I’m here to tell you that porcini season is here in Italy and I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday.  I say that because I am dumb. I went to one of the central markets, Mercato Trionfale, and did not fail to notice the piles of on-steroid-sized mushrooms cropping up many of the vendor stalls. Porcini mushrooms mean cold weather risottos and stuffed pasta that, when paired with a good wine, make for excellent post-meal sleeping conditions. 

Citing the very real fact that I’ve been eating more than my fair share of pizza for supper (it’s just too easy an option at the end of a long day), I held off on buying any porcini. Instead it was mostly vegetables. Okay and then some other things that might not be so virtuous. But it’s the market!  Like all purveyors of slow food, they quickly win over a customer with their enthusiasm for what they are selling. And also because the taste backs up what they are saying.

Last night I was near Piazza Navona to take in a nighttime visit to one of Rome’s museums.  As we twisted through the maze of roads that are only large enough to fit motos, Fiats and foot traffic, I was again reminded about the mushrooms. While the capital city is far enough away from the sources of procurement, the rows of restaurants that are shoeboxed into the city’s winding streets had open window ledges containing baskets of porcini mushrooms. Even if you have zero Italian in your vocabulary, these offerings were screaming, you are hungry and you need to sit down in here right now to try this stuff. If only if there weren’t the folks standing outside already, glasses of prosecco in hand while waiting for their table to open up.    

You know how either as an adult, you see something dangled in front of you but you decide that it is not needed in the moment. So you carry on with your day assuming that this moment will be gone forever. But then it’s not. You have a un chiodo fisso—a single thought fixed in your mind. For me, it’s the mushrooms.  I might have bought everything else in the market—but I left without any mushrooms and even right now on a cooler and overcast Rome day—this is the only thing I am craving.

Going to the market is a blog entry’s dream—no matter whether you are at Kermel, Hillcrest, Bastille or somewhere that you know better than me. Depending on the season, the vendor and the atmosphere of commerce, there is plenty to capture. 

What I like about Mercato Trionfale – a market not far from Vatican City—is that there is a ton on offer and it is very much a working market. It is busy in a way that encourages purposeful movement not so much as carefully-stage food blog photography.  And the no-frills signage everywhere really gives you a taste and feel for Rome’s culture and heartbeat.  One butcher had stacks of meat chunks with a white placard that said “#TantaRoba”–  an expression that means “a lot of stuff” but can be used in any number of situations.  

The vegetable stalls are more or less a fast fashion sort of business. Not so much heavy on fancy signs—except perhaps an adjective before each named fruit or vegetable to denote their superior quality. For example, a pile of arugula had a sign that said “Rucola freschissima!!!” which essentially means “wicked fresh!!!” (any word that ends in issima/issimo/issimi essentially means wicked in my book).  Or the sign for super fresh figs also was worded appropriately.  As for more enduring decorations in the stalls, there was no shortage of yellowing newspapers with front page tributes to AS Roma, one of the larger area’s football teams. 

Mercato Trionfale is not mapped out in a way that suits my brain…or perhaps it is. Either way, this is how it goes:  in addition to immediately forgetting where you left your car upon entry, it is compulsory to get lost in the matrix once you make a purchase at the first enticing stall. This is because the sights, sounds and squash of it all take your attention in a handful of different directions. From, “What is that crazy looking vegetable?” to redder than red pepper bunches to mozzarella that reminds you of that pre-COVID time exploring Greek ruins in Campania. So much on offer, only so many meals in one week. Tanta roba.

The stall I liked best was the one that had loads of little signs stuck to its variety of wares. From meat to cheese to bread, it packed a lot into one corner. It was run by two older guys who were extremely kind, efficient, but also not looking to rush you on their way. To wit, they had a small sign posted on the wall that said “We are only two people to help you but it is quality service….only 150 years of experience between the two of us”.  In other words, stand fast and wait your turn.

I mentioned at the top that I am trying to refrain from eating too many carbohydrates after my summer of pizza. That would seem to discourage not only pasta and rice—but also more bread. Sadly this stall had another sign that caught my eye: “Our pizza from Ariccia is cooked in wood stoves—just like how it was when you went to grade school.”  

So, the idea of “pizza” in Italy is not always how we think of it in America. Pizza as such can take the form of just the dough with some oil and Italian magic (they call it pizza bianca but I am cannot hope to recreate a superlative slice). It also can just have some tomato sauce on top and that too is pizza. The point is that the long oblong and very floppy boards of pizza this guy had on offer looked amazing. Too good to not buy. And besides, in the interest of culture, I would need to learn what Rome’s schoolchildren were getting that I missed out on back on Cape Cod.

After ordering slices, taste unknown, to take home, one of the two-man team did not hesitate to slice off a sliver for on-site enjoyment. It was a simple thing, still warm with just the right combination of oil and wood firedness. I lowered my facemask to try it. Cue the instant jealousy of all the schoolchildren in Rome who would get this as their merenda,ricreazione, pranzo…whatever. Insanely good. Made me forget about those porcini mushrooms. 

This is ultimately a story of Saturday morning provision-gathering in the first world. The takeaway of it all is that I hauled home a trove of different vegetables, pizza, ricotta and artichoke hearts—but not the mushrooms. Those are left for another day, and I can rest easy knowing that we are only at the start of the season. And the great thing about the market—no matter where you are—is that each season will bring in new things. 

Rome remains a chaotic mess and I have not even mentioned the departure from the market where you have no clue where you left your car—but the payoff is worth it.  Once you get home, you can peel open your bags and remember, bag by bag, exactly what you did manage to pick up for the week ahead.

While mid-week will undoubtedly have me heading to the shop outside of my apartment for a bag of frozen spinach (smoothies) or maybe a small package of chocolates (for the office/stress eating), the meals of the weekends are always the best. Even at their most simple and modest, the haul is freschissimo and unassuming. Delicious and worthy of an uncrowded plate. I’m already excited about what they’ve got next week—and even better is knowing what is at the top of my list. I’ve already got my rice in the cupboards and by this time next week it will be porcini risotto weather.