Roman Holiday: Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday in Rome: Bright blue skies and great white billowy clouds. People just out of church stroll the hushed city carrying sprays of silvery-green olive branches. I walk around the city in a reverie induced by the perfection of weather, the clarity of light and the sound of church bells ringing in the quiet streets. My stroll leads me through the Piazza di Spagna and up the curving steps of the Scalinata di Spagna. Along the belvedere of Villa Borghese, Rome’s famed park, I look out over palazzi colored clay-red and ocher, green rooftop gardens and in the distance, the dome of Saint Peter’s.

In the dead of summer, Villa Borghese can take on a parched and neglected aspect. But this is spring--a fleeting season in Rome--and the park is in its full glory. I walk for hours, amid date palms and trees thick with dark pink blossoms, their petals floating on the breeze. Children play in the tall soft grasses rampant with white chamomile flowers, or ride their tricycles, or take a turn on the small, somewhat dilapidated merry-go-round with its strange collection of sports cars, horses, space-age craft, ambulances and tanks. A little girl, clutching a small bouquet of wild flowers, sings along to the amplified sounds of Italian pop music streaming out of the merry-go-round. Mothers push strollers through the wide, shaded paths while people of all ages stroll arm-in-arm and bicyclers glide in the coolness of the spring air.

Crowds gather around the carts dispensing sweets and other treats appropriate to a Sunday in the park. At the Chez Toi Bar, a caffe on wheels, essentially a small bus-turned-bar, you can buy bibite, drinks-- aranciata, chinotto, colas--slightly stale pizza and panini and, of course, gelati, in all shapes and colors.

Tired and a little hungry from my long walk, I sit down at a caffe in the leafy heart of the park. I order a small salad. It arrives, a handful of tender bitter greens and narrow wedges of tomato, served with a crusty roll as tiny as a baby’s fist. My waiter places cruets of olive oil and red wine vinegar on my table for me to use to dress my salad.

A few days before, I’d gone to one of the big outdoor markets of Rome and seen the vast array of spring greens for sale, from small leaves such as the ones on my plate to nervous, frizzy heads of endive, and spoon-shaped leaves of mache, called valerianella, but also known by a host of regional names (true of many of the greens). There were bunches of ruffled escarole and dark green wild mustard; small leaves of wild arugula, called ruchetta di campo; puntarelle, the tender, slightly bitter shoots soaked in cold water until they curl up, then, according to Roman custom, served in an anchovy-and-garlic dressing; young Swiss chard and spinach; green and red radicchio di campagna, gathered in the countryside; and tender young dandelion leaves, called dente di leone, which refers to the leaf’s jagged outline, thought to resemble the teeth of a lion. Some vendors were selling misticanza, a word used by Romans to describe their own mix of wild and cultivated greens used for salad. It seemed as if there were hundreds of varieties of greens for sale, some of which I could identify, others which remained tantalizingly mysterious to me.

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In the market there were also bunches of spring carrots and red radishes topped with bright green foliage, freshly dug new potatoes smelling of warm earth, fragrant bulbs of pearly white fennel, thin and fat leeks, fresh little pea pods and unruly bunches of skinny wild asparagus. Artichokes were everywhere, in a frenzy of seasonal excitement: spilling out of vans and trucks, packed into wooden crates that were stacked on the back of Vespas, and piled high in market stalls--large, round, rosy artichokes, artichokes shaded violet, small, spiny artichokes tapering to a point; and others no bigger than a thimble, to preserve in olive oil.

As I sit at my table eating my insalata mista, the caffe slowly fills with people. They stay for hours, whiling away the afternoon--a group of pale British artists wearing faded, threadbare clothing, sipping tea, talking about art and painting; a Roman mother and teen-age son eating pastries, he with an ascot at his neck, his jacket perched neatly on his shoulders, leaning over at each bite to keep the powdered sugar from falling on his immaculate clothing; two young Romans in black leather jackets impassively sipping espresso and smoking cigarettes while reading Kafka; a solitary man skimming the pages of Il Messaggero, Rome’s leading newspaper; and chic matrons wearing huge sunglasses, chatting quietly.

Sheltering the caffe from the sun is a canopy of interlocking branches and shining green leaves. A wind gently flutters the leaves in the trees and sends a violent quiver through the sharp spiky palms. In the air is the smell of verdure, the sweetness of powder and perfume and children’s candy, the bittersweet smells of coffee and smoldering tobacco.

