'One of the great restaurants of Europe.'

Anthony Burgess enjoys a feast of artichokes in Rome.

Aug 09, 2024

a bunch of artichokes are piled together — Photo by Karin Windhorst on Unsplash

Anthony Burgess often wrote about food and drink in his novels. Many readers will be familiar with the lavish banquets in Earthly Powers, or the fatty stews served with pickled onions in Inside Mr Enderby. There is an epic feast in Burgess’s Cold War spy novel, Tremor of Intent, when the secret agent Denis Hillier sits down to an epic eating contest with the villain, Mr Theodorescu. As course after course is served with matching wines (red mullet with Bollinger, avocados with caviar and Madeira), a large sum of money is wagered on who will prove to have the smaller appetite.

Burgess did most of the cooking at home, and his private library contains many books about European and Asian cuisine, along with general histories of food. He had a special fondness for Malaysian, French and Italian food, reflected both in his book collection and in his novels.

Given this strong interest in food, it is surprising that Burgess was not hired as a restaurant critic, and there seems to be only one restaurant review in the Foundation’s archive of his journalism. In this article, originally published in the Saturday Review in April 1978, he writes about Ristorante Piperno, one of his favourite places to eat in Rome.

‘Oh Cuisine!’ by Anthony Burgess

Only European Communists are said to know the best European restaurants. Reactionaries like me eat at home or in snack bars or, at best, in such Paris hash joints as the Self Grill. But I found one of the great restaurants of Europe in the Roman Jewish quarter when I was researching a certain historic case of incest.

In the Roman ghetto (note: in Italy ghetto has properly no connotation of cramped ostracism; it is merely a truncation of borghetto, or ‘little town’) stands a little square called Monte Cenci, on the site of the Circus built by Gaius Flaminius in 220 BC. The Cenci family lived here until they virtually wiped themselves out toward the end of the sixteenth century. The notorious Francesco Cenci fell in love with his daughter, Beatrice — or so she claimed. His alleged gross demands on her person resulted in his murder at the hands of bravos hired by the lovely Beatrice, her two brothers, and her mother. Beatrice was executed for the crime, and the name Cenci left the records of the living and entered myth — as detailed, for instance, in the little-performed tragedy, The Cenci, by Mrs Shelley's husband. The Palazzo Cenci now houses someone unglamorous but unincestuous; the chapel facing has long since been deconsecrated. Shedding cheerfulness on the grim piazzetta is the Piperno a Monte Cenci. Piperno is a Jewish name; this is a Jewish restaurant. Mario Piperno, its founder, is long dead, and today the restaurant is in the possession of the Mazzarella family.

The Roman Jew speaks Roman, not Yiddish or Ladino, and regards the Roman Christian as a kind of younger brother. Roman Jews visit Tel Aviv and Jerusalem but are glad to get back to their native city. They have little against the pope, since he is a sort of Roman, but they will not accept Jesus Christ, who never came near the place. Their cuisine is essentially Roman, but there is one dish — the speciality of the ristorante Piperno — that they call Jewish.

In 1909 Romeo Marchetti, editor of Il Pupazzetto, a satirical magazine, established at the Piperno the custom of holding an annual ‘artichoke dinner’ – a custom that lasted until his death in 1962. The dinner was held in spring and was regarded as a ritual greeting the return of the blessed season. Toasts were made; the finest items of the Roman cuisine were consumed. The crown of the feast was carciofi alla giudia — artichokes cooked in the Jewish manner. This dish is still Piperno's pride. The artichokes come from the Roman Campagna; they are round, fleshy, and tender. After being plunged into seething oil, they emerge looking like chrysanthemums, aromatic, full of the delicate gust of spring itself.

I was last at ristorante Piperno — horror of Orthodox horrors — at Yom Kippur in 1977 and found things in full swing: gilt, mirrors, light streaming in on the piled crustaceans and globe artichokes, no incrustations of signed photographs or ancient heirlooms of the house. The padrone, Mazzarella, was affable but not effusive. He had reserved a place for my car in the Cenci shadows; an old man in a peaked cap prowled the car park devotedly. Cleanness, light, order, efficiency. I ate the following:

A mixed antipasto of fresh shellfish, then zuppa di verdura. The Anglo-Saxon notion of a vegetable soup is dishwater smelling of cabbage, but the Piperno's zuppa is a meal in itself, eaten with fresh, crusty Roman bread — a rich, thick agglomeration of all the greens available in the Italian early autumn. Then I sampled various pasta dishes — fettucine with an aromatic meat sauce; spaghetti with tiny fresh clams; ravioli with creamy ricotta, that delicate curd dish found all over Italy. My main course was spiedino di mazzancolle — spit-roasted estuary prawns — with a contorno of exquisitely sauced mushrooms, or funghi porcini. I also sampled my companion's stewed oxtail and merluzzo di paranza — literally, netted codling. And of course there were the carciofi alla giudea. Now room had to be found for the dessert specialty. Take a breath before I name it.

It is called le palle di nonno fritte, a name that enshrines a notion perhaps cruder than that of Montana's son of a bitch stew but which is, unlike that American offering, redeemed by the refined delicacy of the dish itself: a flaky pastry filled with cream and homemade plum preserves, all of which is dropped into boiling fat for an instant, then served very hot.

The wines are not the most distinguished in the world, but Rome does not go in for the wine snobbery of Paris. We drank a fine cold Pinot Grigio from the Venetian hinterland and a Trieste Bianco that James Joyce would have relished, terming it — in allusion to its colour only — orina divina, or divine urine. The Italian, and French, habit of drinking a good mineral water with the meal — since wine is for taste, not thirst — is a healthful one. We drank the best acqua minerale that Rome affords — an Etruscan one from Nepi — but all Roman waters are good. The American superstition of avoiding tap water in Italy continues, but such water is mostly only spring water unbottled. You can get a fine clear glassful at the Piperno, but I prefer something that brings up the wind.

The waiters are efficient, knowledgeable, and if you wish them to be, friendly. Since my last experience in America, I prefer to keep my waiters at a distance. I went into the dining room of the William Penn in Pittsburgh and sat down at a table. An aged waiter ambled toward me, sat down opposite with a creak of tired bones, then said, ‘What can I get you, my friend?’ None of that here.

Don't just stroll into the Piperno. It's not large. It has only three or four small outdoor tables in fine weather; though the interior is sufficiently, if not excessively, roomy, it's still wise to reserve a table. The telephone number is 06 6880 6629. Buon appetito.