A market lunch is something that I get into a certain mindset for. And get very excited about. The ability to order multiple items off menus, at multiple food stalls, eliminates my main frustration about restaurants - there are items that you really fancy but are destined to go untasted. Tacos, tapas, and Dim Sum appeal to me for much the same reason as eating at a market does. See something you like on the menu? Order it! See another thing? Well, you can order that as well! Oh, you want that as well? Okay. That’s probably plenty now... Well, okay, you can order that as well, if you want. Seriously? And this one? You get the picture.
This is the case when eating at a market. And the taboo is doubly so lifted at Italian markets because it means it’s socially acceptable to have a multitude of first bites of pizzas and pastas. Dishes that are normally limited to one per sitting.
Testaccio market is housed within a, slightly intimidating, modern building that spans half of an entire block in the Roman district of Testaccio. The exterior of its single story is coated in white paneling and topped by large cuboid protrusions which are decorated with orange brick cross-hatching. It is not difficult to spot from a distance. It is, however, difficult to believe that it is home to an Italian market. It’s certainly unlike any Italian market I have ever seen. There is a severe lack of screaming men selling women’s underwear out of white vans, for one thing. And the dissimilarities don't stop there. Rather than the stalls being driven in, in some sort of vehicle, on the day, Testaccio Market houses merchants on a semi-permanent basis in allotments called “boxes”. These boxes are fitted out to suit whatever stall occupies them, and the selection is far from limited. Inside the grid of passageways we found vintage clothes stores, butchers, a vegan store, fruit & veg stalls, and hot food stalls serving dishes as close to home as pizza or pasta, or as exotic as poke or tacos. I was, of course, aware of the scope of cuisines on offer within the market, before we had even arrived.
My plan, upon arrival, had been to have a proper look around. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t settle for the first stall or menu item that I saw that piqued my interest. I clearly, massively, underestimated the power of seduction that pasta dishes written on chalkboards has on me.
“Today is Amatriciana day!” The sign declared. Now, here was a day I could get behind. Though disappointed by the lack of any further decorations, the sign was certainly enough to draw me in to take a closer look at the menu. And once I did, all intentions of diligently inspecting the market, unfortunately, vanished from my head.
This is not to say that eating at Strit Fud, the homage payers to such a criminally uncelebrated holiday, was a particularly bad decision. Admittedly, however, if I had managed to stick to my plan, there would have been a few other stalls I would have chosen before it at which to satiate my precious hunger.
Strit Fud’s stall sits on the south-west corner of Testaccio market, with its stall-front on the exterior of the market building. Not being restricted by the tight confines of the market allows the café that runs Strit Fud, and Strit Fud itself, to have a sizable outdoor seating area, complete with large yellow parasols dotted throughout. Occupying this, as we approached, were two Americans having some wine and a cigarette, and seven sharply dressed, venerable Italian men also all having a cigarette. There were a smattering of others, but these two parties stick in my memory the most, one slightly more willingly than the other.
The chalkboard was propped up next to Strit Fud’s clear counter-top. Underneath which, various menu items, poised for reheating, were displayed. With the help of the lady at the counter, and several interjections from the chef (who stood behind her in the shipment container sized kitchen), we went for a vegetarian arancini, a cone of fried anchovies, and a plate of amatriciana to share. As would be expected, the setting brought the prices down to a very reasonable level; the generous serving of Amatriciana, for instance, was only €6. We then sat ourselves at a table to observe the Italian gentlemen, overhear the distant Americans, and await our food.
Overall, Strit Fud’s offering was enjoyable but left a little to be desired. The arancini had all the classic features of one that has been bought at a cafe or a gas station: satisfyingly crunchy coating; stringy, cheesy risotto; still cold center. Eating such an arancini is always enough to strike a resounding note of nostalgia within me, which makes the eating of it a pleasurable experience, regardless of the quality of the arancini itself. The anchovies were also crunchy and tasty, but they were persistently dry. Without a lemon or any condiments to accompany them, they started to take a toll on our mouths. The saving grace was the amatriciana, which, while not the finest of specimens, hit all the right notes. For the anchovy afflicted mouths, the tomato sauce provided a sweet respite. Its vessel, an al dente rigatoni, was coated throughout its hollow centre and external ridges. All accompanied by cubes of chewy, salty, pancetta, which put into stark relief both the bite of the rigatoni and the sweetness of the sauce. The line that was drawn down the middle of the plate was surveilled by both parties intently, until nothing remained. We finished up, regretfully teetering on the edge of fullness, and moved to explore the market proper. Possibly for pudding, possibly for pizza.
The lull in the presence of Coronavirus in Italy could clearly be seen within the market. There were one or two boxes with their shutters pulled down, but a resounding majority were open and getting business. A woman head to toe in designer gear click-clacked down the row in heels, an overburdened, clearly struggling, too kind, grocery stall attendant in tow behind her. Think Gus Gus carrying the cheese in Cinderella. Oh, would he mind waiting while she just buys a thing or two at the butcher? Is he sure? Great! She will join the queue. Out of a bustling kitchen on the right came the smells and sounds of fresh pasta being cooked. Opposite, a notice boasted the arrival of the first Jerusalem Artichokes. All activity scored with live Samba music, performed in the market’s communal seating area.
In the end it was towards CasaManco, a pizza stall, that we gravitated. On display, thick focaccia-esque bases adorned with exciting arrays of toppings were being manoeuvred to accommodate freshly made, steaming masterpieces. The pizza that drew us in was made up of a base layer of zucchini flowers, dolloped generously with stracciatella cheese, and dotted with large salted anchovies. Our attraction to it also probably had something to do with the beam of sunlight that, I am sure, just at that moment, broke through the clouds and anointed it. Although the combination of ingredients was one I had encountered and loved before, I was yet to experience it on a pizza. And, much to my pleasure, we made the extremely wrong assumption that the slices would be a conventionally normal size. There was more than enough pizza to fill the gaps in our stomachs we were convincing ourselves we had. Needless to say, it was brilliant. The creamy salty combo of the stracciatella and anchovy saturated our mouths, as our teeth worked through the zucchini flowers and chunky base. Mindful eating, Samba music, and an illusion of a return to normalcy conjured up by the crowds, ensured we didn’t leave the seating area for some time. Not to mention our physical inability to do so due to overfeeding.