Tripe, Tendons, and Organ Meat

Rome’s Testaccio market doesn’t pander to tourists

On my way to one of the salumeria (delicatessen) stalls for a few slices of Prosciutto di Parma, I began to salivate at the thought of wrapping thin slices of prosciutto around what I was assured by the fruttivendolo (fruit vendor) would be perfectly ripened melon.

She had asked me if I wanted the melon per oggi, and I told her, yes, I would be eating it today. She had scanned the melons, quickly selecting one that, to me, looked no different than the other dozen melons on the shelf.

This was my first trip to the Testaccio market, and it was a sensory delight of sights, sounds, and scents which emanated from dozens of stalls offering everything from fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, fish, breads, biscotti, olive oil, balsamic, coffee, and candy to clothing, shoes, pottery, books, and kitchen supplies.

As a first timer in this Roman neighborhood market that caters to locals, not tourists, I ventured first to the comfortingly familiar, the fruit and vegetable vendors. I scanned the offerings at various stalls, settling finally on one that spanned two adjacent stalls, one half dedicated to fruits and the other to vegetables.

Crates of deep purple, yellow, and dark pink plums were stacked on an inclined board above others packed with yellow, red, and white peaches along with a crate of fragrant tabacchiere (Saturn peaches). Today, three large crates held enormous soft purple figs, their distinctive shape and color visually complimenting that of the adjacent golden apricots and softball sized lemons.

To the right of the stall’s center beam, an array of vegetables produced the same harmonious color balance. Interspersed among the familiar dark glossy eggplants, white mushrooms, gleaming red peppers, bins of mixed salad greens, and red and yellow cherry tomatoes were flower-bearing ribbed zucchini, greenish-brown cherry-sized tomatoes, small torpedo-shaped tomatoes, and ribbed tomatoes that looked like small orange-green pumpkins.

Disciplining myself to buy only what I could eat in a couple of days, I completed my produce purchases and headed away from my comfort zone to explore stalls that were more uniquely Roman.

The butcher’s stall, from a distance, didn’t appear daunting. The chicken case housed unpackaged whole chickens that were far more natural looking than the genetically “superior,” overly plump fowl found in American supermarkets. Several trays of prepared foods bordered the birds — chicken cutlets, meatballs, and stuffed peppers — perfect for quick preparation after a day of touring.

As I ogled these alluring offerings, a bit of chatter coming from my left caught my attention.

A small group of tourists on a foodie excursion were attempting to name the items in a neighboring case. The butcher, overhearing their conversation, quickly corrected their misidentification of the organ meats. Reaching into the case, he retrieved two large hunks of organ meat, held them together, and chanted, “il cuore, il cuore,” “the heart, the heart.”

The bin behind that which had held the halved bovine heart contained sliced liver, another held a plastic bag stuffed with tendons, and next to those bins were two containing what appeared to be thick, flesh-toned, haphazardly folded rubbery blankets, smooth on one side and honey-combed or carpet-like on the other. Tripe. I couldn’t even begin to fathom how one would order “tripe for two,” let alone how to cook it. I’ll take two chicken cutlets, thank you.

I’m forced by my travelling partner, my sister who is an equestrian, to bypass the carne equina (horse meat), although some dried horse sausage looked appetizing.

At the end of the aisle, two fish vendors artfully displayed the day’s catch in ice-filled Styrofoam boxes and decorative baskets. Even though I could identify most of the fish, I’d rarely seen such an extensive variety of crustaceans and mollusks with their arms, legs, antennae, tentacles, and eyes intact.

While the unprocessed, as-they-swim-in-the-sea offerings seemed to guarantee the seafood’s freshness, I settled for a tuna steak that I could quickly pan fry.

As my purchase was being wrapped, I tried not to look into the eye — the one facing skyward — or stare at the gaping mouth of the enormous tuna that was now missing two-thirds of itself. I prayed a silent thanks for the life that had been sacrificed to sustain my own, grabbed my parcel, and headed for the bakery.

Having quickly selected bread and biscotti, I exited the market to begin the short walk to the apartment that had become my home away from home.

A small box truck was parked at the curb. I didn’t notice any markings on the truck, perhaps because I was immediately distracted by the clattering of the truck’s rear door being closed.

As I looked toward the back of the truck, a man stepped onto the curb, carrying over his shoulder a small dead pig. At this point, I thought nothing of it. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll come back for some sausage.

At the end of a long afternoon of sightseeing, I opened a bottle of wine, unwrapped my prosciutto, and took the melon to the cutting board. As I sliced it in half, I could barely wait to sink my teeth into the prosciutto-wrapped, glistening, yellow-orange wedges.

The melon was tender and sweet, ideally ripened. I smiled, thinking back to my morning conversation with the fruttivendolo. The melon was, indeed, perfect per oggi.