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New York Times
By Jason Horowitz
June 30, 2004

ROME--FELICE looks like any of the myriad bare-bones trattorias populating Rome's street corners and less-than-picturesque piazzas.

Curt waiters sling simple pastas onto tables surrounded by garrulous Romans. The lone dining room is lighted as brightly as a dentist's office.Cigarette smoke curls overhead, and a portly cook barks orders from the kitchen.

There is only one small but significant distinction. You have little chance of ever eating there.

Just as Seinfeld had his soup Nazi, Rome has its trattoria.

Felice doles out generous dollops of humiliation to hopeful diners in a style that is legendary throughout the city.

On arriving at the restaurant, on Via Mastro Giorgio in Testaccio, the hopeful waltz through the door, heartened by all those empty tables.

They try to look as confident and casual as possible, hoping to be mistaken for long lost regulars.

That breeziness is quickly deflated though, as they are left standing, unacknowledged, for minutes on end. Finally, Felice Trivelloni, a stooped 83-year-old man in a white cook's coat, emerges from the kitchen, usually wiping the corners of his lips with the back of his hands.

When he finally deigns to look at his supplicants, it is as if they had arrived at a Halloween party in costume, when no one else bothered to.

While he sizes up new arrivals with his watery eyes, their assurance turns to desperation. Their eyebrows inch up in anticipation as their chances sink.

Then comes the dreaded shake of his finger, a shrug of his shoulders and the shuffling of his feet. It is over, and they join the other hungry rejects outside.

"It is Felice who decides who eats and who doesn't," said Marco Cordiali, 42, the trattoria's headwaiter. "He created this myth, and now the place is legendary. People don't forget about this place, especially if they don't get in."

On many, many, many painful occasions, Felice decided that I would not be eating in his modest establishment, with its unattractive yellow walls and crumbs and corksrolling on the floor. It didn't matter if I dressed up or down, wore a kindly grin orstoic poker face.

He has turned me down with a woman on my arm and, when she took off, nothing but a newspaper in my hand. I have camouflaged myself in a group of boisterous Roman friends, assuming the role of the quiet American, and watched them be cut as low as any foreigner.

When I moved into the apartment building facing Felice's door, I thought I was in. Instead I was still out, daily. I even tried playing the pity card and used my visiting parents as unsuspecting props.

All miserable failures.

But like any authoritarian regime, Felice knows that the trick to total demoralization is peppering crushing defeat with an occasional glimmer of hope. Thus, I have on the rarest occasions sat down to an aggravatingly good dinner there.

Felice serves what is arguably Rome's best tonnarelli cacio e pepe, a simple cheese and pepper dish that avoids the excessive blizzards of Pecorino or baths of pasta water that riddle too many Roman trattorias.

The tender saltimbocca alla Romana, veal blanketed in warmed prosciutto and spiced with sage, is as flavorful as the roasted potatoes are crisp.

But it is not for food but for frustration that Felice has entered Roman lore. Long unmarked by a sign bearing its name, the restaurant was known simply as "la prenotata" or "reserved," for the infamous reservation signs placed on each and every table, regardless of whether anyone was expected to sit at them.

Maurizio Trivelloni, 43, the manager of the trattoria and Felice's grandnephew, says that for a loyal clientele of politicians, soccer players and actors, the reserved signs are lifted off the tables, just as velvet ropes are raised at any exclusive club.

One of the regulars who enjoys such access is the actor Roberto Benigni. His appreciation can be seen in a handwritten ode to Felice, which hangs on the wall.

But not everyone gushes.

"Once I went in, and literally all the tables were empty," said Petulia Melideo, 27, a native Roman who has tried unsuccessfully to eat there at least half a dozen times. "They said they were all booked," she said."It's just a challenge to try and eat there. But you never eat there."

After nearly 70 years, the restaurant's closed-door policy is being cracked open, if only slightly, as its traditionally working-class neighborhood becomes more gentrified and the younger Mr. Trivelloni takes on a bigger role.

So the dining room's 15 tables are increasingly occupied by grateful Romans, and menus have replaced the traditional practice of waiters speeding through the daily offerings in a distracted monotone. The name Felice has been written on the front door, and younger managers like Mr. Trivelloni have become so confident in the Felice brand, hyped by years of exclusivity, that they have started hawking the trattoria's own T-shirts and caps at exorbitant sums.

Some Romans see a kinder Felice as a grave threat to a city where authentic, no-frills trattorias are increasingly hard to find.

"Many people tell us we're making a mistake, that the place will lose its charm," Mr. Trivelloni said. "But we have a younger mindset. Now we're a little more tolerant."

By nearly all accounts though, the quality of the food remains high. I tried to confirm that recently, but they would not let me in.

"It used to be very difficult to get in," Mr. Trivelloni said. "Now it's difficult."

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