If you asked for a caffè after lunch at Trattoria Zampagna, it would arrive a couple of minutes later on a metal tray from the bar next door. We never found out how the message was relayed, but assumed it was a knock on the wall or a secret bell. Then, when you asked for the bill, la signora Maria would come over with her pad, unclip the ballpoint from her housecoat pocket and do the sums between the oil and crumbs on a paper cloth.
There was a time when we’d go to Trattoria Zampagna in San Paolo at least once a month. Occasionally it was my idea, but generally it was Vincenzo who pushed for lunch at Maria’s. He loved everything about the place. Its form, function, frank attitude and the steady food from local ingredients. And the fact that it was always full of the mechanics who work under the arches farther down Via Ostiense. There was a menu, but between the daily specials and limited quantities, it was usually better just to let Maria tell you there were three portions of lasagne, two of breadcrumbed cutlets and one of pollo dorato left.
