You might think he's doing something else. But in reality, he's learning how to sit/stay, and not doing a very good job of it (he eventually learned how to do so beautifully ... sort of ).

venerdì 25 giugno 2010

Dogs, Apricots, and Alice Waters


Yesterday, Waldo yapped, frantically, at the door, indicating that there was some sort of emergency (like his bladder was bursting). But no. He needed an apricot fix. As soon as I opened the door, he made a bold dash to where they land when they fall, settled down, and chewed happily. At last count, thirty nine apricot pits were strewn about their walkway. (The other day I couldn’t find him, and then saw the white tip of his tail in a large oregano bush; he emerged happily, an apricot clamped between his jaws.)

Yesterday, the Splendid Veterinarian mentioned that he dreams of one day having an apricot tree in his yard. We gave him some apricot jam (really easy to make: take two pounds of apricots, put them in a pot, add about 2 cups of sugar, put on a medium flame, let it bubble, turn it down, and keep an eye on it, and stir frequently).

But enough about apricots. Let’s talk about Alice Waters, who has just brought out a new book called In the Green Kitchen: Techniques to Learn by Heart. The concept is a simple one: pick a technique, discuss how to do it, and then provide a recipe or two. She has brought in many of her friends in the field (like Rick Bayless, David Chang (his tomato/tofu recipe sounds delicious), Charlie Trotter, Deborah Madison, among others) to provide the technique and the recipe. Proceeds go to her charity Chez Panisse Foundation in support of Edible Education.

At first glance, I was somewhat dismissive of this book as it seemed a bit … too, well … basic. It was, however, a gift from a fine friend with wonderful taste. Like all Chez Panisse cookbooks (we have five of them, and four are on the Desert Island Cookbook Shelf), the book’s beautifully produced and photographed. I sat down to read it, and ended up devouring it.

It isn’t too basic. This book’s a perfect present for someone starting out in his or her own first kitchen, and it’s perfect for those of us who think we know our way around in said. It provides gentle reminders of how to do things properly.

In “Washing Salad,” she reminds us to keep the greens (well washed, of course) crisp by wrapping them up in paper towels and then refrigerating them ‘til you’re ready to eat them (which of course would be on the same day). We used to do this a long time ago, became lazy, couldn’t be bothered. The lettuces wallowed, refrigerated, in the salad spinner.

Well, wrapping them in paper towels (even newspaper) sure does make a difference. Not only are they cold when they emerge, they are downright crispy.

But more important, to my mind at least, was her garlic vinaigrette dressing, a simple concoction of mortar’d garlic, pinch of salt, and close-to-equal parts olive oil and vinegar. She suggests a ratio of 3:2 or, in some cases, 4:2. Alan Davidson and Larousse Gastronomique suggest a 3-1 ratio; Davidson suggests equal parts if using lemon juice instead of vinegar.[1]

(Davidson : "[vinaigrette] is essentially a ‘mixture’(inverted commas because oil and vinegar are, strictly speaking, immiscible).”)

You can use different oils, you can add herbs; you can use different vinegars; you can add mustard. The crucial thing is, as Alice Waters says, “The mixture should taste delicious by itself.”. What’s most amazing about this simple, basic idea is that you can actually taste the ingredients, which are not slathered in needless oil.

This is a little gem of a book. A pity, sometimes, that the United States is not a monarchy: Alice Waters should be knighted.

Mixed lettuces with croutons, mortadella, and mozzarella di bufala
3 large handfuls of mixed greens, painstakingly cleaned if you’re pulling them from your garden
3 slices stale-ish bread (Tuscan preferred, but anything will do)
1 ball of mozzarella di bufala, about 1 c. chopped
¼ lb. mortadella, thinly sliced
Handful of fresh chives, scissor-snipped

The vinaigrette:

1 large clove of garlic, mortar’d and pestle’d with a pinch of sea salt
2 T. red wine vinegar
4 T. extravirgin olive oil
Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste
Preheat the oven to 350°F, cube the bread, place on an oven-proof pan, and bake for about 7 minutes. Stir, and bake for another 5 minutes or so. (You want the bread golden, not browned.) Remove from the oven, and toss with an ample tablespoon or two of extravirgin olive oil.)

While that’s happening, make the vinaigrette. Mortar and pestle the salt/garlic, add the 2 T. of red wine vinegar, and let macerate.

