The feverish atmosphere of Campo De’ Fiori runs through Rome on a sunny day, while the shadowed gaze of Giordano Bruno’s statue watches over the bustling market filled with people, in a chaotic whirl around the square. It’s the frenetic flow of a postcard-perfect city, interrupted by a few merchants shouting to the local housewives, “Signo’ (Lady), do you want these artichokes trimmed or do you want them whole?”

The capital city shows itself in all its well-known contradictions: the cinematic beauty that clashes with a chaos of flashy signs ready to fuel the downtown traffic. Yet, wandering down a narrow street branching off from the heart of this chaos, you stumble upon an oasis of tranquillity with a prominent sign: Luciano Cucina Italiana.