I ate my first meal there seven years ago during my first trip to Rome. I had read about it in some obscure little travel brochure. It was not easy to find. Once I did find it, I timidly walked in where I was brusquely, yet warmly (if that's possible), greeted by the host, and seated at a paper-draped table with three strangers. The restaurant holds about 50 people, if that many, at some dozen or so tables. To eat there, you must have a membership card. I suspect this has something to do with taxes and the restaurant's presentation as a "private club" -- perhaps. Non lo so. I don't know. It is not difficult to become a member, for even before the host hands you the handwritten menu -- he gives you an "application" for the card.

On my first visit that afternoon, it was clear they were a Roman lunch crowd. Talking, drinking and eating with gusto. All the while, steaming plates of pasta were pouring out of the tiny little kitchen. In particular, one dish caught my eye -- piled with long strands of fat handmade tonnarelli covered with mounds of cheese. Ah, I can still see and smell that dish. I was too shy to ask what it was -- they speak virtually no English at Sora Margherita. So, to order it, I mumbled something about Parmigiano. What I got was some inscrutable substance, covered with tomato sauce and melted Parmesan cheese. I was so stunned that it wasn't the pasta dish I'd seen, I was afraid to ask what it was. I thought maybe it was some kind of organ meat in tomato sauce, covered with a little crust of cheese. Even with that, I enjoyed it. I suspect now that it was Eggplant Parmigiano.

The dish I wanted -- which still beckons me to Sora Margherita and Rome itself is called cacio e pepe. Cheese and pepper. The cheese is, in fact, not Parmesan at all, but Pecorino Romano. Finely grated. It is simple, but exquisite. Cheese and pan-roasted cracked pepper over pasta. Basta. No more. No oil. No sauce. Just some pasta water to keep it moist.

Every time I come to Rome, I go to Sora Margherita. For reasons I never understood, the restaurant was closed the entire time I lived in Rome those three months in 2001. It probably had something to do with that private membership concept. Non lo so. I look forward to that restaurant, it never disappoints and I don't even need to reapply for membership -- I still have my original card.

Then, it happened. In the winter of 2005, while reading an issue of Budget Travel, I saw on the cover an article about Rome. I tore through that issue, looking forward to reading about my adopted citta. The article was written by some Boston scribe living with his wife who was studying at the American Academy on the Janiculum Hill. The theme of his piece was, as I recall, "live like a Roman". And there it was. In black and white. For every budget traveller to see. Sora Margherita. The name. The piazza. The beads. Where to find it. How to act. What to do to get that private membership card. Maybe even something about the cacio e pepe. Maybe not. I don't know. I was so distressed, I could not read anymore. Upset that he had outed my favorite -- known to very few but Romans -- restaurant. It was simply more than I could bear. And thus, the folks in the picture. There is even someone from the restaurant now who stands outside, speaking English, and taking names.

This visit, for the first time ever, my friend and I had to wait for over a half an hour for our cacio e pepe. However, I despair not. Fame has not gone to the heads of the cooks in that tiny kitchen at Sora Margherita. That dish of steaming pasta was and is still as good as it ever was.