Carefully wash the lettuces, toss into a big salad bowl, add the mortadella, mozzarella di bufala, and the croutons. Add the remaining 2 T. of extravirgin olive oil to the macerating vinaigrette, taste for salt, add the cracked black pepper, and then throw it over the salad. Add the snipped chives, and toss to coat.

Eat immediately.

Mixed lettuces with tuna, capers, and green pepper

3 large handfuls of mixed greens, as above
8 oz. can of Italian tuna packed in oil
3 heaping T. of capers, rinsed and drained
½ green pepper, membrane and seeds removed, very thinly sliced (think of the crescent moon)
1 heaping T. horseradish
Throw all these ingredients together, and toss with the vinaigrette. And eat immediately.
The vinaigrette:

Same as above, only use 2 T. balsamic vinegar. When you add the olive oil, add 1 heaping tablespoon of horseradish. Many Italians maintain that one shouldn’t mix olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Why, when it tastes so good?

[1] Alan Davidson, Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999; Jennifer Harvey Lang, ed., Larousse Gastronomique, New York, 1984. In the Green Kitchen, New York, 2010.

lunedì 21 giugno 2010

Apricots and Venetian Dogs


'Twas a crisp, sunny autumnal day yesterday; who knew it was the(summer) Solstice? A menacing pile of apricots awaited me in the kitchen: time for apricot jam. A couple of days ago, it was apricot chutney (recipe below).

There’s really only so much you can do with apricots. In Dorothy Whipple’s delightful 1939 novel The Priory, she introduces a character called Nurse Pye. Nurse Pye is a get-things-done kind of person, frugal and resourceful. She’s hell-bent on straightening out the sad state of affairs that can often prevail at land-rich/cash poor country homes. “At Saunby [the estate], rhubarb and gooseberries, like rabbits and bracken, flourished to excess. Hitherto no one had realized how much rhubarb and how many gooseberries Saunby produced, but now everyone realized it and deplored it, for both appeared endlessly at table in pies, puddings, stews, fools, jams and other guises, thanks to Nurse Pye."[1]

Too bad Nurse Pye isn’t around to give me a hand with these apricots. Oh, and the sorrel. To think up some guises … apricot risotto?
Instead of apricots, I’ll think about the Venetian dog – photos kindly taken by Lord of the Sushi. We were in Venice once again to celebrate a birthday, to eat, to drink. Doge of the Broken Halo was turning 50.

He and Dogaressa are leading/teaching a study group of highly engaged undergraduate architects-to-be. He mentioned the Venetian Dog Theory to his students, all of whom were highly appreciative. One of the students observed that Venetian dogs, when they meet, often attack one another. We noticed this less; however, we did notice that Venetian dogs, probably due to their size – small, low to the ground – like to yap. Boy, do they.

The splendid birthday lunch, attended by a handful of us, was at La Cantina. Francesco, the owner/chef was not present, but his able-bodied team pulled off yet another culinary masterpiece. Raw oysters from Brittany kicked off the proceedings, followed by a plate of raw shrimp (two different kinds), and sea bass. Lightly-fried sardine kebabs preceded a huge plate of cooked mackerel, octopus with thinly-sliced steamed potatoes and black olives, tuna seared so that it was cooked on the outside but not really in the inside. We drank a prosecco defined by the staffer as “torbido” (murky, still has its sediment from fermenting). We went for the murk, and it was good.

Anyone who says you don’t eat well in Venice clearly hasn’t been to La Cantina.

We found Rizzardini quite by accident while walking to the Frari. We found that the tiny space, around since 1742, was packed with locals, and in Venice, that is always an inviting and invigorating thought. So in we went, admired the array of pastries, had a coffee, and bought a marzipan cake.

And then on the way to the Frari … well, we were in the land of Tramezzini Culture, which should always be solemnly observed. Which it was at a delightful café just across the bridge from the Frari. It’s called Caffè dei Frari (naturally enough), and it’s been around since 1870. Their boiled ham/mushroom tramezzino had just the perfect amount of mayonnaise on it (according to Dogaressa of the Broken Halo, the place also does a marvelous Bellini).

Doge and Dogaressa introduced us to the marvel that is Mascari, whose card says “Italian gastronomic specialties – spices – tea- truffles – mushrooms – select wines.” And all of this is true.

