Last Word: Spirit of Place

The other evening I had an epiphany. I was sitting in the Michelin-starred Aroma restaurant in Rome, which quite apart from its other merits has a spellbinding view of the Colosseum from the rooftop of the Palazzo Manfredi. Having just flown across the Atlantic, I was in the mood for a light dinner, so I had opted for seafood. Tearing my gaze from floodlit imperial splendor, I looked down at my plate and realized that I had ordered an appetizer of ceviche.

Admittedly it was a ceviche of fragolino, which is red sea bream chiefly found in the Mediterranean, but it was ceviche nonetheless, a method of preparation that originated on the Pacific coast of South America. (Its origin is pre-Columbian apparently, and in Peru ceviche is considered an important part of the country’s cultural heritage.) This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m in Rome, not Lima, so why am I eating this? Of course, imaginative chefs like to experiment and reinvent their indigenous cuisines with influences from around the globe. But suddenly I realized just how much I value food as an expression of a particular place. I’m not so keen on the international style.

I was reminded of the last time I was in Paris, when an old acquaintance was eager to take me out to a banlieue where a talented young chef had, apparently, combined extensive experience in Japan with his classical European training. “But what’s wrong with French food?” I objected unwisely. “It’s one of the principal reasons I come to Paris. I actually like coq au vin.” My friend went pale, and I could see him striving to suppress the words “reactionary” and, probably, “philistine.” But I remain unrepentant. I am a locavore at heart. (The term, I discover, was invented as recently as 2005, by a chef and author in California called Jessica Prentice. I had no idea; I suppose I should have.)

Travel at its most enjoyable and stimulating is, for me, an experience of somewhere intensely different and specific. And food is one of the best ways — maybe the best way — to summon up this magical spirit of place. So I have spent the past few days researching the most typical of Roman trattorias, places that have, ideally, been serving much the same menu for around 100 years. Assuming I don’t expire from a surfeit of carbonara, I will present you with a report in due course.