Nestled in a comparatively quiet cobblestone street, halfway between the Pantheon and the Piazza Venezia, sits an inconspicuous chocolate shop that has existed since 1850. Despite its numerous Google hits and rave reviews (Frommer's says that "there is no finer chocolatier in Rome"), Moriondo e Gariglia actually doesn't have a Wikipedia page. All the better for me.
This afternoon, I donned my black pea coat and left my Nikon at home, attempting to look as Italian as possible while I scurried excitedly past those silly tourists on the Via del Corso. My mission was to acquire a Valentine's Day gift for mio ragazzo. Surprisingly, I was the only one in the shop when I opened the door—except, that is, for the two small Italian women behind the counter who were meticulously hand-wrapping chocolate hearts in tiny red foil squares. The entire store, which is fairly small, looks like it might have been wrapped in foil, full of tall shelves stocked with candy and ribbon.
When I approached the counter, neither Italian woman would admit to speaking English, but they managed to ask, "Box or bag?" I settled for a box. What this meant, I soon learned, was a small, rectangular red box filled with 18 chocolates of my choosing for €19,50. What a lucky boyfriend I have. The lady on the left passed me a dish with a tiny chocolate square on it. She waved me on. A FREE SAMPLE. It was noce (walnut); I was hooked. With my broken Italian and the women's broken English, I put together quite a collection: marzipan, dark chocolate with red pepper, toffee, something "crunchy," a whole bunch of noce, something that the women called "fresh fruit!" that looked like a ball of chocolate with tiny green leaves blooming out of the top. Each of these was hand-wrapped in tissue and arranged into neat rows in the box.
As one woman led me to the register to pay, the other tied the box with a ribbon, ensuring that I couldn't pull a Forrest Gump and eat some of chocolates while I waited for the bus home. Darn it. So I grabbed a little bag by the register of what I thought were milk chocolate columns (How cute! Rome!), but turned out to be saws? Whatever. Once you pass a certain quality of candy, it doesn't matter what shape it's been molded into.
I wanted to tell the ladies that I would return when I could speak more Italian, but I figured I shouldn't risk it, just in case my studies don't move as quickly as planned. I will, however, definitely return for Easter, when the line for Moriondo e Gariglia's famous chocolate eggs supposedly winds out the door.