On Jack’s first day of school, I stayed there with him for a couple of hours, to ease him into the experience of a new school in a new language. We left just before lunch, and took a looping, indirect way home, stopping at market stalls and shops along the way. One of my destinations was a half-block of street closed to cars, where vendors were selling fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese, and household odds and ends.
We bought bags of the pink-and-white-swirled fagioli borlotti, and of blackberries that taste as sweet and meaty as pears. Not a trace of tartness, which is a surprising sensation! To be honest, I only bought the pricey 3-Euro basket because Jack fondled them. The unspoken rule of etiquette at the markets is: you touch it, you buy it.
Next time, I think I’ll get some of these elegant peppers:
The most delicious item we bought, though, was the melon. Sweet as honey and juicy as, well, juice:
Next, we went to the bread shop, which is the most nondescript shop I think I’ve ever seen. What you have to do is follow the scent of baking bread with your nose, and look for a bunch of people standing around chatting happily, and moving in a constant stream in and out of a narrow door. That’s the line for bread.
Once inside, I was crammed shoulder to shoulder with people buying multiple bags of bread, biscotti, pizza, and cornetti (croissants). Jack stood in a corner, with his backpack and sunglasses on, eating an apple. He looked as nonchalent as a true Italian. The only proper name of a bread I knew was pizza bianca (what we call focaccia), so I asked for that and used gestures and alternate “grazie”s and “per favore”s to indicate how much I wanted. Then I asked for quattro biscotti, and pointed at these cute little lemony-almondy cookies:
Oh, boy, were they good.
The Roving Locavore 