I could be described as a regular at La Rosetta. After all, I have known it since 1986. That first time I found it by accident, having wandered towards the end of the Corso Vannucci and spotted a secluded little courtyard, with parasols and tables laden with antipasti. It seemed congenial, so we stopped for lunch.
We were in Perugia on a mission. One of my father’s best war stories featured this agreeable town. It was 1944 and they had been fighting for several weeks on the advance up from Rome. Having established there were no German troops left in Perugia, my father, fatigued and unwashed, wandered up into the town to investigate. He marched across the main square and into the grandest hotel. Instead of the liberator’s welcome that he anticipated he heard the strains of a little string quartet playing dance music and saw a crowded dance floor. It seemed that the war had passed Perugia by and, for some reason, it proved to him yet again the perfidy of the Italian nation.
We dined well that day at La Rosetta, with me gorging myself on antipasti, risotto and baby lamb. I told my father’s story to the head waiter, who spoke perfect English after having worked in an Italian restaurant in Bristol for many years, very near to where I had gone to school. He listened carefully to my story but suggested that it was probably the Brufani Palace around the corner.
Some seven years later, we came back to La Rosetta. Stupidly, I recommended it to some friends, who immediately suggested we all go there. We were six adults with four children who were most definitely not getting on with each other. I was not confident that the restaurant would be as I remembered it or that it would survive the pillages of our dysfunctional group but, somewhat reluctantly, I made the booking.
Miraculously, the same head waiter, dapper in his white jacket and with neat silver hair, was still there. He greeted me by name and inquired if I had asked my father about the hotel (I had, somewhat inconsequentially). Neither quietly nor without rancour, we took our places. Children jostled to sit as far as possible from their chosen enemies. One of the parents somewhat impatiently asked my friend for some oranges to keep the children quiet while we ordered our lunch. He disappeared, some of us uncertain if he had heard or understood.
The second miracle occurred. The head waiter reappeared with some oranges and a glass bowl. He proceeded to peel the oranges deftly, producing one continuous ribbon of peel from each orange before he dropped each one into the bowl. Adults and children alike were mesmerised. Suddenly harmony broke out, nation spoke unto nation and we proceeded to enjoy a long and sybaritic lunch.
Last year, some 14 years later, I fondly returned to La Rosetta. This time there were 14 of us, no less dysfunctional, being a motley crew of adults and teenagers, few of whom could agree about anything, certainly not which restaurant to have lunch in. Luckily, my will – and wallet – prevailed, but with few expectations. My charming maître d’hôtel had long since retired and there seemed to be an abundance of head waiters to take his place, as though several were needed to fill the gap. The place did not seem very busy and yet the courtyard was as pretty as ever, if a little smaller than I remembered it, and it seemed to still typify that sense of dignified calm that is the salient feature of my idea of a good Italian restaurant. I had consulted TripAdvisor, where the review was encouraging: “Obviously I didn’t expect a design hotel, but I think that there is a big difference between charming, old style hotels and hotels that are just old and in need of refurbishment”, a point well made but one that gave me grounds for hope. The fact that the place had not changed far outweighed any possible need for refurbishment in my view.
I managed to order some ham and melon and bruschetta as antipasti for everybody to share. This went down well and was delivered promptly, appeasing the appetites of the slavering horde. I then tried to co-ordinate the pasta course, suggesting we all share , both in the interest of conviviality and to help the kitchen. The gang, however, would have none of it: to my horror, they ordered 12 different pasta dishes. I myself abandoned any attempt to keep the peace and sneakily ordered a rather expensive spaghetti with summer truffles out of earshot of the others. Somehow, extraordinarily, the kitchen produced all the dishes at the same time and to a uniformly high standard.
The indiscipline continued but in a happy, carefree way. Everybody then had grilled meat in one fashion or another. I shared a spectacular Tuscan steak with my daughter. The company ate and drank and laughed away most of the afternoon.
None of the reviews of La Rosetta appear especially favourable. Apart from its advantageous position, 20 metres off the main drag, one would be unlikely to chance upon it. It is not a place of gastronomic pilgrimage. It is a simple and proper sort of place and I will be saddened by the refurbishment when it inevitably comes. I might cease to be a regular.
Rowley Leigh is the chef at Le Café Anglais. His weekly food column returns next week.
rowley.leigh@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/leigh
