Rome in the 1960’s was a wonderful time and place to be growing up. There was an
air of such unmistakable, extraordinary, elegant glamour everywhere. I lived in our
lovely apartment by Villa Borghese with my parents, and I attended my aunt’s
eccentric school on the Via Appia Antica. But out of school hours it was quite a lonely
childhood. I read endlessly, and spent a lot of time alone when not at school, longing
for a younger sibling to keep me company.
My schoolmates included the entire Getty family, including Paul, who was in my
class. We both starred in the school production of The Ginger Bread Man when we
were about 6 years old. He played the Gingerbread Man, I played the Farmer’s Wife
and I remember that I had to chase him round and round the school, shouting out
“Stop! Stop!” and he replied “Run, run, as fast as you can – you can’t catch me, I’m
the Gingerbread Man!”
Unfortunately, his brown felt costume was not sewed together quite securely
enough, and every time he came back to the front of the school, where the
makeshift stage was set up, he’d lost yet another bit of clothing on the way. Poor
Paul ended up almost incapable of running, as he had to hold the whole costume
together with both hands to stop it falling off altogether!
Another year, another Speech Day, and Anthony Quinn, some of whose children
were also at the school with me while he was involved with filming at Cinecitta,
graciously gave out the prizes. I am sure that not many of those receiving prizes
were aware at the time that he was such a movie legend, but I am sure that they,
like me, must look back on that day now with amazement. My aunt was the ultimate
Queen of networking, and always managed to get all the most glamorous of parents
on her PTA committees.
My father, aware of my loneliness, bought me a beautiful Irish setter who was my
dearest companion and whose name was Chuff. I would spend hours brushing his
lovely red coat, cleaning his teeth. He was the keeper of all my greatest secrets.
On very special Sunday mornings, my father and I walked Chuff across the Borghese
gardens all the way to Porta Pinciana and then down the Via Veneto for a stop at our
favourite café, the Café de Paris.
The Via Veneto was the iconic symbol of 1960's Rome - the centre of "Dolce Vita"
with its numerous bars, restaurants and hotels. Our usual table was on the
pavement very close to the only newsagent that sold American comics and
international newspapers.
Our beautifully groomed, very elegant dog lay down next to the table and my
father’s favourite waiter brought coffee for my father and a lemon granita for me.
And there we sat, enjoying the sunshine buried in an orgy of reading, me with my
Casper the Friendly Ghost and Richie Rich, and my Dad with a day-old Times or
Telegraph, or The Herald Tribune.
I would slip inside the café to use the loo before the walk home,
pausing in amazement in front of the patisserie counter, marvelling over the
gorgeous Torta Mimosa, Torta Sant’Honore’, Il Millefoglie and many other delicious
and delicately beautiful cakes and pastries. My absolute favourite still is the
gloriously complicated Sant’Honore’. There is something about those little choux
pastry buns, perfectly coated in crisp, transparent caramel and filled to bursting with
zabaglione, sitting on top of layers of perfect sponge, all sandwiched together with
sweetened whipped cream, that I find utterly transporting. Rarely, we sometimes
had cakes like this for birthdays or special occasions, but I lingered in front of the
counter, just admiring the intricacy and perfection of each dessert before turning my
attention to the glass -fronted freezer with its display of semifreddi and ice cream
cakes, where the object of my desire would be the Semifreddo al Torrone: the
perfect combination of creaminess and nougat crunch.
One unforgettable day, the kind, grandmotherly cashier at the café called me over as
I hovered in front of the display hopping from one foot to the other.
She had sliced a huge piece of Sant’ Honore’ on to a small plate, laid a silver cake
fork next to it, put it in my hands and waved me outside. It was a gift, for me!
I carried it outside so carefully, terrified of tripping up, dodging the darting waiters in
their tight trousers and impeccable uniform jackets as they sped in and out of the
doors, trays held high with such grace on their taught stretched fingertips.
I sat down at the table and just gazed at the plate, silently working out whether to
eat the choux buns first, or dive straight into the sponge and cream. My father
lowered his newspaper, a frown on his face, and then he broke into a huge smile,
and began to laugh:“Go on Valli! “ he said, “I won’t tell your mother you ate it just
before lunch – enjoy it while you can!”
My father and I would head home again on the same route through the park, Dad
telling me snippets about his wartime experiences in Rome and painting a picture of
what life had been like, with a hundred anecdotes to make me forget that he was
talking about was one of the toughest tests of his life. “Over there” he’d say, waving
a hand in the direction of the Hotel Excelsior “Well, we’d have such wild parties, you
wouldn’t believe half of what we got up to, even in those dark days!” And later, he’d
add: “When I got so ill with diphtheria, your mother used to bribe everyone she
could in order to come in and visit me in the military hospital. Their visiting hours
were so strict, but your mother – well, she’s always been a bit of a rebel you know!”
This was indeed a my Dolce Vita - long before the complications of boyfriends or jobs
or responsibilities. It felt wonderfully safe and precious to have this time with my
father, and I was so proud to walk alongside him, his huge hand engulfing mine.
It all felt so secure, as though nothing bad could ever happen. I didn’t think about
how much I was missing my brothers away at school in England or the fact that I had
few friends and most of them too far away to see very often if at all outside of
school hours. With my Dad beside me I just felt completely, blissfully happy.
Once home, my mother would have cooked lunch for us and for whoever was joining
us on that day – but some of my very favourite occasions was when there was
nobody else coming to lunch, and I could just revel in their undivided attention and
in just being together, the three of us. I could sit back and bask in their love for each
other, which was clear in every glance.
If there was nobody else coming, my mother always made our favourite things for
lunch, although being a Sunday, English rules were observed; so it was always a roast
of some sort as the centrepiece, which my father carved with flair. He was especially
fond of roast beef, which my mother inevitably under-roasted so that my father
always complained about it being too rare. He spent ages sharpening his knife, and
then always sliced the meat perfectly thinly.
With the English style roast reef, scented with rosemary from the pot on the terrace,
there would be gravy, often made with a little Bisto that my mother would smuggle
home from England from time to time, but always with a big slug of red wine.
Roast potatoes, not quite as crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside, as my
father would quite have liked them to be: “these are not like the roast potatoes we
have in England, are they?” he’d often say; and buttered cabbage and carrots. This
was followed by a rather battered looking apple pie, with a jug of hot Bird’s Eye
custard, made from the tin of powder that, like the Bisto, would get tucked into my
mother’s suitcase on one of our frequent visits to London.
“Delicious, darling” my father would always say at the end of the meal, his hand
covering my mother’s hand on the table, “but next time please can the beef be a
little less bloody?” Then he’d chuckle and add “But the gravy and custard were
perfect, as usual!”
And after lunch, my father would rise from the table, kiss my mother tenderly, and
say: “I’m off for my siesta darling, thank you so much”. And so he headed off to have
his regular little afternoon sleep while my mother and I played board games, (we
were especially fond of Cluedo and Scrabble), or read together.
In warm weather, I would go up on to the top terrace, drinking in the incredible
views reaching away across the park to St Peter in the hazy distance. Magical days,
so precious and rare, soon to be overwhelmed by the unstoppable tide of life, poised
to burst that precious bubble of serenity.
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