So how's the food?

You know you're entering a land of culinary greatness when people greet each other by saying "chow."

Italians - like the French, Chinese, and Haitians - are pork people. On my street are several delectable salumerie, each offering a broader array of smoked pig than I ever imagined. A request for salami at one of these places will be met with a blank stare and the question, "che tipo?" I've been doing my part to try them all. I wish I could remember their names, but as far as I can tell the main difference has been the way the fat is layered throughout the jewel-like meat. Mortadella practically dissolves in the mouth, the fat is so emulsified into it. Other sausages look like pinwheels of red and white. Of course there's also guanciale and lardo, snow-white hunks of luscious porkiness. (OK, I haven't tried them yet, I'm working my way up to it.)

One store sells my favorite prosciutto crudo (as opposed to cotto), where the kind clerk seems to be overjoyed that you even walked into his place. I take this home and put it on slices of canteloupe, which are even more tender and uniformly delicious than the ones we have at home. Opening the melon and scooping out the flesh is like dipping a spoon into custard.

But back to pork. I wonder if there's some status in this. A bakery near Campo de' Fiori (where they have wonderful sfogliadelle) features a sausage with the diameter of a tire outside their doorway. At another nearby salumeria, what appears to be the lateral portion of an entire hog sits on the counter by the window. This is called porchetta, a typical Roman speciality of seasoned and stuffed pork, roasted until the top layer of skins and fat oozes over the animal like icing. This was inadvertently my first meal here, and I'll be happy to have it again.

But one must also sing the praises of the produce here. Everything, from watery cucumbers to peppery arugula has more flavor than the vegetables we're used to. Strawberries - which are sold at the peak of ripeness - you want to roll in your mouth like candy. Fragoline di bosco, their tiny counterparts, are especially tasty; about the size of peanut M&M's and sweet, sweet, sweet.

Of the all the kind emails I've gotten, the one most popular request has been to "eat a gelato for me." Rest assured, I have borne this obligation with the solemn dignity required. I feel that NOT eating at least one gelato a day here would just be an offense. I do like to vary my frozen treat experience though, and options abound. Yesterday I had a moment with granita di caffe con panna, similar to Pennsylvanian water-ice (not at all related to 7-11 slurpees) and basically the best iced-coffee I've ever had. I discovered a small gelateria that has quickly become my favorite, offering as it does wonderful flavors (like pignole nut) and macedonia, which is fruit salad with ice cream and whipped cream. I'm managing to still fit into my pants.

And the coffee. I was never much of a coffee drinker back home, but here, it's a different story. Your morning cup of coffee is but a couple of rich tablespoons, a balance of bitter and sweet, even without sugar. This can be accompanied by a sweet pastry (called pasta, by the way), or a simple brioche or croissant (cornetto), which are lightly sugared anyway.

Of course, I've eaten my share of pizzas, pastas, and panini. Despite hitting a wall a couple of weeks ago (no more Italian food, please!) I'm back on the wagon, having my share of carbs each and every day. Pizza crust is tortilla thin, and topped with thin layers of meat, cheese, and/or vegetables, yielding the perfect balance found also in a well-cut piece of sushi. There's a nearby fresh pasta store, but even the little packets in the grocery store are tasty, and fresh pesto is easy to find. A favorite panino is made with breseola - cured lean beef - with arugola, parmigiano, and lemon.

My day usually begins with fruit and yogurt. Low-fat is usually watery and not all that great, so I've had to go for the full fat kind, which is sort of like starting your day with gelato. An Italian friend asked if I have a full English breakfast, with eggs and bacon and all. I told him that when I have a long day of sightseeing ahead of me, I do make scrambled eggs, but in my idea of an Italian style, with olive oil and pecorino romano. His baffled expression was mixed with some friendly disgust.

When I'm not feeling language-intimidated I go to a take out shop down the street where customers and staff shout and laugh with each other in loud Roman dialect. While their roast chickens look delicious, I still haven't gotten past their pizza. My favorite is the golden one with potatoes, rosemary, olive oil, and parmigiano, though a close runner up would be the mushroom pizza, with creamy fior di latte and tomatoes.

Still, there have been some misses. I did manage to buy a bottle of lousy olive oil, and tasteless strawberries. Some cookies that were on sale had a funny taste. I looked at the expiration date and discovered they were a month behind their prime. Yet even the one Euro wine is drinkable....