Our dinner at Pipero Rome was a surprise. We were in the city for my birthday, and my partner had planned the evening in secret. You see, I turned 33 in Rome, with my last night at 32 spent at a restaurant named after a man I’d never met, across from a church I’d never heard of.
I didn’t know where we were going—just that I should dress well. So I slipped into a black silk dress, packed my YSL Opyum heels (a sentence my teenage self would’ve screamed over) into my handbag, and slid on my Birkenstocks for the walk out. A questionable footwear choice, sure. But if you’ve ever tried walking Rome in heels, you’ll know it’s a losing battle. Plus the weather was gorgeous. The type made for wandering. For slow steps and soft light and falling in love with parts of the city you hadn’t noticed before. That’s the thing with Rome—it makes you want to stretch every moment out. And that was the plan. To stroll hand in hand, through side streets and stories, letting the city do what it does best: feel cinematic. But we were running late… So instead of strolling, we hopped into a taxi, weaving through sparse Roman traffic while I balanced on the edge of the seat, swapping shoes mid-turn, laughing as I tried not to topple.
A few minutes later, we pulled up to a quiet square across from the Church of Santa Maria in Vallicella. Tucked discreetly on the corner was Pipero Rome, a Michelin-starred restaurant named after its owner and maître-d’, Alessandro Pipero. We almost missed it. As we passed the windows, my partner pointed out someone fiddling with a Rubik’s Cube at their table—odd, he noted, but kind of nostalgic. Turns out, those windows belonged to Pipero Rome, so we doubled back and found the door.
Inside, everything slowed. A stark contrast to the chaos of the city outside.
The space was minimalist, elegant with muted tones, generous spacing, and that kind of lighting that makes everyone feel softly spotlighted. And right at the centre of our table: a Rubik’s Cube. “If you solve it, you win a prize.” our waiter grinned.
It made me smile. My partner can speedcube—a party trick that, until then, I never thought would come in handy in real life. But within seconds, it was solved. I’m not ashamed to admit I found it hella attractive. A nearby couple from Boston, who were in Rome celebrating their anniversary, looked over, wide-eyed. They’d been trying to solve theirs for four courses and had finally given up. We all laughed. It was a lovely start—unexpectedly warm and playful.
We chose the eight-course tasting menu (€170 pp) with wine pairing (€80 pp) and before anything was poured or plated, they asked about allergies and aversions. A small thing, but thoughtful. Aversions often get brushed off, but some things just don’t work for you. For me, it’s oysters. I’ve tried. Multiple times. But no. Still firmly on my “absolutely not” list. So I mentioned that and said everything else was fair game.
The meal was, for the most part, wonderful. A rhythm of raw and cooked, bold and delicate. There were a few standout dishes in my opinion. The Fish Fillet with South Oriental Glaze had a citrus-glazed crust that shattered like glass. The Beef Tartare surprised me. It’s normally something I avoid with polite suspicion, but it was genuinely enjoyable. And the Carbonara. Living near Eataly in London means I can get good guanciale in minutes, and it’s become a bit of a hyperfocus dish for me. I’ve been tweaking my version for three years. But this? Absolute perfection. The guanciale was rendered perfectly, salty and crisp, yet it melted in your mouth. It still lives rent-free in my mind.
But my favourite dish came right after the only one I didn’t like. That dish was the Mackerel, Cauliflower and Vanilla dish. The vinegar, the sweetness, the briny depth of the fish—it all clashed. I managed one bite, then quietly set it aside. The team noticed.
I don’t like making a fuss, especially over personal preference. But our waiter gently asked what hadn’t worked. Was it the mackerel? The sweetness? The acidity? For me, it wasn’t one thing, it was the way they collided. She nodded, shared apologies and said, “Next is risotto—with butter and anchovies. Will you be okay with that?” It was such a simple moment of care, enabling me to share feedback without feeling like I was complaining. And yes—I was more than okay with it. Because that risotto dish ended up being my favourite dish of the night. Creamy, salty, beautifully balanced. I could’ve eaten it three times over. The desserts, on the other hand, didn’t land quite as memorably, but the apple and mint palate cleanser between courses was so sharp and bright I wished I could take tubs of it home.
It was around this point that the couple from Boston still hadn’t cracked their Rubik’s Cube. In a quiet moment of good-humoured theatre, a waiter swapped it for ours. Engrossed in wine and conversation, we didn’t notice until another course had passed. It was lighthearted, unpretentious and gave my partner the chance to complete it again.
The wine pairings were generous and well-considered. I’m still learning to speak wine, somewhere between sipping and understanding, but each pairing felt thoughtful and worked beautifully with the food.
If there was one off note, it came just before dessert. The service, which had been thoughtful and well-paced all evening, shifted. It felt like they wanted to close—despite not being near closing time. No one said anything, but the tempo changed and we suddenly noticed how few people were on the floor. It wasn’t unpleasant, just… off.
At the end, the Rubik’s Cube was almost forgotten, but we gently reminded them at the bill, and a waiter returned with a small branded metal egg. Inside was a single piece of pasta, and nestled inside that pasta was a golden scroll with their carbonara recipe.
There’s something quietly intimate about someone sharing a recipe with you—to step into their kitchen, their process, their way of remembering. It felt like a whimsical yet thoughtful touch and what started as a playful icebreaker when we arrived has turned into a lovely keepsake. A dish I loved, wrapped in a moment I’ll remember. It now sits on a shelf by my TV, waiting for the day I try to recreate it.
And with that, it was time to change my shoes once more.
Back into my Birkenstocks, we walked slowly through Rome’s still lively streets, still laughing about the Rubik’s Cube, still glowing from the wine.
We weren’t ready to call it a night, so we made our way to the rooftop bar at our hotel, Umiltà 36, for one last cocktail. At midnight, my partner raised a glass, with the view of the Altare della Patria lit up in the distance. A quiet, thoughtful toast, saying goodbye to 32 and hello to 33. A year that started in the best way, with cocktails, carbonara and conversation with my love—and a pasta scroll tucked in my bag.