At the Accademia, I had a perfect opportunity to study Venetian dogs. Carpaccio (c. 1460-c. 1526)’s St. Ursula cycle reveals an interesting thing: Venetian dogs had long legs … at least, they did in the 15th century (he painted this cycle in 1490). The "Arrival at Cologne" shows a very substantial hound dog in the left foreground, he/she has long limbs.[2]

Bar Foscarini, at the foot of the Accademia bridge, does marvelous tramezzini. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been made when I poked my head in, which led me back to già Schiavi. Their usual array of merende abounded, but a new one was present: pressed shrimp with artichokes and truffle sauce. If that doesn’t sound weird enough, it was paprika’d, and the proprietress was rather liberal with the salt. It was divine.

A walk to San Marco led me to Aciugheta, which expanded its operations about four years ago. Restaurant and bacaro (wine bar) are now two distinct entities. The bacari are better than the wine bar menu, or so it seemed to me on the day I was there. Little sardine patties, the size of a Kennedy half dollar, were served in a robust tomato sauce, and went down well with a glass of white wine from somewhere in the Veneto.

There was a yapping Venetian dog steps away from my table.

Apricot chutney

2 lbs. apricots, pitted and rinsed (especially if you’re picking them off the ground)
1 medium red onion, peeled and chopped
½ lb. brown sugar
1¾ c. white wine vi negar
1 Granny Smith apple, peeled, cored, and chopped like the onion
½ c. raisins
Heaping T. crystallized ginger
2 Thai chiles, minced

Throw all the ingredients into a deep pot with a solid bottom, turn the flame to medium, give the concoction a stir, and keep an eye on it as it reduces. The slower it cooks, the less likely it’ll burn (provided, of course, that you keep stirring). Cooking time’s hour, more or less. You want it syrupy but not sticky.

Makes about 4 cups.
Besides working well with any Indian dish, this chutney tastes really good with a semi-aged Pecorino. It would work equally well with an extra-sharp Cheddar. Just make sure you go with a white Cheddar, as otherwise you'd have a mess of orange on your plate.

Rizzardini, S. Polo Campiello dei Meloni 1415, Venice, 041/5223835.
Caffè dei Frari, S. Polo 2564, Venice, 041/5241877.
Mascari, S. Polo 381, Venice, 041/5229762, http://www.imascari.com/
Bar Foscarini, Dorsoduro 878/c, Venice, 041/5227281. Show up after 9 a.m.
Già Schiavi, Dorsoduro 992, Venice, 041/5230034.
Aciugheta, Campo San Filippo, Castello 4357, Venice, 041/5224292.

[1] Dorothy Whipple, The Priory, 1939. Reprinted by Persephone Press, 2004. www.persephonebooks.co.uk
[2] Although, if you look at his Two Women at the Museo Correr -- also in Venice -- you could argue favorably that one of the women, bent in a somewhat indecorous pose, is holding the paw of what looks like the precursor of the 21st century Venetian Dog.

venerdì 18 giugno 2010

Dogs & Apricots

The apricot tree, pruned for the first time in years last fall by the Scallion and a pal sometime last year, now produces fruit (he vows that this autumn he will fiercely prune it).
Despite the prune, it’s still not producing as much as we think it ought. The tree's just outside our kitchen door, and this would be thrilling news if the Three Stooges didn’t delight in eating them. When they fall to the ground on their part of the terrace, they are there in a flash, sucking them down. (Note photo of Harry, who stands on the walkway, at which end is the apricot tree. Very convenient for them.) It must be hoped and expected that they know that eating the pits is not a good thing (they contain a modicum of cyanide), and usually there’s a pile of pits on their little walkway. Yesterday, however, Lulu had to be instructed to “drop” the pit, which she did for about two seconds, before breaking it up and swallowing most of it (she is fine and exhibited zero signs of poisoning one minute later and many, many hours later). (She is also a golden retriever; what she lacks in brains, she more than makes up for in beauty.)

(It has just been observed that one enterprising canine deposited a semi-rotting apricot on the rug in the sitting room – saving for later, perhaps.)

Decided to make granita, and scoured the ground for freshly-fallen apricots, and reached as high as possible to grab those on branches. (Difficult, the tree is tall.)

