Awaiting the Mozzarella

I could have spent the entire morning with my neighbours, waiting for the delivery of the mozzarella.  The cold, fresh, firm balls of mozzarella which these days make up at least one meal of all the Romans I know, anointed  – or not – with olive oil, and accompanied  – or not  – with sliced tomato and basil.  Some of us eat a fresh mozzarella ball directly from a fork, holding it vertically, like a round lollypop, enjoying the cool, silky milky cheese in its simplest form. Truly, to enjoy a mozzarella in this way, standing barefoot and semi-nude on cold tiles in your darkened mid-August apartment, with shutters lowered against the heat, is a Roman treat second to none.

“Arriva la mozzarella !” called out one of my neighbors, advising the stall owner, Marco, and all those who were wandering the market, that we should mobilize in front of Marco’s stall and await the arrival of the cheese.

We all looked hopefully down the market street, where the little white truck which delivers mozzarella daily from Isernia, had come to a halt, and its driver had stepped out.

We waited.  We waited. Was the driver now not behind the truck and opening its rear door and bringing out the mozzarella ?  Was he not about to come the 50 meters down the market street and pop the mozzarella box onto Marco’s counter, after which Marco would immediately bark out, just as a formality, since he knew exactly who was first : “chi e’ primo ?” (“who’s first ?”) and start a brisk commerce in mozzarella ?  But the driver appeared to have disappeared.

“Perhaps he has gone for a smoke”, offered one neighbor.  “Or a coffee ?” said another.  Another one, who had sat down, offered : “Un pipi’ ?” (A pee ?)

As the cicadas’ call grew louder, I tired of standing and ambled off, down the hill into old Rome.  And here under deep blue skies is what I found, a dreamy and disciplined Rome that is tourist-free : an August 12 gift to all of you.