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golden-brown carciofi leaves. The secret had to be starting off with such a flavorful, perfectly ripe artichoke and using only the freshest oil.
    â€œ Carciofi alla giudia may be the most famous dish to come from the Roman ghetto—‘ghetto’ is an Italian word,” Freddy said. “In fact, most of what we call Roman cuisine is really la cucina ebraico-romanesca, the food that was developed out of necessity in the ghetto. Between roughly 1555 and sometime in the 1800s, Jews were confined to a seven-acre area surrounding where we are sitting now. There were five thousand of them, far, far fewer today, and the area has shrunk in size. These apartments are now the most prized in Rome, but for hundreds of years, in addition to not being able to leave the area during the day, or even go out into the ghetto itself at night, Jews were herded to mass in a church you may have passed on your way here, Sant’Angelo in Pescheria. They also had to wear yellow hats. Color sound familiar?”
    â€œI’ve read about this,” Tom said. “When the Romans invaded Judea, they brought their captives to Rome as slaves. There were periods though, weren’t there, when Jews were allowed the freedom to worship, own property, and live where they chose? A rabbi friend told me the Roman Jewish community is the oldest in Europe.”
    Freddy nodded. “It was the isolation that gave rise to the dishes we have before us, but you’re right that prior to the 1500s there were periods when it wasn’t so bad—especially if you were a physician. A lot of the popes were smart enough to call, say, Dr. Shapiro instead of the local barber with his jar of leeches.” He looked away from the Fairchilds and gestured dramatically toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Ah, the arrival of Il Primo ! And Claudio has given us Rigatoni all’Amatriciana, I see.”
    The waiter set steaming bowls of the pasta in front of them and returned with a wedge of pecorino Romano, which he grated on top and left. Faith was familiar with the dish, deceptively simple— guanciale, a kind of Italian bacon; onions; garlic; olive oil; and peperoncino, the Italian spicy crushed red pepper whose zing took the pasta to another level. She was going to have to pace herself. There was still a second course and Il Dolce, dessert, to come. And possibly a contorno, side dish. No food would go to waste, though. Fortunately her husband was a bottomless pit, and from the way Freddy was attacking his plate, he seemed the same.
    Silence reigned comfortably for a bit as they ate. The growing dark and soft light from the votive candles on the table had created a sense of intimacy, as if they had known each other for a long time.
    Freddy picked up the thread of their conversation again. “It was those years of forced separation that gave rise to things like these delectable artichokes. The ghetto wasn’t exactly a place where one could plant veggies, and the Tiber had a nasty habit of overflowing, its waters creating a rather noxious cocktail. Jewish housewives relied on spices to both preserve food and add flavor. Plus they fried what they could in olive oil. We are also sitting on the site of an ancient fish market, hence fish as a staple in their diet, a happy accident giving us, among other tasty bites here, a fish soup that I hope will be one of tonight’s offerings.”
    He looked somber for a moment, a cloud across what had been a relaxed and happy face. He pointed toward the portico. “After dinner, I’ll show you the plaque over there. It’s the kind of thing I seem to be able to memorize: ‘On October sixteenth, 1943, here began the merciless rout of the Jews. The few who escaped murder and many others, in solidarity, pray for love and peace from mankind and pardon and hope from God.’
    â€œOver a thousand had assembled that day bringing the amount of gold—one hundred and ten