It’s the original Italian ice, granita, and the original Italian sno-[sic] cone.[1] Granita is a perfectly made Slurpee. Or, a Slurpee is the end result of taking a beautiful idea, cheapening the ingredients, and serving it out of a machine.[2]

However, “snow cone” in fact isn’t far from the historical truth. Ancient Romans used to take snow, brought to them from mountains north, and pour their wine over it (unclear if they had cones to go with them; doubtful). Elizabeth David (1913-1992), in her beyond marvelous Harvest of the Cold Months (New York, 1994) writes that Florentines had a yen for iced things as early as 1345. Donato Velluti reports this in his chronicle (he was on an ambassadorial mission to Verona, and enjoyed ample ice with his wine; it was August).
In the 16th century, two schools of thought existed regarding the use of snow: either it was good for you, or it wasn’t. We know that the Medici liked ice, as they built two ice houses in Boboli Garden, at their villa in Pratolino, and perhaps in the Cascine (their big private park in Florence). David thinks it highly likely that Cardinal Ferdinando de’Medici, later to become Grandduke of Tuscany, aped the ice house that Vignola built for Pope Julius III at the Villa Julia.[3]

The switch from pouring wine over snow to incorporating ice into the bargain probably began sometime in the second half of the 17th century, according to Alan Davidson.[4] He allows for the possibility that the Chinese were making water ices much earlier, but dismisses the idea that Marco Polo brought the recipe back with him as sheer Culinary Mythology.[5]

Fortunately, love of iced things trickled down to the less high and mighty, but it probably took the birth of refrigeration to give rise to the ice cream truck.

You eat granita in little cups with a little spoon (you do not slurp them through a straw). If you find yourself on the Amalfi Coast, avail yourself of a lemon granita. If you’re anywhere in Sicily, where the granite might be the best in the world, go with the almond (a certain sister-in-law of mine has been known to order more than one of these when the occasion presents itself). If you have an apricot tree outside your back door, run with that.

(The inclusion of crystallized ginger is not Italian at all.)

Apricot granita

1 c. white sugar
2/3 c. water (preferably mineral, bottled, flat)
1 lb. apricots, washed cleanly, cut in half, chopped, pits thrown far away from Lulu
2 heaping T. crystallized ginger
Juice of half a lemon

Make the sugar syrup first: put the sugar and water into a saucepan over a high flame. Stir ‘til the sugar melts, then remove the pan from the stove. Let cool.

Chop the apricots coarsely, and throw them, the sugar syrup, crystallized ginger, and the lemon juice into a blender. Purée until smooth.

Pour the mixture into a metal receptacle, and put in the freezer. A half an hour before serving, remove from the freezer. Take a fork and attempt to mash it up (it won’t, as it’s solidly frozen). Try again in about 10 minutes’ time, when it will be more pliable. The desired effect is that of apricot mush, which you will serve in parfait glasses to many.

Unknown if the Stooges would like this version, but they’re not about to get any of it.

If you’re in Florence, two great places to try granita are:

Grom, via Campanile, 055/2161578, quite near the Duomo, does a beauteous coffee granita topped with cream.
Gelaterie Carabe, via Ricasoli 60/r, 055/289476, is just down the street from the Accademia. Their granite are as close as you can get to Sicily in Florence.

[2] Although, if you are of a certain age, you might have found no greater summer thirst quencher than the mixed cola and cherry Slurpee.
[3] Elizabeth David, Harvest of the Cold Months, New York, 1994.
[4] The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.
[5] A fascinating entry in the Companion. He writes that Culinary Mythologies could be a book on their own, but lists a couple of the big ones, including Marco Polo and Pasta, Catherine de’Medici bringing her cooks with her to France thereby changing the face of French cuisine (many Italians I know would heartily dispute this), and the Origin of Chop Suey.

martedì 15 giugno 2010

Peeling Beans


One glorious sunny Sunday not too long ago, the Italian Scallion and I decided to pick all our fava beans. We’d left it a day or two or three too long: their shells were a semi-bleached white, and a little gummy. You didn’t want to eat them raw. Nope, cooking them was what was called for.

We had half of them in Sunday’s lunch, stewed in pancetta, new garlic, and olive oil (a riff on River Café’s wonderful recipe found in Green). The rest were going to be podded and peeled.
What remained was 1 kilo and 700 grams -- a little over three pounds. Fortunately, Jamie Magnificent was visiting, and she’d stopped biting her nails, so she was in the mood to help out (having nails is essential in this process).

