Aristocampo, Trastevere, Rome

The slogan on the blackboard outside reads "We are against the war and tourist menus". Well as restaurant slogans go, it's more profound than "I'm lovin' it". They have a point about the tourist menus: why do so many restaurants offer them? Perhaps they think that tourists will be confused by a free choice of dishes, so have to be told what to eat. Maybe tourists are attracted by the security of a set menu and a fixed price. We took a look at the odd menu turistico in Trastevere and found that that they're pretty much all the same: same dishes, same prices. So whatever else they may offer, it's not choice.

Anyway, Aristocampo's little rebellion drew our attention. In the July early evening it was still too warm to eat outside, so we settled into the spartan interior. Woven through the menu was an unexpected common thread: pecorino. We started with pecorino with pears and pecorino di fossa with fig marmelade. We could have gone onto pasta with sardines and pecorino but feared we'd have nightmares, so sidestepped the cheese and ate pasta with clams, and chicken with lemon and milk. And some of those oven-roasted potatoes that are pleasantly burned on the edges. All good.

We thought a quiet stroll by the river would finish the evening off nicely. So did about two thousand others. Crowds thronged both banks of the Tevere, and the bridges, carrying tiny lanterns and waiting expectantly. We joined them and waited too, without knowing what for. From somewhere upriver singing started, like a monastic chant, and through the crowds we glimpsed a boat on the river. The singing swelled and applause rippled through the audience as the boat docked and a wooden statue of the Madonna, adorned with precious clothes and jewels, was lifted onto the bank and carried up the steps by Ponte Garibaldi. The Madonna-bearers disappeared amongst the crowds as they carried the statue back (we later learned) to the church of Sant'Agata, signalling the end of an eight-day local holiday.

We wandered back to our little hotel past brightly lit stalls selling porchetta and sweets and candyfloss; the final fling of the festival. We finished the day against tourist menus, and very much in favour of local festivals.

Ristorante Aristocampo, Via della Lungaretta 75, Trastevere, Rome

Tel 06 583 35530

No website of its own I can find. Try searching for pecorino.

Hotel San Francesco, Trastevere, Rome

Several bridges will take you from the heaving capital into Trastevere. Broad, wrought-iron-framed Ponte Palatino; solid stone Ponte Garibaldi; Ponte Fabricio which hops across to Isola Tiberina in the middle of the river, and Ponte Cestio, which skips from there to the western bank. Crossing any of them is like breathing a sigh of relief, as you leave the crowds and the traffic and the heat behind and plunge into a leafy suburb which seems far more separated from the commotion of the other shore than a mere fifty yards or so of churning brown water.

Trams rumble along Viale Trastevere, a broad avenue of dusty plane trees, where men sip coffee outside bars, a florist waters his stock from the nearby drinking fountain and an Indian family sells fabrics and bags from a tiny stall which we never saw closed. Along Via San Francesco a Ripa tables and chairs burst the boundaries of their restaurants and spill out onto the sanpietrini pavements. In the Piazza Santa Maria a Trastevere people enjoy the relative cool of the evening after another stifling day; happy just to mingle amongst the gentle activity of the square, the musicians, the living statue dressed as a Pharoah, the Indian street sellers whipping illuminated frisbees high into the night air.

Tucked into all this, a block back from the Viale, past the laundrette and the Jaipur restaurant, just by the convent in the Piazza San Francesco d'Assisi, we found this modest hotel of contrasts: smallish bedrooms, but spacious bathrooms; smart reception but peeling stairwells; and a roof terrace that looked worn around the edges by day, but was a magical retreat at night, when the canopy flapped in a breeze that carried thin chimes from the nearby church bell, the seagulls flew like pale ghosts through the black sky, and the pre-dinner beer was as refreshing as the post-dinner grappa was warming.

I'm a big fan of roof bars. And bridges.

Hotel San Francesco, Via Jacopa De' Settesoli, 7, 00153, Roma

Tel 006 58300051

Hotel San Francesco

Hostaria Da Paolo, Trastevere, Rome

Anywhere you can get a litre of decent house wine for less than the price of a plate of green beans deserves a mention, in my book. Hostaria da Paolo is one of those places that withdraws like a snail into its shuttered shell during the day; to emerge in the evening, as the sun dips and the temperature drops a little, spreading itself across the pavement and into the piazza. At the end of each night it retreats once more, shutting down so comprehensively that it might never have been there.

They begin setting out at around seven, un-padlocking the tables and covering each with a gold-coloured cloth, bringing out plastic chairs from inside. Luca D'Alfonsi (we assume it is him from the name on the bill - we never found out who Paolo is) performs this task, as he must have done a thousand evenings before, in a careful, measured way, stopping now and again to chat to passers-by. He is a small gorilla of a man; straight-backed, barrel-chested, full-stomached, in denim shirt, apron and jeans. When we had chosen our table, Alfonsi's leaner brother appeared, in official red waiter's waistcoat. If anyone remembers Mister Pastry from the earlier days of British children's television, then this is the briefest way in which I can describe him to you; but with less grey hair. A twinkle in his eye told us from the outset that he had a reliable sense of humour.

As we picked our way through the written menu, Mr Pastry delivered a comprehensive inventory and imaginative explanation of what was off that evening: it equated to most of the things my brother-in-law had planned to order. I'll start with the zuppa advertised on the menu, please: "No." said Mr Pastry firmly, with a shake of the head. "We don't have any. Anyway, who would want to eat soup in this heat?" He had a point. Next then, how about the abbacchio scottaditto? "No." said Mr Pastry. "That's off. You'd prefer the pollo al peperone." What about some roasted potatoes? The reply was predictable: "I'll bring you fagiolini." Musicians appeared in the square to serenade the diners; an accordianist, then a guitarist who also sang, while my dining companion contemplated his singular achievement of not actually receiving anything he had so far ordered.

Meanwhile my bucatini amatriciana was earthily rich, as a dish involving dried pig's cheek and pecorino cheese should be. The chicken with peppers was meagre on chicken but generous on flavour. To my brother-in-law's horror, the beans were served cold, with just a dribble of oil and a squeeze of lemon. The outside tables were now filled, mostly with locals, and plates of food that we hadn't seen listed on the menu regularly appeared. At the end of the evening, attempting at least to get on the scoresheet, my brother-in-law, knowing that it was against convention, ordered a cappuccino. Mr Pastry's face acquired a look of alarm. "No, no!" He clasped his hand theatrically to his chest and asserted that this was absolutely impossible: they didn't serve milk, because it was bad for the heart. "You will have an espresso." My companion was defeated. With such a maestro at work, attempts to order anything other than what he was determined to serve him were futile. I ordered a grappa to toast him in admiration. And got it.

Next morning when we passed, any evidence of the previous evening was gone. Until this evening, when no doubt it's happening all over again. That litre of wine cost three euros, by the way. The beans were four.

Hostaria "Da Paolo", Via San Francesco a Ripa, 92 Roma

Tel 06 5812393

No website. Even if there were, you'd probably be redirected to a different site altogether.