25 yrs ago, a couple of Romans took me to Le Mani in Pasta. It survives away from the crowds of Trastevere – when you walk over the little bridge at night, you enter another world – quiet and historical, of course – but now the small lights, ochre and shadow have gone soft
don’t think you can make a reservation, have to show up at the right time and the stars must align – it’s so small and noisy and bohemian and Roman
went with Bobby – 25 years ago he was my neighbor in Trastevere, he is now my brother from another mother – unlike me, he’ll never leave
Bobby said wait, went in to drop a name, be a wise ass, he’s the only person I know with both a heavy ‘Long Island’ and ‘Roman’ accent, but he’s an actor from NY, what do you expect… I stood outside, the owner’s daughter walked by me, clucking her tongue, a Roman ‘whatever’
an hour later we were in, the chef came over to kiss my hand for no reason other than the stars did align, and the name dropping worked
we ate and drank and argued and laughed as loud as the Romans until midnight
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