Jamie wondered why Americans don’t seem to eat much fava, and concluded that preparing them was simply too much work. (epicurious.com has a lot of tasty fava bean recipes; many years ago David Bouley wrote a marvelous recipe that appeared in the New York Times; he suggested cooking the beans, with their shells, then peeling them and mixing them up with honey and lime; divine.[1] And at the time that recipe appeared, it seemed very much an exotic thing.) The penultimate edition of the Joy of Cooking has but one recipe for fava beans, and that using its dried incarnation. “Dried fava beans present many obstacles … and they are indigestible to some people, particularly those of Mediterranean background, who carry a genetic sensitivity to the toxicity of the undercooked bean and the plant’s pollen.”[2]

Italians must be exempt from this toxicity. When it’s fava season (in spring, and pretty much over by now), markets teem with them. Italians eat them raw (you're supposed to eat them on Pasquetta, Easter Monday, out in the country with loved ones), they cook them.[3] If you’re assiduous (we aren’t), you can plant them here in November or December for a most early spring crop. This year we will try to remember to do so.

But the Joy of Cooking is right in one respect: even the fresh fava bean presents many obstacles. Jamie and I peeled the beans one morning, and it took a good long while. Those three pounds plus of fava, once shorn of their multitudinous protective coverings, were reduced to 350 grams … roughly, ¾ of a pound

They went directly into a pan filled with vegetable broth.

Fava bean purée

3 lbs. fava beans, podded and peeled
½ c. vegetable broth
1 T. coriander seeds, lightly toasted, then mortar’d and pestle’d
¼ c. sesame seeds, just like the coriander
1 T. cumin seeds, ibid.
2-3 T. extravirgin olive oil
Fresh mint leaves for garnish

Place the beans in a saucepan with the vegetable broth, bring to a boil, lower the flame, and cook ‘til just done (a couple of minutes). Put them in a blender with all the other ingredients, and whizz ‘til a purée which still retains a wee bit of chunkiness.

Put into a white bowl, garnish with fresh mint leaves, and serve with crackers or toasted bread. Or toast some Tuscan bread, spread with the beans, and top with a thin slice of semi-aged Pecorino. Or toast the Tuscan bread by slapping a thin slice of semi-aged Pecorino, running it under the broiler, then topping with a dollop of dip.

Makes about 1 cup. Yeah, that’s all.

For those of you who like well-written pieces about food, check out Tom McAllister’s “The Perfect Cheesesteak” at http://www.thedailybeast.com/. Fingers crossed that he continues along this path.

Photo courtesy of Jamie Magnificent

[1] It appeared sometime in the 1980s, and is also included in The New York Times Jewish Cookbook: More than 825 Traditional and Contemporary Recipes from around the World, New York, 2002.
[2] The Joy of Cooking, New York, 1997.
[3] Puglia has a delicious wintry dish: mashed dried fava beans with cooked bitter greens.

venerdì 4 giugno 2010

Edward Hopper and Roscioli


Rome has two blockbuster exhibitions on right now, one featuring long lines, and hellish viewing conditions. That would be the Caravaggio at the Quirinale. The Edward Hopper exhibition, at the Fondazione Roma Museo, is a day at the beach, metaphorically speaking: no long lines, carefully mounted and well-lit works, and a proper amount of visitors.

Edward Hopper (1882-1967), born in Nyack, New York, and died in New York City, is little known in this part of the world. The museum web site gushes: “La prima grande mostra di Edward Hopper in Italia arriva a Roma" …/The first big exhibition of Edward Hopper in Italy comes to Rome. It started out in Milan, opened in Rome in the middle of February, and closes soon. The Whitney Studio club sponsored one of Hopper’s first solo shows in 1920. His first major retrospective at the Whitney happened in 1964; it’s only taken Italy 46 years to come ‘round.

Here’s a case where Better late than never applies.

Hopper did come to Europe, but it seems as if he didn’t make it to Italy[1] – a most curious omission, given that ancient Rome, the Italian Renaissance, and the Italian Baroque form a most important tripod in the history of western art. He based himself in Paris in 1906, and traveled to London, Holland, Belgium, and Germany. Two years later, he’s back in Paris, with forays into France and Spain. Many art historians believe that he absorbed the influences of Goya and Rembrandt upon these journeys.
He trained as an artist and illustrator, worked in oil, watercolors, and pen and ink, among other media. His use of color evokes his appreciation for the Fauves and for Matisse, his choice of subject (New York’s Queensborough and Manhattan Bridges, Gloucester, women in hotel rooms, figures in diners) makes him wholly American.[2]

His genius with light, born after attending the Paris Salon in 1906, led him to proclaim: “La luce era diversa da qualsiasi cosa avessi visto prima. Le ombre erano luminose, tutto rifletteva luce. Anche sotto i ponti c’era luminosità."[3] In fact, he himself said: “All I ever wanted to do was paint sunlight on the side of houses.” He also said, “If you could say it in words, there’d be no reason to paint.”

