It’s No Dolce Vita with a Nut Allergy in Italy

I had it easy in the States. I could eat peanuts, which are—for those incredulous and lucky non-allergic types—actually legumes. This meant handfuls of honey-roasted peanuts, peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, all varieties of Reese’s candy, and the occasional Cracker Jack box. So stale, yet so tasty. All of the allergy labels warned about peanut traces, and I was in the clear… and also very chubby. Just ask anyone who know me during the Clinton years.

Italy on the other hand, is a total hotbed for nut allergy attacks. It’s a war zone over here and there’s no playing the victim. I wouldn’t call Italians insensitive to the issue of food allergies, it’s more like genuine, well-intentioned ignorance. I used to ask the lady at the coffee bar if the cornetto al ciocolato (chocolate-filled croissant) was Nutella (the omnipresent spread, akin to American peanut butter, worshipped with a zeal that the Vatican would kill for).

“Oh no! It’s just chocolate,” She would say, which undoubtedly meant some other brand of hazelnut and chocolate spread, the Dominic’s brand as opposed to Skippy.
I used to fall for it too. The wishful glutton inside me believed her on a number of occasions, and another day was ruined for one wrong bite.

In fact, chocolate was one of the first things I had to scratch off my list. No matter how dark (fondente) the bar claims to be, it will nearly always be laced with hazelnuts. Just face it. This mean that desserts made with melted chocolate, chocolate chips, or chocolate shavings will start your tongue tingling, throat itching, or worse.

Another one to watch out for is gelato. Too many times have I carefully selected my flavors only to feel that telltale tingle after the first bite of seemingly safe coffee or crème caramel. Nocciola, or hazelnut, and the nation’s beloved favorite flavor, is the same color. Pistachio is fairly obvious for its green color, whereas almond (mandorla) and walnut (noci) show up in creamy flavors where not always specified.

Add the dripping and dipping that goes on at busy ice cream stands, and just about everything is off limits. So you thought the fruity flavors were safe…well, not if the person before you asked for hazelnut, rum almond and strawberry, and they used the same scoop.

Through a careful and painful process of elimination I have managed to come up with a few gelaterias that to this day are still allergy proof.

Gelateria San Crispino
Via Acaia, 56
Via della Panetteria, 42
Fiumicino Airport Terminal A

The guidebooks love to love this place for the stoic and white-gloved servers and sterile environment. The pale green and white color palette and covered silver canisters for each flavor (no dripping!) does scream clean, and that’s why I love it! There’s none of that awkward asking to scoop your spoonful from the untouched end of the vanilla to avoid traces of neon green pistachio. They never scoop more than two inches away from the dreaded drippings. Another point in San Crispino’s favor is that most of the liqueur creams are nut free.

Gelateria Fata Morgana

Via Lago di Lesina, 9.
Via Ostiense, 36.

When Maria Agnese Spagnolo discovered an allergy of her own, gluten, she founded a gelateria to soothe her cravings for all of the desserts she would otherwise have to live without. What began with chocolate, cheesecake, tiramisu, and of course the nut-filled flavors, gave way to out-of-this-world combos like Kentucky Chocolate (tobacco-scented intense dark chocolate), Pereg (poppy seeds and cream), Venere (rose petal–infused vanilla cream and wild black rice), or Afrodite (celery and lime).
The gluten-free preparation forbids any artificial flavors or colors, which means that everything tastes exactly like it does in nature, a rarity that doesn’t appeal to everyone, but definitely appeals to me.
Every scoop gets a fresh spoon, and while Maria never considered nut allergies, she did consider lactose intolerance and diabetes with diary and sugar free flavors, that she is careful not to mix.

A few more desserts to steer clear of:

1. Torta della Nonna looks like a simple ricotta tart, but it’s packed with pine nuts.

2. Caprese cake is made with almond flour.

3. The little ring-shaped cookies they bring with dessert wine have chopped nuts inside most of the time.

4. Anything that looks like creamy chocolate icing is almost always Nutella.

5. Anything colorful and Sicilian has almonds somewhere.

On the other hand, Pastiera Napolitana, which looks jammed with walnuts is actually made with grain—a delightfully crunchy nut-like experience (or so I imagine it to be).

Check back with me later for more on savory nut-free tips. Just for the record, pesto is not always made with nuts. Surprise! Sometimes it's just finely chopped arugula.

Drinking and Driving: I'm a Sommelier!

Je Suis Sommelier!

On February 20th, 2008 I became a sommelier—an Italian sommelier to be precise. After a rigorous written exam and an oral “interrogation”, I received a long-stemmed rose and a signed letter from the Italian Sommelier Association (AIS). One week later I would receive a big certificate and an old-school tastevin.

I crammed like crazy for those exams—harder than I ever studied in real school. I made flashcards and carried them around, took practice tests. I insisted on opening wine bottles wherever I was, just to practice my professional technique. I taped notes all over the house, and subjected everyone I ate with to a lesson in proper pairing.

But once it was all over, was I really any wine wiser than before? I remember when I got my driver’s license back in 1995. I passed that test by one point, and from day to the next, America recognized me as a “driver.” I was terrified. It would take months for me to merge onto the highway and stay there, in the right lane, without major case of nervous cramps in my butt.

