Now is the time of year in Rome that you GO OUT, if you're not keen on thousands of people crowding the sidewalks and venues. It's somewhat possible that the streets feel emptier right now because of virus-panic (two tourists have been positively diagnosed here in Rome, just within the last day or so), but really, this is just the slowest time of year for a city that depends on tourism. So, now is when residents should enjoy visiting places that they otherwise might avoid.
So, we're checking out restaurants and some lesser known sites when we can.
Enter Pesciolino.
They get a hearty two thumbs up from me for pure design: business card, website and interior.
Pesciolino translates to 'minnow.'
I love the watercolor fish motif, translated onto the walls, with the geometric bird forms on a 'wire' suspended over the tables. I love the metallic and mirror elements that complement that watery sort of feeling, as if we are ensconced in an art deco submarine with glass walls, viewing schools of muted blue minnows caught in whole or in part by the light
.
We ordered our usual fizzy water, and a nice Lagrein rose. I don't know if you can find much Lagrein outside of Italy, but it's a red that can take the heat - literally. It's a good red for summertime consumption. The rose seemed to be a good solution for pairings with our fish choices.
Note also the edges of the container standing in as the 'bread basket' - consciously chosen for that same sense of wavy undulation of the sea and its creatures.
I am kicking myself for not having photographed our amuse bouche. It was delivered in a flat, straight-sided glass bowl filled with smooth river stones. Please just trust me when I say that unlike some things I've had in this foodie category, this WAS a source of amusement and fascination for both eye and palate.
We ordered two appetizers: fried calamari and fried anchovies (because The Spouse is an anchovy fiend of the first order). The calamari came with a side of guacamole for dipping and of course more traditionally speaking, lemon for squeezing on the fish. The fried anchovies came with escarole (leafy green, also known as endive), cream, capers, olives and pine nuts.
I've got a little fresh focaccia on my plate, in case you're wondering. Feast for the eye and the mouth.
Next up: our 'primis' (pree'-mees). For just a minute, I want to explain that even though Italian food menus are set up as 'firsts' (generally pasta dishes) and 'seconds' or secondi (seh-CON-dee) (entrees that are meats often accompanied by a little bit of vegetables, but also vegetarian options), clientele are in no way expected to order a first AND a second. Just order what you want. And specify if you want something to come as an appetizer or another course.
Know also that you can order a primi and a secondi, but it's going to be a lot of food. Realize that the pasta will come first and fill you up before the second course, too. Two appetizers and two pasta dishes would potentially be too much for us in a family-style sort of restaurant. But here, it was fine.
I ordered the bottoni (buttons!) filled with burrata cheese, mussels and pepper. These bottoni are essentially like round ravioli.
When the plate was placed before me, I was handed a spoon and informed that I should not cut the little pouches into pieces. I should instead eat them whole.
Had the instruction been pretentiously delivered, I might have balked.
But instead, it was somehow clear to me that the chef's recommendation - for the best flavor experience - entailed following the instructions, and that was all.
A light, brothy, sea-worthy tomato sauce graced the buttons.
Have you ever had burrata? Imagine the best ball of mozzarella with a rich, creamy center of softer mozzarella-like cheese. When confronted with a chilled blob of burrata, aim your spoon for the center, as if you are diving into a soft-boiled egg. Mmmmm.
When I think about not living near a source for burrata in the future, I become emotional about it. That is not hyperbole.
The Spouse ordered - somewhat predictably - the spaghettoni (thicker than average spaghetti) with smoked anchovies, powdered olive and capers...because he had not yet had enough anchovies, apparently. I admire the presentation of the tightly compressed tower of pasta with the fish balanced on top.
I should add another observation here: these types of dishes, so focused on quality of presentation and portion size being better related to the size of the plate or bowl, do not appear to have much food on them. While it IS true that European portions are generally smaller than American (reverse culture shock happens to me every time I come home now...so much food!), these portions are not designed to starve you, either. They tend to be just right.
And by 'just right,' I mean, leaving enough room for the dessert that someone is going to try to sell you.
And in this case, it is ovomisu.
Tiramisu (meaning 'pick me up') is made of crunchy ladyfinger cookies doused in amaretto (or coffee-flavored - I once witnessed an argument among college-aged Italians vociferously debating the merits of specific ingredient types in tiramisu) liqueur and layered with custard. A sprinkle of cocoa on top of the whipped cream that tops the final custard layer rounds out my favorite Italian dessert. I once told an American chef that during a trip I had taken to Italy with students, I managed to have tiramisu four separate times.
His straight-faced response:
Well, telling me that is just mean.
And tiramisu is just like any other sweet thing you favor: the quality can range from hilariously bad to wondrously good. Never trust it if it's been made in mass quantities. If you are peeling a plastic film off the top of a packaged tiramisu, you are not having a good experience. On the other hand, if you are served a kind of sloppy conglomeration of those ladyfingers and custard on a slightly chipped diner plate, it's reasonable to assume that someone made that stuff by hand and you are CRAZY for not at least trying it.
And then, there are the occasional attempts to give tiramisu a kind of aesthetic makeover.
Pesciolino's version does that.
The menu's English translation just states: meringue and tiramisu.
But in reality, the eggshell is made of baked egg-white. The tiramisu is embedded inside. A bite of 'eggshell' and cocoa-laden custardy-cookie goodness awaits your spoon.
!!!!!!
So rich! Glad we split it (and we made sure that each person got the same number of bites).
This was a somewhat more expensive dinner, for us, but that should tell you that good food here can be quite affordable. This was a little bit of a splurge, but I'm happy to report that it was WORTH it.
Coming to Rome? Visit Pesciolino for a well-designed foodie, fishy, lovely time.
(And BONUS- some of the best - nicest - bathrooms in the city).
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