A plate of bucatini matriciana

I am sitting in a tiny restaurant at Campo dei Fiori at a little table that keeps rocking. Waiters are trying to fix it by adding little pieces of paper under the legs. I am oblivious to it all staring out into the golden square noticing the statue of Giordano Bruno has a couple of pigeons sitting on its head. What a way to commemorate a true martyr! The sun is shining in Rome as it always does or at least that 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 (Lingerie store) on the square, has stopped by after closing his store, on his way to have lunch with his 80 year-old mother. Giorgio will be coming soon on his scooter not really aware of the time nor interested in it. Italy is a little like that. We are not fazed by people arriving late. Life is just so enjoyable there is no need to worry about other people's tardiness. It is noisy in Campo dei Fiori since the workers in the square are closing up their market stands. Little City of Rome green trucks are zooming around on the Sanpietrini (paving stones called little Saint Peters) 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 arrives with the smell of guanciale (savory cheek bacon) wafting in the air mixing with the fish smell. The bucatini are beautiful spaghetti with a hole running through them which make them very hard to eat and the bacon-tomato sauce splatters everywhere. The grated pecorino on top has a sharpness you never get with parmigiano. My lovely sister is telling a story while I roll the bucatini on my fork and savor the moment. Giorgio finally shows up on his motorino and says "Che mangiate?" (what are you eating?).