Giovanni Il Gelataio

A Roman neighborhood mourns a legend whose gelato sweetened all of us.

In 2016, when my kids ate Giovanni’s gelato and watched a local soccer match with him (on far right).

In Rome’s torrid summer heat, the only way to cool off is through gelato. In our neighborhood, the only place to get the very best is at Giovanni’s at Via Eleonora Duse, 1B.

This week, when temperatures reached a crippling 39-degrees-celsius in Rome, when all anyone wanted were a few scoops of relief, word traveled fast that our beloved 83-year-old Giovanni had passed away. Together with our gelato, our hearts melted.

Losing Giovanni is losing our neighborhood’s favorite nonno. He served multiple generations of gelato to his contemporaries, to their children and to their grandchildren, all raised on his secret recipes. In flip-flops or polished penny loafers, sneakers or work boots, everyone in the neighborhood flocked to Giovanni and then strolled around the block as they enjoyed his signature dessert. Local papers reported that Pope Benedetto XVI used to ask that Giovanni’s gelato di cioccolato be delivered to the Vatican.

I’d never known his last name (Barchetti) until I read his obituary because, like Madonna or Cher, there’s only one Giovanni. Both his talent for creating some of the best gelato in Rome and his reputation for being the kindest gelataio were indisputable. Giovanni and gelato went together like two scoops — you couldn’t say one without the other.

This morning, I walked past his gelateria to find flowers, notes, and photographs addressed to him from his numerous fans.

Then, I attended his funeral, where I’ve never seen the neighborhood church as packed as it was today. The mechanic, the local grocer, nuns, carabinieri, the pharmacist, mothers, children, men dressed in coat and tie, all surely wishing they could cool off with Giovanni over a fresh scoop of mango or peach. As I looked around, I realized that it was Giovanni’s gelateria that was the neighborhood’s secular church. There, we all went to worship his gelato and the community he built around it.

In 2016, my husband, my kids and I wandered into Giovanni’s gelateria after dinner, as many of us often do. We had been back in Rome for two years after a posting in Tel Aviv. At the time, our kids were struggling with changing schools in Rome, learning how to read and write in Italian, and making new friends while missing the old — all while straddling their two cultures of Italy and America.

That night, they wandered beyond the cash register by themselves to the back kitchen of Giovanni’s gelateria to find him. No gelato tasted as good as that served by Giovanni (with a little whipped cream on top) — so they went looking for him. They found him watching a local soccer match with friends. He invited them to join and watch the game together. My daughter instantly crawled onto Giovanni’s lap because that was what felt right. Giovanni made them feel safe, comfortable and at home. He did that not only for my kids but also for everyone in the neighborhood.

But, it wasn’t just my kids who loved him. It was also my dog, Zabaglione. I couldn’t walk past Giovanni’s without having her tug me inside. Giovanni always knew he shouldn’t give her a cone with a scoop of whipped cream in it. And he always gave it to her anyway. We named her after the flavor because she was as delicious as Giovanni’s zabaglione.

And, furthermore, one of Giovanni’s outstanding secrets is an espresso with a dollop of his zabaglione. You might think it’s a typical affogato but it’s not. It’s beyond. All for only 1,50 euros. Try it and get back to me. You’ll see.

Giovanni brought out the kid in all of us. Every time I walked in, he greeted me with his infectious smile, called me “Cara” or “Bella,” and always made me feel younger even as I grew older. When I first moved to Rome in 1998, my ability to speak Italian wasn’t great, and I used to dread having to stand at the counter and make conversation while I sipped on a coffee or licked a gelato. But Giovanni showed me that it didn’t matter what language you spoke or whether you got the subjunctive right — he communicated with affection, not just with me but with everyone.

His shop’s post-war decor, which has never really undergone a drastic renovation, shines bright under high-wattage, florescent lighting. Giovanni never had anything to hide — the brighter the lighting, the better the gelato. None of his gelato will ever be on display. All flavors are tucked away in aluminum barrels, stacked one on top of each other. Pick your flavor from its font on the list of flavors listed like a grocery list. It’s all about trust.

At some point, I learned a trick from Giovanni that made me look like the world’s best host. Those in-the-know would bring him an empty bundt-cake tin from home, and have him fill it with two or three flavors of gelato of their choice. Giovanni placed it in his freezer, and a couple of hours later you could return with a plate from home on to which he would flip over the frozen ring of gelato. I’d later place blueberries in the middle of the gelato masterpiece of zabaglione, peach and strawberry, and garnish it with fresh mint. And, if I couldn’t get organized enough in time with my empty cake tin, I could always buy his renowned, prepared ice-cream loaf of strawberry, zabaglione and chocolate chip, which people traveled from across town to buy in order to spruce up a dinner party. My kids also love his chocolate-chip cookie gelato sandwiches, far better than any American Chipwich.

The same night in 2016 when Giovanni captured the hearts of my kids.

Giovanni originally opened his bar as a latteria, in 1956, and eventually used his milk, sugar and eggs to produce his famous gelato. Yet his bar offers more than gelato — in the morning, local workmen show up for un caffe’ corretto, and teenagers show up for a piece of crostata or a cornetto. In early afternoon, many appear for un aperitivo of either a beer with a lemon in it or a Campari spritz. If I needed a bottle of wine as a house guest present or a bottle of milk for my morning coffee, I’d stop by Giovanni’s. He was also always known to give candy away for free to kids, and rarely made a child under five pay for gelato.

Giovanni’s is open every day of the year except Sundays and Christmas, and closes early, often at 10pm, in typical latteria fashion of once upon a time. On hot, summer nights, you’d always find sun-kissed kids coming back from a day at the beach, and catching up with each other over gelato as they shuffled in flip-flops and smelled like sunscreen. Just as frequently as you might find grandparents enjoying una gassosa together after church. Giovanni created a scene without trying to. His is the backdrop of the slower life when an outing is as simple as sharing one of Italy’s best treats that satiates and unites the young and the old.

By now, he has four gelato shops around Rome. But the only one I’ve ever been to is the one in Parioli, where I’ve lived since I got married 20 years ago. It’s worth a detour from the center of Rome, and I have no doubt that it will continue to have a following.

So, after a boiling, emotional day, I’m serving gelato for dinner. Luckily, we have some Giovanni gelato in our freezer. This scoop’s for you, Giovanni. We will miss you.