The wines of Latium are not the best in Italy, but they have their virtues, particularly Frascati. This fresh, palatable white wine is a deplorable traveler, and rarely penetrates beyond its own province, a fact which doesn't distress the Romans in the least. They are quite willing to drink it all. Frascati is one of several wines of the Castelli Romani, a name given to the foothills of the Apennines south of Rome where togaed patricians once built their summer castles. You may find others from these slopes on the wine list-Albina, Castel Gondolfo or Genzano, and they are fair enough. A pleasant and much quoted legend has grown up around a golden wine grown on the slopes of Montefiascone, north of Rome. The German Cardinal Fugger was enough of an oenophile to take the precaution of sending his valet ahead when he traveled, so that he would be sure to stop at an inn where the wine was good. On the door of the inn the valet would chalk Est (è buono) if the wine were satisfactory and Est, Est in case it was exceptional. When the valet and his taste buds reached Montefiascone, he was so enraptured that he scrawled a vigorous Est! Est!! Est!!! on the tavern door. The Cardinal apparently agreed with the valet's judgment, for he stayed at the inn and drank such vast fiagons of the wine that he died from it. No better publicity could befall a wine in those days, and it still clings to the legendary name of Est! Est!! Est!!! This wine travels better than those grown south of Rome, and anyone wishing to verify the Cardinal's judgment, if not emulate his example, can find it on the American market.
After several weeks of foraging in Rome, we are willing to climb out on a limb once again, and to mention a group of restaurants which should please the traveling gourmet. We fondly picture this composite personality, by the way, as urbane, attractive and civilized, responsive to the good things in life (among them fine cooking, worthy wines and charming companions), but skeptical of tourist traps, contrived atmosphere and pompous maîtres d'hôtel.
With him in mind, this cross section of Roman dining embraces many types and several charming settings, some with music (it's a part of Rome) and some devoted only to pious concentration on epicurean pursuits. May we lay emphasis on the fact that the omissions are colossal. They have to be when a choice is made from thousands. No mention is made of hotels, many of which have splendid cuisines, or of a myriad of snack bars, lea shops, birrerie and rosticcerie where lighter fare can be found at odd hours. Among hundreds of worthy little trattoria, only two arcnamed. bur bear in mind the fact that it is very difficult to go astray gastronomically in Rome.
The Romans are late diners, and Mr. and Mrs. Gourmet will have ample time to reflect upon their choice of a restaurant while sitting in one of the smart cafés on the Via Veneto, Everyone seems to drift into DONEY'S, CARPANO, or ROSATI at least once during the day, and there are no better places from which to watch the well-dressed passing throng. Less obvious and far more atmospheric is the CAFE GRECO at Via Condotti, 86, an historic spot established in 1780 and long patronized by artists and writers, among them John Keats and Mark Twain. In such charming surroundings you are confronted with a cool Italian apéritif, but by no problem at all about where to dine. Only a short stroll away is-
RANIERI-Via Mario de Fiori, 26: This venerable haunt of Roman epicures is found on a side street not far from the Piazza di Spagna, known to every American who seeks a letter from Back Home. Ranieri is positively bearded with history, but rests not upon its laurels and a century of famous visitors. Today's more exacting diners will find it gratifying and reposeful. The atmosphere is definitely vieux monde. The faded velvet banquettes against the wall, the aged, courteous waiters, the courtly gentleman of the old school who owns it. all preserve the spirit of the late '90s. The restaurant is small but uncrowned, as there are small private salons upstairs to care for any overflow. Dignified, benign gentlemen sit alone with their quail or woodcock and their Burgundy. A gay little party of four orders cannelloni, scampi all'orientale and a sweet, and needs an extra bottle of Orvieto. A suave couple from England tries veddy hard to select hors-d'oeuvre without pointing. There is no music. The wine list is short but excellent. The chef is one of the best in Rome.
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