: “No Italinano? OUT! OUT!
At this point we were standing up, cupping our hands, and shouting, “TAKE YOUR BACKPACKS OFF!”
Finally, they got the message and pulled their backpacks off. Immediately, the shouting and beating stopped, and they were allowed to take their seats (in light of their first impression, it still amazes me that they chose to do so…).
The owner resumed his beady-eyed stance, neck forward, staring around the room.
Just then, our pizzas were unceremoniously deposited in front of us on tin plates. And, I have to say, Rick Steves was right: this was the best pizza I have ever eaten. Paper thin crust, burnt around the edges, sauce so hot it would scald you. The most incredible stringy, bubbling cheese.
But really, Rick Steves? Slightly rude service? A bit of an understatement.
That said, would I go back? Absolutely. Any authentic Italian experience should include a hefty helping of the absurd.
Snapshots of a Traveler's Life 