ROME
The Family Bakery
Following our nose on the roads of Rome. Our paths crossed at the Family Bakery down the street from us, a love affair contunied throughout our stay in the Eternal City
DAN VINEYARD | September 2022
e stumbled out of the Best Western Hotel and onto the streets of Rome, walking in the direction of the Tiber River. From where we were, Rome slopes down to meet water level. While meandering our way down through the streets, we discovered the bakery, Panificio Mosca. How? Well, by our now-usual method for finding treasures in Rome, following our nose.
This mom-and-pop bakery invited us in through its humble entrance and appealing aroma. The scent of flour, fermentation, and fire encensed into the street like a memory. Inside, there was no fuss, just trays of warm focaccia, crusts blistered to perfection, and pizza slices snipped with scissors and sold al taglio, the Roman way, by the cut. At first, watching them cut pizza with scissors seemed almost sacrilegious to us Americans, but, when in Rome.
I began with a bite of the olive-studded bread and paused mid-bite, "This is pretty good," I said to my son Adam with my mouth still full. There was no fanfare in the bakery, no loud marketing, no intense colors. Just truth in crust.
After searching around the city and trying multiple bakeries, we had finally found it: the old, rustic bread we had hoped to discover here. The interior of the bakery whispered of the ancient Rome where the people lived by bread, a care and quality that couldn't be made in a large factory, something still done by hand.
Inside, there were modest pendant lamps, an old fridge in the corner, and on the walls, striking black-and-white portraits of farmers, families, oxen, all framed with the reverence of ancestors. It was rustic, beautiful, and strangely grounding. The prices were low for food so good, a little more than a euro for a cut of pizza, less than a bus fare.
We quickly filled up a few bags choosing between different slices: red tomato crusts, cheese and green olives, layers of thinly sliced potatoes and rosemary, and a little ham sandwich for Jon. My sons declared it the best bread they'd tasted during our travels so far, and frankly, I agreed. This was going to be a routine stop for us going forward.
With our wax-paper bundles in hand, we continued our walk down from Via Candia toward the Tiber, making our way to the shadow of Castel Sant'Angelo. There, beneath the generous shade of the plane trees that line the riverbank, we found the ancient water way enjoyed by millenia of Romans.
The boys sat on the honey-colored limestone wall, tearing into their warm pizzette, while I stood on the cobblestone street and watched the castle's ancient stones glow golden in the afternoon sun. Boats drifted lazily past, pigeons cooed from the statues, and the scent of olive oil and rosemary clung to our fingers. There was no rush, no agenda, just the sound of bites and birds and the gentle breeze. It felt like we'd shared not just a meal, but a moment stitched from Rome's history: simple, sacred, and well-fed. Rome had us by the nose.
