Steve's birthday

Yesterday was yet another gorgeous day in Rome--blue sky, brilliant sun. . .and Steve's birthday. At the last minute I decided to book him a massage since one of his favorite activities is to lay face down on a table and have a woman rub him with oil. Annuska our landlord recommends a Russian massage therapist, who I picture as a strapping blond with a slight mustache and a physique that looks capable of serious damage. The reality is Ludmilla, a painfully thin brunette with chopped off hair and a ferret like face. She speaks no English but rather some kind of pidgin Italian/Russian and she never stops talking despite my protestations of non capisco, non capisco. Somehow, Steve survives.

Dinner is more successful. I booked us (in Italian, thank you, although the hostess confirmed in English to my chagrin) at an old Roman restaurant, Piperno, across the bridge in the old Jewish ghetto. The inside of the restaurant looks like it hasn't changed since the 50's--dark green felt walls with faded paintings of fruit and vegetables in old gold frames, dark furniture and a clientele of conservatively dressed older Italian couples along with some tourists like us. The waiters in crisp white jackets perfectly match the decor.

For me, it's all about the artichokes, fried jewish style. What that means is a large artichoke cut in half horizontally, smashed down and then fried in oil so that the leaves get wonderfully crispy and the choke fantastically gooey. Moltissimo buono! Our waiter is particularly solicitous--perhaps it is my insistence on speaking Italian--and at the end of the meal when we protest we can eat no more, he brings us a few samplings of dessert to accompany our last glass of wine. And then, the best part--our ten minute walk across the bridge once again to Trastevere, the narrow streets now packed with 20 somethings out for the night, to our little house.