Ode to a lost Saturday in Rome

It occurred to me, with the usual thud (line stolen from Herb Caen), that my last post included nothing about what we did on Saturday. Then I remembered: That’s the day that Mary Pat and I met our new friend, David Colbert, for a lunch in his neighborhood near the Aventine Hill. And during that delicious lunch we killed two bottles of wine between the three of us. No wonder I spaced the rest of the day.

That lunch, which took place at Da Felice a Testaccio, was superb. Three different kinds of pasta (tortellini in brodo, spaghetti carbonara and a Roman specialty — cacio e pepe) and a plate of roasted lamb and potatoes that we couldn’t finish. Still, we had enough room for a coffee and some of the best cannoli ever imgained, much less made, at the pasticceria Sicilia e duci.

Before lunch we had walked the Aventine Hill, pausing to look over the city and peek through the famous keyhole in the wall (just down from the Church of Santa Savina) at what feels like a miniature view of the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. So we were hungry. And afterward, though I barely remember it, we walked past the Cestia Pyramid (dating back a couple of thousand years) and the Protestant Cemetary, where the poet John Keats (1795-1821) s buried.

On Saturday night, after traveling and walking in a near stupor for what seemed like hours, we returned to our apartment. And slept the sleep brought on only by a decent vintange of grape.

Call that Ode to a Bottle of Vino Rosso or Two. Just don’t tell John Keats.