Why I Live in Italy

By Patricia Winton

If it isn’t Monday or Thursday, the briny air of the sea tickles my nose as I enter the hall. My preferred entrance is near the fish stalls, and all the piscine wares are laid out at 45-degree angles along one wall. The markets keep the fish together so the scent is isolated, but it isn’t foul, it’s fresh. The fishmongers close on Monday because the fishing boats don’t go out on Sunday, and Fridays are fish day in this Catholic country, so few people buy it on Thursday. Hence, the stalls close those days. 

But today is Tuesday, and the buzz of voices rises above the crowd toward the cavernous ceiling 60 feet in the air. Before I make my rounds, I pause to look at the swordfish, complete with its sword, and the baby octopus, but I settle for some clams.

Most of the butcher shops stand along the wall opposite the fish. Here, chickens, their red combs flapping in the breeze, hang in one stand while lambs dangle by their hind legs in another. The butchers themselves wield hefty cleavers, chopping through bones as they whack out steaks. Or they hold tiny knives to trim away the fat. You can choose the beef (or other meat) and watch it ground before your own eyes so you always know what you’re getting.

Interspersed among the butchers are bakers offering bread and pizza. In Italy, bread and sweet pastries are sold in different shops, and this market has few sweets. I choose a couple of rolls and a slice of red pizza for a snack later.

Nearby you find the salumerie, those magical shops selling cold cuts and cheese. Here the proprietor will lop off a few sausages, slice prosciutto paper thin, or grate a lump of Parmesan in a jiffy. If there’s a new salame, you might be offered a sample. Today I get a piece of gorgonzola and an etto (100 grams—about a quarter pound) of mortadella, the sausage from Bologna that’s the original bologna.

Along the remaining wall, small shops, complete with doors, offer knitting wool, paper towels, and underwear. All the goods are inside the shop, and the shopkeeper asks you what you need then she rummages among her wares until she finds the right needle or ribbon in the exact color you want. I don’t need anything there today.

The middle of this vast hall houses fruit and vegetable stands primarily. Some sell only fruit; some only veggies, and a few have both. You can buy one egg, if that’s all you need, or three bags of oranges if you want them. The wares here are seasonal—no strawberries nor asparagus now. Winter, the displays are heaped with citrus and apples, broccoli and leafy greens. You can buy a slice of pumpkin or artichokes cleaned and ready to cook. I buy oranges and artichokes. “Only two?” the seller asks in disbelief.

There are a few stalls that have no competition. In one, a woman whose nativity scene stays up year round, sells what are known as odori, those vegetables and herbs that give flavor to your dishes. The most common pack is a plastic bag with an onion, a carrot, a rib of celery, and a bit of parsley. Chopped, these veggies make the soffritto, the starting ingredient for many Italian dishes. Another stand sells fresh mozzerella. You can find an array of olives, or an assortment of dried legumes, or vats of bulk wine, or flowers for the dining table.

Perhaps the most intriguing of all is the fresh pasta stall. It expanded to encompass a prime corner last year. Here nests of pasta in varying widths stretch out over about a third of the counter. And just in case the preferred width isn’t on display, sheets of pasta—available for making lasagne—are ready to be cut into any width you want. Shaped pasta in twists and curlicues abound. There’s stuffed cannelloni in a couple of flavors, and ready-to-bake lasagne in three sizes. Stuffed pasta, like ravioli or cappelletti or tortellini, again with various fillings, lie at the end.

Supermarkets continue to expand in Italy, and large shops that sell everything from hairdryers to bicycles now dot the landscape. But it is the markets offering the freshest food that keep me here. Every town has them; Rome a couple of dozen. The one in my neighborhood is among the best. I’m lucky to be able to shop there.

Photos: courtesy Creative Commons

Please visit me on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues.