When in Rome
In 2002, I was a lackey, a tagalong for the European press tour of a rather large and impressive movie a friend of mine was in. We traveled with the director and the other lead actor and visited cities like London, Berlin, Paris, and Rome. Most evenings were filled with throngs of people at lavish parties, until one night in Rome. I found myself at an intimate dinner with the director, the two lead actors, and Roberto Benigni and his wife. Roberto was the unofficial mayor of Rome and was all too eager to host these three entertainment megaliths at what he said was the greatest restaurant in his city, Felice a Testaccio. He also seemed delighted to have me along because he felt that everyone should enjoy this magical food.
The food was VERY good, but I hadn’t reached the height of my own culinary curiosity and the ripeness of a tomato, or the paper thin slice of prosciutto, well they weren’t lost on me but I was far more enamored by RB’s enthusiasm than I was by the food.
I’d started dieting earlier in the year and had gone from ~550 pounds down to a very svelte ~450. At this stage of my dieting career, I was under the firm belief that my problem was with carbohydrates. So, I avoided things like rice, potatoes, pasta, bread, sugar.
When the pasta course arrived, I kinda pushed my plate ever so slightly away from myself. Not in a “get this slop away from me” or a “the proximity to this poison could be infectious (though this was probably part of it)” but more in a “I’m not going to partake and here’s mine if anyone wants it,” mixed with a little “the further away from me this is, it is that much harder for me to take a bite.” I thought nothing of this action. As a fat guy at a table full of very famous people, I was generally on my best behavior, I would never do anything to outwardly draw attention to myself, my action was largely mindless and thought would go unnoticed. It did not.
I immediately felt Benigni catch my movement and lock onto it with some intensity.
I think I said something banal like “none for me thanks.” To which he inquired in broken English if I had the newly acceptable Celiac’s Disease. Having no idea exactly how offensive I was being and what an out he had just offered me, I said, “No, no, just on a diet.” There was some puzzlement on his face, surely since I had gone to town on the meat and cheese dishes, and generally wasn’t eating much like a person “on a diet.”
There was some shouting, and pleas. The Italian icon banged on the table and said, “Ethan froma Burbank, you must try this pasta!” Dinner halted, he stood, he drew on the entire mass of the diners surrounding us! At one point everyone at the table, save my one close friend, was imploring me to eat one piece of perfectly dressed penne arrabiata that Roberto had speared onto a fork, and was thrusting into my face. One director leaning over and saying under his breath, “Just eat the fucking pasta!”
I didn’t do it. I allowed a scene (an international incident!) and held my ground.
I was newly sober, and quite new to dieting of my own volition (prior to this, diets were done to me by my parents, but I wanted it this time, this time it was for me), and I saw spiraling images in my head of late-night room service and an eventual hunt for an all night gelato house. I saw my life in the balance of that speared piece of penne which Roberto wielded like a gun at my head.
For more than two decades I’ve gone back and forth with regret and elation over that night. The regret has come when I’m deep into the fuckits, eating like the food is gonna run out and gaining weight with reckless abandon. The elation comes when I’m doing well and I feel some pride about having held out.
The truth is, I’m happy with where I am at today, I’m okay with all the actions that brought me here and can’t be totally sure if without one of them I’d be here now. Not that I’d be dead and gone, but rather that right now might not be as rad as it is. I’m alive, and my life seems like a fairytale.
I went to a wedding in Italy recently and due to flight connections had to stop in Roberto Benigni’s city for one night. I made a reservation at Felice a Testaccio, and it just so happened to be the night the pasta special was penne arrabiata.
The reservation wasn’t made from having a case of the fuckits, or some other self-sabotage. I was curious. While I believe every decision I have made, good or bad, has brought me to today, and I am only grateful, I wanted to have the experience I couldn’t have 20 years ago. I wanted to be able to appreciate good food, a normal, decent, modest amount, feel the excitement of the moment like everyone else at that table could, when I could not.
My wife and I and our two children invited a friend at the last minute. Because we were now a group of 5, we could not fit into one taxi and had to wait for a second one. We arrived to dinner 15 minutes late, exactly one hour and 15 minutes after the restaurant opened.
When I told the waiter, I would like the penne arrabiata, he said,
“I am sorry sir, we just sold our last plate”.
Until next time Mr. Begnini.