I eat my salad, drink a small glass of wine, eat a pastry, sip a cappuccino--is it an hour or an eternity that I sit there--until I walk back to my hotel through the park’s long afternoon shadows, down into the narrow city streets where it is already evening.

Tossed with lemon juice and olive oil, arugula becomes a topping for garlic-rubbed bread. In Italy, wild arugula is gathered in the countryside and sold in the outdoor markets that are the heartbeat of every town and city. Whether wild or cultivated, arugula’s beautifully shaped leaf has a pronounced oak - y, peppery flavor that is so distinctive nothing can take its place. Luckily, it’s become more available in our markets.

BRUSCHETTA WITH ARUGULA SALAD TOPPING

4 thick slices country bread

2 garlic cloves, peeled and cut in half

Extra-virgin olive oil

2 to 3 bunches arugula, stems trimmed, leaves cut into strips

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Finely ground sea salt

Grill or toast bread on both sides until golden. Rub bread on 1 side with cut garlic and drizzle lightly to taste with olive oil.

Toss arugula with 1 tablespoon olive oil, lemon juice and sea salt to taste. Taste and add more oil and lemon juice to taste. Mound arugula on bread. Makes 4 bruschettas.

Each serving contains about:

139 calories; 279 mg sodium; 1 mg cholesterol; 4 grams fat; 21 grams carbohydrates; 4 grams protein; 0.29 grams fiber.

This Italian way of preparing wild asparagus works well with our cultivated asparagus, imparting a more intense flavor to it. If using thicker asparagus, snap off the stem ends; they will break off naturally at the point where the asparagus becomes tender and less fibrous. Use a vegetable peeler to peel the stalk about halfway up from the stem end.

ASPARAGUS WITH ANCHOVY AND LEMON, WILD-STYLE

1 1/2 pounds thin asparagus

Finely ground sea salt

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

6 anchovies, chopped to paste

3 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley

2 tablespoons lemon juice

Trim woody ends of asparagus. Cook asparagus in large skillet in salted boiling water to cover. Carefully drain in colander.

Place olive oil and anchovies in same skillet. Turn heat to low and stir until anchovies dissolve into oil. Add asparagus with tips all facing in same direction. Sprinkle with parsley and little sea salt to taste (remember that anchovies are salty). Gently turn spears over in olive oil few times. Add lemon juice and turn over again.

Transfer asparagus and juices to serving platter making sure that spears are neatly arranged. Makes 4 servings.

Each serving contains about:

173 calories; 89 mg sodium; 6 mg cholesterol; 14 grams fat; 7 grams carbohydrates; 7 grams protein; 1.42 grams fiber.

When tender leeks appear in the markets, try making this special soup, which also calls for peas, leaves of spinach , butter lettuce and a final sprinkling of mint. The leeks are first cooked very gently in olive oil and a generous amount of lemon juice; as the vegetables cook, the lemon flavor deepens.

MINESTRA VERDE

2 pounds leeks

4 to 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Juice 1 large lemon

1 tender celery stalk, trimmed and chopped

Finely ground sea salt

Freshly ground pepper

1 cup peas, fresh or frozen

1 cup shredded young spinach leaves

1 cup shredded butter lettuce (bright green leaves only)

1 quart water

Mint leaves

Lemon wedges, optional

Trim root ends from leeks. Cut slit down length of leeks, then cut leeks into sections. Place in large colander. Run cold water over leeks, separating rings to clean all layers. Place leeks in large bowl of cold water and let stand to allow any remaining dirt to settle to bottom.

Place olive oil and lemon juice in soup pot and turn heat to medium. Lift leeks out of water and add to pot along with celery. Stir well, adding sea salt and pepper to taste. Cook 20 minutes, lowering heat as water evaporates. Stir often to prevent sticking.

Add peas, spinach and lettuce. Stir few minutes. Then add water and bring to boil. Simmer 10 minutes. Put soup through food mill, or puree in food processor until finely textured but not completely smooth. Return to pot and reheat. Adjust seasonings to taste.

Ladle into soup bowl. Tear mint leaves into small pieces, crushing leaves between fingers to release perfume. Sprinkle mint over soup. Season to taste with pepper. Serve with lemon wedges on side. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

Each of 4 servings contains about:

166 calories; 99 mg sodium; 0 cholesterol; 14 grams fat; 9 grams carbohydrates; 3 grams protein; 1.26 grams fiber.

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