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October 04, 2006

Roman Gnocchi

Ok. I admit it. I'm a foodie, simply by definition, not because I want to be one. I'm particular about what I eat, and I like to eat well. I do that effortlessly, in my house. People say I'm a fine chef. Not as good as my daughter.

But how do you find good food when you eat out? Sometimes I wonder whether chefs should be enrolled in studio-arts programs, painting canvasses instead of decorating plates with little dips and dats, and circles, and strips, of this and that, and constructing sculptural groups of food that I hate deconstructing.

Do you sense frustration?

Artsy food was not my problem tonight.

Went to a lovely new place. Italian. The small, long room was a delight of decor. Gentle, lemon-maize walls, clever window decorations, lovely furniture. The staff -- so willing to please. I'm surprised that the waiter didn't sit with us at the table. He came by so often, praising everything short of the carpet under our feet.

I wanted to enjoy the food. Alone, without a waiter checking over every morsel that entered my constitution. I'm a big girl now. I won't choke.

The squash soup not only looked pretty with the colored circles painted over the surface, but was a culinary delight.

I awaited my Roman gnocchi with trepidation. Everything else sounded too heavy on the menu, that is without contorni of vegetables, so I was pleased with my choice.

I don't eat gnocchi in public places. Most of the time, the "home-made" little devils are suited only for a pellet gun, or perhaps a more serious weapon.

I was assured these were truly home-made, right on the premises, from scratch.

Six, delicious-looking soldiers of roundels sat in a delicately purified, creamy pale tomato sauce criss-crossed with shredded parmesan cheese, groaning under a mountain of ...

Was it mozarella cheese? Probably. But without a magnifying glass, I had no idea what and where the gnocchi were. I couldn't see them, and I certainly couldn't taste those delicious little fellows, lightened to a feather consistency by generous doses of mashed potatos, and coooked -- oh, for about three minutes, until they popped up to the surface and then melted in your mouth, delicious just even in their plain glory. Or a nice heap of soft roundels finished with a light sauce... If I had my way, with fresh funghi porcini.

My next round of gnocchi will cost an airfare ticket. I don't care where. Rome. Florence. Naples. Anywhere where the chef will know how to make Roman gnocchi -- the real stuff.

I don't want cannelloni cut up into six pieces and served as gnocchi. And I want to enjoy the dish without a cup of genuine camomile tea from the flowers picked right from the Campo Vaccino, the cows meadows in the Roman Forum to soothe my tummy.

I wish Maddalena were here. She'd know what to do for me right now.

Posted by Eva Siroka at 11:21 PM | Comments (1)