A plate of bucatini matriciana Revised

I am sitting at a table that keeps rocking in a tiny trattoria in Campo de’ Fiori. Waiters are bustling around trying to fix the table by adding little pieces of paper under the legs. I am oblivious to it, sipping my white wine, staring out into the busy square watching a couple of pigeons sitting on Giordano Bruno’s head. What a way to commemorate the martyr that was burnt at the stake right in that spot! The sun is shining in Rome as it always does or at least this is what I remember, now that I no longer live there. My sister is sitting across from me and my friend, Marco, who owns the Merceria on the square, has stopped by after closing his lingerie store, on his way to have lunch with his 80 year-old mother. Giorgio will be coming soon on his scooter neither aware of the time nor interested in it. It is noisy in Campo de’ Fiori and the workers in the square are closing up the market stands. Little green City of Rome trucks are zooming over the little paving stones, sanpietrini, spraying water to clean the square of the morning debris of fruit and fish. The fish is the hardest smell to get rid of—it lingers in the air. My plate of bucatini finally arrives with the smell of guanciale, the savory bacon from the pig’s cheek, wafting in the air mixing with the fish smell. Like the name suggests, bucatini are spaghetti with holes, served with a spicy bacon tomato sauce originally from the town of Matrice, topped off with grated pecorino. My lovely sister is telling a story but she fades in the steam of my dish and I concentrate on my bucatini. I enjoy the mouthful. The pasta is al dente and the crunchy bacon works so well with the sweet tomato sauce. But the taste means so much more to me than a plate of pasta. As I wipe my mouth, Giorgio appears. He parks his motorino, and comes to sit down moving the table and with it the pieces of paper under the wobbly leg. The church bells chime one o'clock and Marco’s mother yells for Marco from the third-floor window and tells him lunch is ready. “E’ pronto!"