The Great Gelato Expedition

Fair warning: it was a long day, so this is a long post.
 
There are gelateria everywhere, which is to say that there are lousy gelateria everywhere. Every tourist spot has a gelato stand on the corner and every convenience store has a gelato sign in the window. So far, I’ve tried two and they have been spectacular failures. Ugh.

“My” gelateria at home, the Gelato Fiasco in Brunswick, Maine, is superb. The owners, Josh and Bruno, created authentic gelato from scratch, no mixes or powders or shortcuts. I know there is wonderful gelato here in Rome - I just have to find it. So today, armed with a list of three gelateria touted to be ‘the best’, I take bus 87 back to the Argentine and begin my quest.

First of all, it’s not easy to find these places unless you have a map. Use Google  and write your own directions because even the carabinieri (police) standing two blocks from the address I’ve taken from the shop’s website don’t seem to know where these places are. Maybe the police boycott gelato. Maybe if I asked them where the nearest doughnut shop was…

After three tries, I haven’t found Fiocci Neve (the Snowflake). I followed the map, could see the addresses and found no #51 via del Pantheon. It has to be there, but so far I haven’t located it - maybe it’s the Brigadoon of gelateria in Rome.

I did find, in the same square, a place called Il Gelato San Crispino. This is not near the Trevi fountain (well, ok, everything is near everything, but this is a different ‘branch’). Since the Trevi fountain one is on my list, I figure this may be another happy accident. I order my test flavor: pistachio. It’s dreadful. It’s tasteless and it’s filled with tiny shards of what I assume was pistachio nut. I mean filled: it was the consistency of grainy peanut butter. As I stand there, the gelatero leaves the counter, walks into the cooler and removes a gallon sized plastic container that says “pistacchio”; there’s a long tube attached and he puts the whole thing under the counter in something that looked like a cross between a refrigerator and a paint mixing machine. This is a very bad sign. I take another bite and decide to toss the whole thing in the nearest bin. A woman walks past me on her way into the shop. I contemplate telling her not to bother, but maybe she likes this place, so I leave hoping to find something better.

 Not to far away, on the Via della Magddalena, there’s a huge place called Della Parma Roma. I’m suspicious. It’s too big. It’s overflowing with tourists. I check out the case. The gelato looks authentic, but the pistachio is a little too green to reassure me. There had to have been 50 or 60 flavors. They had mousse as well as gelato, soy gelato, and sorbetto. I hear New England voices - two young women who live in Boston, go to school in Maryland, and who assure me that their gelato is delicious. I don’t see anyone throwing their cones or cups in the garbage, so I decide to give it a try. I opt for limoncello, pink grapefruit, and meringue. The limoncello was fine, not great, but very good; the pink grapefruit was tangy but not too acidic and I liked that too. But the meringue…well, the meringue was fabulous. I did not toss it in the bin. I wished I’d gotten a bigger serving, but I realize I have more gelato to find and I don’t want to overdo at the beginning of my quest. For right now, this is the only place that merits a return visit so I can try the pistachio.

Next I went to “the most famous” gelateria in Rome: Giolitti. It’s large, old, features seating both inside and out, serves pastries and has a bar. The gelato case here looked pretty nice too. It was crowded. It was also the least friendly of any gelateria I visited.  I opted for a combo of coconut, chocolate, and pistachio. The flavors were fine, chocolate being the best of the three. I sat outside and was joined by a woman and her son on holiday from Amsterdam. They both liked their gelato choices, though the mom wondered how anyone could eat this in the summertime, since it was melting so quickly in about 50 degrees. A drop of chocolate promptly fell onto my white slacks.

Next, I find my way to Gelateria Teatro. Like Piperno, it’s tucked into a tiny enclave. Unlike Piperno, there’s a sign at the end of the road pointing the way and when you get to the door, there is a signboard filled with rave reviews. It’s small. There are perhaps a dozen flavors on offer. I’ve had good and bad by now, so I want to give a fair test and review. I choose pistachio again. It’s good, perfectly good, but again, not great. I can taste pistachio, and thankfully while there are nuts in the gelato, they don’t overwhelm the cream. I like it, but frankly, it’s not a destination gelateria.

I looked in at several other places that didn’t make the tasting cut. I do have to comment on one other place, not too far from Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Metaluna. There’s a lot of gelato in the case.

Some of it is day-glow colored, so I’m disinclined to buy but it’s crowded and I decide to look at all the flavors just for fun. Near the end, there it is: Viagra. I swear.  And yes, it’s blue.

After the gelato excursion, I wander around a little and see children coming from school, They’re little ones, about 5 years old, being picked up by parents and grandparents. They're excited and happy to be talking about their day. It's nice and it makes me smile, even more than great gnocchi or gelato.

Just past the school, I see round building. The Pantheon is behind me, so this can only be one place: Castle San Angelo. And it that’s Castle San Angelo, then when I turn left…yes, it’s still there: the Basilica San Pietro.