It was only after I’d driven for quite sometime, legally, that I finally felt comfortable at the wheel, and started passing cars on the I-70 without holding my breath. After about a year I was driving with one hand, and smoking and changing cassettes with the other.

The sommelier course taught me to see and smell, taste, and feel what was in my glass. I picked up hundreds of new words, none of which felt like mine until I used them hundreds of times. I learned how to quantify a sensation (how dry, how intense, how sweet, how bubbly?), and match it with food that tended to be sweet, yet bitter, oily, but not fatty…and how to plot these evaluations on a graph.

My friends would ask me if I could guess what wine was in the glass. Could I tell the difference between Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon? I couldn’t yet, but offered to plot points on a pairing chart at their next dinner party.

Six months later, I can smell the south of Italy, and I can sometimes see the north. I can feel an extra sunny summer or a zesty fall. I can tell you where a wine comes from before I can tell you what it is. It’s as if my brain were liberated, once legitimized by the certificate. I can recognize a lot of wines now, or at least guess it by the third try.

The best part of all is that somewhere along the way, I developed a sense beyond the big five, and I’m honing it everyday. Every wine has a story. The best ones let you in on it slowly, revealing their character to those willing and wanting to dig deeper. And sure enough, like best friends and lovers, in one moment you simply click.

Cheap Pizza, Expensive Cab

A few days ago a cab ride home cost twice as much my dinner. It was a Thursday night in San Lorenzo, a generally gritty (or "authentically Roman" for those who haven't lived here that long) university quarter with a legacy of left-leaning politics. While coolification began some years ago, and a handful of radical chic restaurants and wine bars moved in, San Lorenzo is still the kind of place where high heels get scuffed, hems gets dusty, and food should be cheap.


Pizzeria L'Economica - Via Tiburtina, 48. No phone.

This place was designed with students in mind. The service is languid and lazy, the menu is short, and most importantly, pizza runs about €5 average. Yet the sad state of the economy has the place packed with all sorts, from the young and grungy to the graying and baby-bearing. We were a famished group of eight, still sweating after a Tribal Fusion dance workshop at nearby San Lo' School of Ethnic Dance. We ordered and drained four or five liter-bottles of Moretti beer, and everyone but me ordered a pizza. I opted for a plate of scamorza cheese, bubbling and crusty from the broiler and topped with spicy fresh arugula. We could have shared it in three (with bread), but I was famished and feeling momentarily inclined to a no-carb couple of hours. As the cheese cooled, the edges hardened slightly, sealing in the juicy melted interior. A few shakes of dried peperoncino and I wasn't even tempted to nab a slice from anyone. Not that the pizza wasn't divine. The pies were wafer-thin and crispy, with a smudge of tomato sauce and an unexpected heaping of toppings.

The staff couldn't be bothered to call me cab, but emphatically suggested I call one from a nearby hotel. The 10-minute ride came to roughly €15 (after the tariffa rosa 10% discount for women alone from 9pm–1am, from a jovial female cabbie), which was a little hard to digest.

Dreams and the Kitchen

I used to dream that my mountains of journals and diaries would someday be found and published to great acclaim, and that I might even be a awarded a posthumous Pulitzer. There are a few kinks in the romantic plan, among them the fact that my illegible scrawls would require the expertise of a paleographer, or in extreme cases (the adolescent period principally) a course of cryptanalysis. I’m also currently in Italy, and the probability that my diaries would be discovered and poured over- (with thirsty eyes) by someone with a solid mastery of the American language- is slim. In Rome they might even be mistaken for disposable class notes, whereas my electronic equipment and high-heeled shoes would be salvaged as valuables.

That said, my inner egocentrism has no intention of waiting for death to bring her fame. Vanity aside, there’s just no sense in being “someone” when according to medical science you ought to henceforth be referred to in the simple past tense.

I never liked the word BLOG. It’s indelicate, highly technical, and seemed at once a passing trend. Now that the truth of the BLOG boom is out there, I cannot go on living my life as I did yesterday. I am an undeniable wealth of information about Italy and Rome, and much of what falls under the categories of Shopping, Eating, Nightlife, and Accommodation. While I’m not writing nearly as much as I ought to, I am cruising the freelance circuit and helping out friends and relatives with their travel queries. Now I’m live and online!

Mmmmmm. Let’s talk about food. Some us were born to sing and dance or kick around a soccer ball. Others are more cut out for politics or deep space exploration.

I eat. I cook as well. It should never have been a mystery. The signs were there. I’m not one of those people who after a near-death experience goes on to write Carpe Diem themed best-sellers. I simply grew up, felt my pants getting tighter, and considering my active lifestyle and general lack of skinny friends… it all became quite clear.

A recent family reunion opened my eyes to the fact that I was put on this earth to explore the pathways of our collective gastronomic heritage. For a recent venture into food television I’ve had to write down 50 of my recipes. This proved to be an arduous task, as I never use them. I’m guided by a culinary muse. That and a glance at epicurious.com. It’s a gift that took 29 years to unwrap, and as an aspiring adult, I’m now determined to put it to use.

I welcome you to join me as I recount the adventures of my appetite in the city where carousing Romans once binged and purged with the sole intention of eating as much as possible. Call it pacing yourself. I call it downright practical.

Welcome to Italycious and Buon Appetito!