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[Regions of Italy] 
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One of my Rome apartments was about 200 yards from Piazza Navona, at the end of the tiny street that runs alongside the Tre Scalini restaurant and bar, home of those decadent chocolate ice cream tartufi. The street intersects with Via della Pace after about 100 yards and here, amongst the morning market produce stands, I did my daily shopping, buying only what I needed for the day: two tomatoes, a pepper, an apple, some strawberries, a few leaves of lettuce...whatever. None of the vegetable and fruit sellers raised an eyebrow; everyone shopped that way. I had known them for years and loved the rich, coarse, vivid romanaccio dialect that filled the market with phrases like, Spinaci, brutti ma buoni. (Spinach! It's ugly but good) and Carciofi, quasi gratis. (Artichokes, I'm giving them away).
Artichokes. They looked gorgeous, but I didn't know how to prepare them until one day I went to Giuliano's stand and asked him to darmi una mano (help me out). With a beaming smile, he selected a large artichoke and began snipping away. First he sliced off the top inch and a half, then he ran his knife round and round, cutting away a good deal of the lower petals. He cut the stalk shorter and peeled it. Left with an artichoke half its original size, he pried open the now flat top, reached in and yanked out the furry choke. In no time, he had prepared six artichokes. He told me how to cook them alla romana and charged me 600 lire (about a dollar, in those days). He really was giving them away.
I took my prizes upstairs, rubbed them all over with lemon to stop them from getting dark, and made enough filling for all six: 1 cup chopped parsley; minced garlic (I use 2 cloves but suit yourself), 2 T olive oil, salt and pepper. Press the mixture into the space left by the vacated choke and put the carciofi, flat side down, in a large heavy pot. Sprinkle salt and pepper over them, pour in about 1/2 inch of water, cover and steam over low heat until a fork will easily penetrate the green flesh. It doesn't take long but if the water should evaporate completely, add a couple tablespoons more.
Carciofi alla romana is a simple dish to make once the carciofi are trimmed. Even that first batch turned out terrific, so I took one down to Giuliano to see how he'd rate it. One huge bite and his eyes lit up. Twisting an extended forefinger into his cheek, he shook his head back and forth happily and said, MaDONna, com'è buono! (Boy, is that good).
Giuliano was a great guy. Actually, all the romani in the market became good friends. I'd love to see them again, maybe once more lower my basket from the window of my fifth-floor walk-up and call down, Giuliano! Per favore, dammi un pomodoro e un po' di basilico! (Please give me a tomato and a little basilico). And often when I'm in the produce section of my Los Angeles supermarket, I look at all the cellophane-wrapped packages, shake my head back and forth sadly, and say, MaDONna, com'è brutto! (Boy, is that ugly).
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