✍️ Dispatch: My Roman Thanksgiving
How a patient Testaccio butcher guided me through my first Italian 'Ringraziamento'
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. “Tanks-GHEE-veen 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” -- eight kilograms. 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, less lethargic. Was that good or bad? Was she younger? Tougher? Was she just better at minding her own business? Unpopular with the males?
I picked 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 tried to explain 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.”
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 almost follow that same ritual. 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 Dispatch post in this newsletter. 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 Dispatch 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.
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Sooooooo FUN!!!! Happy Thanksgiving!!!!