✍️ Notebook: My Roman Thanksgiving

How a patient Testaccio butcher guided me through my first Italian 'Ringraziamento'

Italian turkeys (Coldiretti photo)

When I started visiting butcher shops in Rome looking for a turkey for my first Italian Thanksgiving, everyone gave me the same advice: “Buy a female.” They should have also warned me to get a dead one.

It took a few stops before I found a shop that said they could get me a turkey in time. “TanksGHEEveen Americano,” Franco, a thirty-something butcher in Testaccio said to me when I mangled Ringraziamento.

I’d done the math and knew I wanted a bird of around eight kilos. “And a female,” I added quickly.

“Ma certo,” Franco said. “Sei un ragazzo intelligente” -- “Of course, you’re an intelligent guy.” He told me to come back Wednesday morning.

When I returned, Franco saw me in line and grinned. He stepped out from around the counter, took me by the forearm, and led me around the side of the stall to a nearby street. He slid open the side door of his minivan to reveal four live turkeys clucking around in the back. He lifted each one and showed me their feet -- hens don’t have spurs, I learned. Afterwards, he pointed to each of them and repeated, “otto chili.” Then he stood back, crossed his arms, and looked at me.

I’d been in Italy for a year at that point, but my Italian was still shaky. “Perché quattro?” I asked with a shrug. Of course, I knew I had to choose one, but I didn’t know how to ask what I should base the choice on.

I noticed one that looked a little less rough than the others: no missing feathers, livelier movement. Was that good or bad? Was she younger? Tougher? Was she just better at minding her own business? Unpopular with the males?

I picked at that one, who, disturbingly, seemed to make eye contact as I pointed, as if to say, “I’ve stayed away from trouble my whole life and this is what I get?”

In my tortured Italian I explained in a roundabout way that I had no idea how to kill and clean the unfortunate bird. My building had a no-turkey policy, I said, and it was too far to walk, and I wasn’t sure they’d let a turkey ride the bus. He waved me off: “Non ti preoccupare.”

From the market when it was still located on Piazza Testaccio (EJL photo)

Two hours later, I was back. The turkey was ready: not frozen Butterball factory clean, but close enough. I noticed a few stubborn feathers still clinging to the skin as Franco pulled out a long sheet of waxed paper. He wrapped her up and tucked the head and feet into the paper’s folds. “Otto chili,” he said when he handed me the package.

I don’t know if it was because it was so fresh or because up to then I’d only been eating male turkeys. But the meal was delicious: buttery, tender, juicy. The skin crackled. The gravy was tangy.

I’d learned another unwritten rule and ever since, whenever I’m in Rome this time of year I follow the same ritual -- almost. Now I go back to Franco the week before Il Giorno del Ringraziamento, and I specify that I want the bird, a female, the following Wednesday, already cleaned and ready to take home.

“Ma certo,” he tells me. “Sei un ragazzo intelligente.”

Come back next week for another Dispatch.

---

---

This is the second Notebook post in The Italian Dispatch. These shorter pieces will appear every other Tuesday, in the weeks between the long-form features that have been published until now. Think of the Notebook posts as snapshots with context: glimpses of places, traditions, curiosities, or reflections that still aim to shed light on Italy beyond the usual stereotypes. You’ll see another full feature next week.