The sun peeks through the clouds. It’s 4:30 and I’ve been testing gelato since noon, but I can’t walk away when I’m this close. I want to buy Vatican stamps anyway, so after crossing the Ponte Angelo, I turn and walk toward the most famous Christian church in the world.

It’s not the same. The lines for the metal detectors, the shabby but abundant wooden and metal barricades - these are scars on the soul of a great work of art. It’s still a great work of art, of course, but it’s sad to see these stark reminders that sometimes evil overcomes good instead of the other way around.

It’s almost 5 pm and the lines at security are fairly short. Behind me, a couple argues. They, alas, are American. There are big signs showing an umbrella (OK) and a penknife (not OK). The woman's voice goes up: “It didn’t say in the brochure that you couldn’t take a penknife in!” Her husband volunteers to wait outside whiles she goes to the Basilica by herself. I think he was hoping for a respite, but she insisted that she was going to try to get that penknife in. I have no penknife, pass through the metal detectors without a hitch, and opt not to see what happens with Lady Macbeth and her pen knife. But I hope she gets caught.

The climb up the steps to the main entrance is a tangible reminder that you are ascending to a place of high renaissance and high church. I pause at the holy door. The last time I was here, I walked through that door. Paul VI was pope then. Yes, I was very young!

 Inside, it’s the same and it’s different. We know this church so well; we see it every Christmas Eve and every Easter Sunday. We see it in celebration and in mourning. It’s really quite a moving thing, to ponder the life of a great church, because it does have a life. This one has lived a long time, been home to artists and penitents, seen the challenges of reformers and held the secrets of political intrigue. I love this place - what it stands for, what it stands against. Its grand scale makes me feel “just human“, and that is extraordinarily wonderful.

I turn toward the Pieta. The first time I visited, I could walk right up and touch this masterpiece by Michelangelo. The second time I was here, the sculpture was cordoned off, perhaps 10-12 feet away. Now it’s behind bullet-proof glass that’s two inches thick and more like 20 feet away. It’s still breathtaking, but it’s separation makes this most personal, most intimate moment in the life of Mary and her son removed and impersonal. It doesn’t help that so many people just want to take a photo and move on to the next ‘famous thing’. 

The next famous thing, I suppose, is John XXIII. I looked, of course. I took a couple of photos. Actually, it’s pretty creepy seeing a waxy-white fellow lying there encased in glass. He looks very little like the living pontiff, who was portly and ruddy and jovial. I don’t think they’ve done him any favors. I suppose once he’s a saint, they’ll put a couple more inches of bullet-proof glass around him too. I don’t believe that he’s in the Basilica because he moved up the saintly ladder by being beatified so much as there had to be a great spot for John Paul II and John XXIII was in the great spot. Anyway, I bet that JPII zips past poor old John on the flight to sainthood. There’s still that Vatican II thing.

It’s 5. There’s a Mass. The bells ring. The organ plays - and I mean really plays. It’s wonderful, literally wonder-full, music. It’s majestic and it’s coming from everywhere - well, not really, but it’s big, big music. I feel myself relax.

I watch the Mass for a while. The priests - there are at least four of them - look tiny compared to their background. They’re fine in relation to the altar, though that’s enormous too, but it’s not towering. Since the Mass is in progress, the apse is lighted. That gives me a chance to take some photos without flash and still get good color. I snap away as discreetly as I can. Never mind that I am at least 100 feet from the priests and well behind those worshipping; I still don’t want to be intrusive.

From my spot next to the high altar, I think that this is very familiar to me too, not just because of Christmas and Easter, but because on some level, my job is exactly the same as Benedict’s or any of the priests presiding at this very Mass.

I get some photos of the splendid serpentine pillars, a couple of the inside of the altar dome, and then I realize that Lady Macbeth is nudging in beside me. I don’t know if she has her pen knife or not, but I decide not to take a chance and I move quickly to the rail in front of the altar from which it is impossible to see any of the Petrine artifacts upon which this church is built. Never mind. Maybe he’s down there and maybe he isn’t but he’s got a lot going on up on the main floor.

I take some time to read the words around the top of the sanctuary. They are all the words of Jesus to Peter as they are recorded in the gospels. Of course, they’re in Latin, pre Vatican II.

The last time I was here, I was with my college advisor. I visited him in September, and wrote to him last month that I was coming to Rome. He’s a terrific fellow and I can see him now: black coat and houndstooth fedora, lecturing about who and what and where and when and why and how as our little group of Protestants swims in this vast sea of Roman history and theology. The nexus (Harvard Divinity School word for the day) between the building of this Basilica and the Reformation in Germany can’t be minimized. OK - I won’t go there, but Google “Fugger” some time. And no, it’s not a bad word nor is it a name from a Ben Stiller movie.

The Mass ends, I’m close to the entrance to the Basilica again, gazing at Mary and Jesus from the other side of the building, through a couple of inches of bullet-proof glass. I leave quietly and make my way to the PO where I buy stamps (I didn’t expect to be in Vatican City, so the postcards are in my room) and start for the Irish College, for the first time after dark. I get home pretty easily even though the traffic is maniacal. I like that, actually. It gives the angels something to laugh about.