Another day, another, city, another world-class market. The daily market in the Campo de' Fiori in Rome, unlike its more modern counterpart in Florence, has been held in the same place, in much the same way, for centuries. The piazza's name, meaning "field of flowers," belies a bloody past: during the days of the Inquisition, it served as a venue for public execution of heretics. The brooding 19th-century statue of Giordano Bruno, burned at the stake here in 1600, hovers over the piazza like a vengeful ghost, reminding passers-by of the excesses of Church history. Today the market is a testament to a different kind of excess: the delirious bounty of the world's finest ingredients.

The market here is smaller than the one in Florence, and not as dependent on local items. But you can still find treasures like these ridiculously long-stemmed artichokes here. It's a lighthearted market with a great sense of humor. On one end a rotund chain-smoker who looks twenty years older than he probably is demonstrates cheap vegetable garnishing tools for German tourists; on another end a playful fishmonger has built an homage to Darwinism out of his wares.

Walking past one of the larger fruit stalls, something in the corner of my vision caught my attention. I did a double-take, then a triple-take, then walked back to the box that had drawn my eye. "This can't be right," I thought. "What is this doing in Rome?" But there I was, holding it in my hand. "Che cosa è?" I asked the vendor, recalling my first lesson of Berlitz's Italian. "Mangosteen," he replied, "da Colombia."

It was true, then. I held in my hand the queen of all fruits, the legendary mangosteen. Mangosteens are native to southeast Asia, and the South American transplants are supposedly of inferior quality. But it is said that Queen Victoria offered a knighthood to anyone who could bring her just one of these fruits, so even a poor example is bound to have something to recommend it. What's more, mangosteens are illegal in the United States (owing to fears of exotic parasites), so this may have been my only chance, ever, to try one. I believe the fruitseller charged me four Euros; I would have given him forty.

I imposed on the fruitseller for the use of his knife, and he cut through the thick, hard husk of the mangosteen to expose the eerily white segments of the fruit inside. On tasting it I could tell that this was probably not the best mangosteen in the world - it was slightly bruised, slightly desiccated - but I could also tell that it was unlike any other fruit I had ever eaten. Its creamy flesh is scented with white roses and wildflowers, and its juice is a perfect balance of the faintest hints of sweetness and tartness. I immediately wanted another, but couldn't justify it even to myself, let alone to Lisa, who was already itching to continue our sightseeing. Still, this discovery left me with an odd sense of accomplishment, of having something truly unique - if not particularly Italian - to show for my travels: I came, I saw, I ate a mangosteen.