Italy: Roman Breakfast
By Antonietta Iacovino

On the corner of Via della Lungara and Via della Penitenzia there is a small coffee bar full of regular customers. The bar is nothing special; you will not find it in any guidebook; and of all the coffee bars in Rome it is probably the least ornate. Yet, this coffee bar is emblematic of the true city; in it you will find the dichotomy of old and new, a city inhabited by early morning risers and those who stay out all night.

“Dai,” he says. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.” He switches to my native English mid-sentence, though I know he knows I understand Italian and I’m not sure whether he does this for his benefit or mine.

“Breakfast?” I sigh. We’ve been out all night and are standing at the entrance of my apartment building, so close to the comfort of my bed, where I can finally sleep. I want to say no, but there is something in the way he is looking at me that pushes me forward. It is early spring, and Rome carries its seasons well. Around us, the birds are singing their first songs of the day; and in the gray light of morning the deserted cobblestone street belongs only to us.  “Ok,” I smile. “Let’s go.”

His eyes light up. “I think the closest bar is after Via Garibaldi,” he says.

“No,” I answer, this time in Italian. “There’s one right around the corner.”

He looks at me in disbelief.

“I promise. This is my neighborhood, remember?” I say with the type of authority that can only be claimed when one truly feels comfortable in their surroundings. I had been living in the Trastevere section of Rome for four months; and after watching winter give way to warmth, I finally felt at home.

He laughs and takes my hand in his as I lead him down the cobblestone street.

The coffee shop is the kind of place that goes unnoticed. It is located on the Via della Lungara, a narrow cobblestone road that leads into the heart of Trastevere.  Unless you are specifically looking for it, you will pass it by without a thought, even though the owners have tried to cater to the large tourist population by placing a large sign that reads, “Snack Bar,” written in English over the doorway.

We enter the coffee bar like two teenagers sneaking home after a long night out. It is 6 AM and we assume the bar will be empty. My hands are in my pockets, and I’ve pulled my tweed hat over my ears. He wears the hood of his sweatshirt over his head like a bandit. We are surprised by the bustle inside and quickly adjust ourselves to look more presentable. He pushes the hood off of his head, runs a hand through his hair, and begins eying a pastry case. I perch my hat higher on my head and smile widely at the man behind the counter who is deep in conversation and takes little notice of us.

The interior is standard.  Two large pastry cases are filled with various bakery items, small bar sandwiches stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella, and blood oranges ready to be squeezed into fresh juice. Between the cases there is a marble topped bar where all the activity takes place.  Behind the bar, a middle aged man is taking orders, making espresso, frothing milk, and squeezing oranges, all while mediating the heated debate taking place between two silver haired men seated at the bar’s only table. The men are dressed in an old Italian style that seems to have been lost to those born after the Second World War. They both wear three- piece suits, their jackets buttoned, complete with ties, polished shoes, and hats. Both men have dogs that lie bleary eyed at their feet on the black and white tiled linoleum floor.  As I gaze at the men, I feel compelled to pull up a chair and join them. This is the Rome I want to know. I want to be a part of the neighborhood, to know its residents and its quirks, to partake in unending early morning debates.

“What do you want?” My friend asks me, interrupting my thoughts.  He peruses the pastry case tapping his fingertips lightly on the glass as he eyes the cream-filled cornetti, sugared donuts and apricot filled Linzer tarts. “I want a donut.”

I smile at him. “A cappuccino,” I reply as the man behind the counter finally looks our way.

“Due cappucini per favore,” my friend orders; and before he can finish, the man behind the counter has already turned his back, reaching for two ceramic saucers, which he delicately clanks on the marble bar top in front of us.  An instant later he is frothing the milk into fluffy white foam and pouring it into the small cups already filled with creamy espresso. He places the filled cups on the saucers in front of us, and my friend orders a donut. Immediately, it is handed to him in a small paper napkin.  More customers enter the bar, and we slide our cappuccinos closer together to make room for the others at the counter. He offers me the first bite of his donut and holds it up to my mouth. I look around hesitantly, but no one is paying attention to us. We have slipped into the background of this bar; we are just another couple in a city full of lovers. I take a bite and smile widely as the sweetness fills me up.

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