Pizza al Taglio and the Last Bite of Rome
Our best Roman pizza came from a train station bakery. A journey through pizza al taglio, fiori di zucca, pasta, and cheese—discovering Rome one slice at a time.
We ate our best Roman pizza on a train.
We didn't experience it near some charming piazza, or at a recommended spot we'd researched. Instead, we had it on the Leonardo Express to Fiumicino, perched on our suitcases, the carriage absolutely rammed with tourists and luggage.
We'd been absolutely famished for lack of finding a breakfast spot open on a lazy Sunday morning, on our way back to the airport. The kind of hungry where you stop caring about anything except food. The station bakery called to us – one of those places that only seems to exist in Italy, where the glass counter stretches forever and commuters grab pizza al taglio on their way to work. Why don't we have these in England? Why are our train stations filled with boring meal deals instead of this?
We were cutting it so fine to catch our train, but we couldn't help ourselves. We pointed at what we wanted: salmon, aubergine, prosciutto. Even though we were in a rush, we asked them to warm the slices up (because, you know, priorities). They boxed everything up for us, and we grabbed our pizza boxes and ran.
There, wedged between suitcases and strangers, we ate straight from the boxes balanced on our knees. I didn't care that the salmon scent was probably making everyone around us either hungry or furious. I didn't care that we looked ridiculous. It was perfect. The crust – that thick, focaccia-like base that Romans do so well – was airy inside, almost sponge-like, but impossibly crisp on the bottom from all that olive oil. This wasn't just grabbing food before a flight. It was a proper goodbye to the city.
Rome had fed us well all week. We'd become a bit obsessed with pizza al taglio, to be honest. We kept ducking into these small, bustling places dominated by long glass counters. The ritual was always the same: point at what you want, gesture with your hands to show how wide a slice, watch them cut it with scissors and weigh it. And the thing is, they all tasted quite different. Different doughs, different toppings, different textures. We sampled everywhere, trying to figure out what made each one special.
We also had the traditional thin-crust Roman pizza – the kind you get sitting down at a restaurant. I'd assumed all Italian pizza was like Neapolitan pizza, you know, soft and blistered with that soupy middle. But this was completely different. Thinner, cracker-crisp, almost no rise at the edges. It didn't sag. It snapped. Somewhere I'd learned that the really traditional pizza actually comes from Naples, but Rome does her own thing, and I loved it.
We found a place that served pizza with fiori di zucca – those delicate courgette flowers you see piled up in markets. Baked onto mozzarella, they'd lost their prettiness but tasted earthy and sweet, like the season itself.
There were beautiful pastries too. But honestly, it was the savoury food that stayed with me. The pizza. The pasta.
God, the pasta.
There's something about pasta that releases dopamine. I swear. Maybe it's the carbs, maybe it's just comfort, but every plate brought this quiet moment of delight. Cacio e pepe, carbonara, amatriciana – simple dishes that never failed after long days walking on cobblestones.
And the cheese. The wine. After fighting the crowds at the Trevi Fountain or standing in awe at the Colosseum, we'd end our nights simply: a table with pecorino and local cheeses, glasses of red wine, long chats that went on for hours. The sharp, salty taste of good cheese, the wine loosening our tongues, time just… stopping for a bit.
But that last pizza, on the train – that's the one I think about most.
Maybe because it was the final taste. Maybe because it was so imperfect: chaotic, rushed, our hands greasy, crumbs everywhere. Or maybe because it reminded me that the best food doesn't always come with reservations and white tablecloths. Sometimes it comes from a train station bakery, eaten balanced on luggage, in those last frantic minutes before you leave.
I've thought about Rome often since we left. About the light, the history, the way the city felt both ancient and alive. But mostly, I think about all the happy belly moments we had: the snap of thin-crust pizza, the comfort of pasta after miles of walking, the weight of good cheese in my hand, the delightful pizza al taglio on that crowded train carriage.
Food is memory. And Rome gave me plenty to hold onto.
About me...I'm Lorna Rose and, by day, I work in the tech industry, but in my heart of hearts, I've always been fascinated by the story that food tells. The magic of a well-cooked meal, the way a simple dish can bring people together, spark conversation, and create lasting memories. On Happy Bellies, I set out to explore and find hidden gems, so that I can indulge in telling stories around food that will make you want to go out and create your own foodie adventures.
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Lorna Rose