It appears that only one of his masterworks can be found outside the United States, and that in Madrid (Collection Thyssen-Bornemisza). If you’re after one-stop Hopper shopping, the Whitney (in New York) has a ton of his stuff (at least 40). But the ones who really win out are those who have a Hopper in their private collections (at least 21)

The exhibition in Rome disappoints. Nighthawks (1942, Art Institute of Chicago) is noticeably absent (though a 3D construction of this has been built; you can walk in, hang at the counter, and have your photo taken, order a cup of nothing). In fact, the show’s remarkably devoid of the big ones, though a couple gems do prevail (like the magnificent and eerie Soir Bleu, 1914, at the Whitney in New York).

Hopper set many of his paintings in food situations (none of which appear in this exhibition). But there’s never any food. Just lonely characters with coffee cups (you have to wonder if they’re half empty). His painting of sunlight in a cafeteria (at New Haven, 1958) shows two figures at separate tables, the woman has a cup of coffee (you should look at this painting and play Aimee Mann’s cover of “One”). Even 1929’s magnificent Chop Suey (private collection) is named for the neon light outside the restaurant where, inside, two women sit at a food-less table.

It made me wonder: putting aside artistic considerations (a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon could, conceivably, clutter up Nighthawks), why weren’t these people eating? Are they too depressed to do so? Have they already eaten? Are they too poor to order anything besides coffee? Are they trying to sober up, say, in Nighthawks?

I was hungry, but fortunately I had somewhere to go, and wouldn’t be alone with a coffee cup: Roscioli, which bills itself as a “Salumeria e vineria con cucina” (delicatessen and wine store with kitchen). The delicatessen part happens in the front. Here a long case teems with a remarkable selection of cheeses from everywhere. A wall lined with gorgeous delectable take-away products (such as truffled things) sits opposite. In the middle, a little wine bar, perfect for a quick glass of wine; in the back, tables for tucking in.

Which is what you want to do there. Lunched there, the guest of the Magnificent Family. We were eight in all, and ordered wildly: creamy burrata with tiny sundried tomatoes (the burrata tasted as if it came from Puglia that very morn, the sundried tomatoes were densely tomato-ish); thinly sliced mortadella with slivers of grana; culatello; caponata e sarde alla siciliana (eggplant salad with balsamic vinegar, capers, and delicately fried, neatly rolled, sardines), meatballs in a vivid tomato sauce (do know that only three meatballs are on the plate, which was a concern of one of the Magnificents; hence, two plates), a mixed salad with mackerel. These to whet the taste buds.
Then to a round of pasta, including three Roman classics: spaghetti cacio e pepe (spaghetti with grated Pecorino Romano and freshly cracked black pepper), spaghetti al tonno (spaghetti with tuna; the only dish that wasn’t Hoovered up), spaghetti carbonara (spaghetti with pancetta, eggs, and black pepper), and rigatoni amatriciana. This last was beyond divine.
It, like the other pasta dishes, is a simple dish, pancetta or guanciale (pork cheek) in a tomato sauce. What set this apart from every other one previously tasted was the quality of the pancetta, served in generously portioned cubes with just enough crunch to set the palate soaring.
This was washed down with a 2005 Brunello di Montalcino from Casanova di Neri. Perhaps those solitary, desolate Hopper figures wouldn’t look quite so striking in their solitude if they were eating at Roscioli.

Edward Hopper, Fondazione Roma Museo, via del Corso 320, 06/6776209, http://www.edwardhopper.it/ and http://www.fondazioneromamuseo.it/. Closes June 13th.

Roscioli, via dei Giubbonari, 21-22, Rome, 06/6875287, http://www.anticofornoroscioli.com/. Closes Sundays.

[1] As far as I can tell. Corrections welcomed.
[2] There are no diners in Italy. This is a major tragedy.
[3] “The light was different from what I’d ever seen before. Shadows were luminous, everything reflected light. Even under the bridges was luminous.” This is probably not exactly what he said, as this is a back-to-English translation from an Italian translation of the English. But it comes pretty close. Art Book Hopper, Milano, 2006.