Rome’s Street Kitchens: Popinae, Stew, and Dice

Marcus Valerius

If you see smoke, uh, thick, black smoke pouring out of a third-story window in an apartment block here in Rome, you- you don't think, oh, someone's roasting a nice leg of pork for dinner. No, you- you run. You scream for your neighbors, you grab your children, and you run for your life because that building, that wooden-framed tenement, is about to go up like dry kindling. You see, up in those high rooms of the, the *insulae*—like where I sleep, way up on the fifth floor—cooking is quite literally a death sentence. There are no chimneys, no running water, just dry timber and grease. So, what do we do when our bellies start to rumble at midday? We don't cook. We go down. We go down the dark, creaking stairs and we let the street be our kitchen. And that, my friend, is why you can hear that sizzle, that beautiful, spitting sound of fat on iron, echoing off the stone walls of the alleyway right now.

Marcus Valerius

Look here, just around this corner, right where the alley spills out into the main thoroughfare. You see that big, L-shaped brick counter jutting right out onto the edge of the street? That is our local *popina*. It is the heartbeat of the neighborhood. The- the counter itself is embedded with these massive, deep clay jars—we call them *dolia*—flushed right into the masonry to keep the heat in. Some are packed to the brim with salted green olives, others with dried figs, and right next to them, there are huge copper cauldrons bubbling away, sending up clouds of thick, savory steam. Ah, smell that. That is the smell of Rome. It is a mix of woodsmoke, boiling cabbage, heavy vinegar, and, of course, the sharp, salty tang of *garum*, that fermented fish sauce we pour on absolutely everything. The- the owner, a stout Greek with flour on his forearms, is screaming over the noise of the carts, waving a wooden ladle. This is where Rome eats. If you do not have a palace with a private chef—and let's be honest, neither of us has a single silver sestertius to our name—this brick counter is your kitchen table.

Marcus Valerius

Now, if you listen to the senators—the men who wear those spotless, snow-white wool togas and live up on the Palatine Hill—they will tell you that places like this are nothing but dens of thieves, prostitutes, and draft-dodgers. They write these lofty letters saying only the lowest, most degenerate scum of the city gather at the *popina*. But, uh, I- I ask you, where else is a working man supposed to sit down? We work twelve hours under the sun, and we want a hot bowl of something that didn't come out of a dry sack. Look who's sitting on the bench over there, wiping his brow with a greasy rag. That's Lucius. See the white, powdery dust covering his eyelashes and his wool tunic? He's a stone-cutter. He's spent the last nine hours swinging a mallet over on the Quirinal Hill, where the Emperor Trajan—well, really his architect, Apollodorus of Damascus—is literally cutting down the hill itself, moving millions of tons of dirt to build that massive new Forum. Lucius is exhausted, his hands are calloused to ruin, and he has three copper coins to his name. Is he a degenerate because he wants a bowl of hot lentil and salted-goat stew? I think not.

Marcus Valerius

Let us join him. *Tabernarius!* Bring us three bowls of the spelt and bean mash, and- and slide over some of that warm bread. And, of course, some wine. Now, you don't drink wine straight here—only barbarians do that, or men who want to end up in a gutter before the sun sets. We drink it watered down. And since it is a chilly afternoon, we're having *calda*. It's wine mixed with hot water, spiced with a bit of coriander and honey. It warms you from the inside out, right down to your toes. But keep your eyes open. See those men in the leather jerkins standing near the archway? Those are the *vigiles*, the city watch. Emperor Trajan has some very strict laws about what we're allowed to do in these taverns. Ostensibly, we are only allowed to buy cooked peas and beans—no fancy meats—and we are absolutely, under no circumstances, allowed to gamble. But look under Lucius's dirty hand on the wooden table. See those little sheep knucklebones? The *talus*. Go on, roll them quickly while the guard has his back turned. If we get the 'Venus' roll, all four bones landing on different faces, Lucius pays for the next round of *calda*. Ah, a bad roll. Two aces. Keep them hidden, keep them hidden! The *vigiles* would love to seize our coins to fill the treasury. Well, my bowl is empty, the stew was salty enough to make me thirsty for a week, and the crowd is getting thick enough to choke the street. I have to get back before the evening wagons start rolling in and block the alleyways. Take care of yourself, watch your purse near the corner, and I will see you at the baths tomorrow!