The “Magnata” Roman style: myths and legends of Alberto Sordi’s Sunday ritual

With his sly smile, the rolled “R” typical of the old Roman dialect, his contagious laughter, and that glimmer of mockery in his blue eyes, Alberto Sordi was an extroverted and social actor, yet extremely protective of his private life. He was often painted as a stingy man, but that was just idle gossip. Sordi, a lover of simple cuisine— especially pasta —once described his typical Sunday in a television interview: walks, church, and then a single dish—the famous magnata alla romana, a perfect snapshot of both the man and the era we so deeply miss.

Sordi’s Magnata alla Romana

Sordi’s palate was far from that of a VIP: no oysters or champagne—he preferred a plate of pasta, which he ate every day. On Sundays in particular, he celebrated his favourite dish with a ritual. Appearing as a guest on Domenica In with Pippo Baudo in December 1980, he apologised to the audience for never having appeared on the show despite many invitations, and explained why—delivering an epic monologue recounting his typical Sunday. In an interview archived by Teche RAI, Sordi explains this ritual in rich detail:
“I’m Roman, and on Sundays I perform an act that leaves me unable to move afterwards: the magnata alla romana,” he tells Baudo. “Sunday morning, I wake up around half past eight, have a little coffee, then go out for a walk and attend Mass. Once that’s over, I return home, read a bit, deal with some correspondence, and at precisely one o’clock, I sit down at the table. What I eat I’ll tell you right now, because it’s always been the same since I was born: pasta.”

V’ho fatto venì fame
(I’ve made you hungry, haven’t I?)

“But there’s pasta and pasta,” Sordi clarifies. “Long pasta, short pasta, thick pasta: rigatoni, conchiglioni, bombolotti, bucatini—I change it up every week. The tomato sauce varies depending on the meat: rolled beef, meatballs, sliced braised beef. In another small pan, some chicken livers are cooked, always in tomato sauce, and in a third pan, slices of aubergine, again with tomato sauce. All these ingredients wait for the pasta to cook. If it’s winter,” he adds, “then a layer of ricotta goes in before pouring in the pasta. Then the pasta is added, followed by everything else on top.” Turning to the audience with a chuckle, “I’ve made you hungry, haven’t I?”

He continues the recipe: “Then a sprinkle of Parmesan, and I call that my ‘single dish’. Oh, if there’s someone a bit delicate, with stomach issues, I wouldn’t recommend it, but once a week, on a Sunday, it can be done.”
The ritual continues: “I take my time, go about it properly. It takes me an hour, an hour and a half to finish this single dish. Then I get up—very slowly—I lie back in an armchair, light a cigarette, sip a little liqueur, and watch the television—and there you are.”

Sordi’s quirks at the table

As much as he loved pasta, Sordi had serious aversions to other foods. In the biography Alberto Sordi segreto, written by his cousin Igor Righetti, some of his peculiarities are noted. Pasta, always—but never plain; no “fussy” dishes—cream and béchamel were strictly forbidden. He enjoyed fish but didn’t want it served already deboned. He had a strong dislike for mushrooms, which frightened him for fear they might be poisonous.

The Sunday Ritual ends with a smile

“For an hour, I sit there watching television, amused and attentive. Then a sort of drowsiness takes over, everything becomes hazy, I hear bells, echoes of organs, distant flutes. Then I get up, smiling, head for the bedroom, undress, put on my pyjamas, and dive under the covers. I turn off the light and lose consciousness.”
“After two and a half hours—sometimes three—I wake up a little groggy, but very well-rested. I switch on the bedroom TV and you’re still there, and I regret never having come. But you see, with habits like mine, I just can’t go anywhere on Sundays. I never had a wife who changed this habit, I always did as I pleased because I was completely free—and I’ve kept these habits, as you can see, to this very day.”

After a long and extraordinary life, only partially told by the tabloids, Sordi (who disliked being called Albertone) fell asleep for the last time on 24 February 2003, and Italy lost a little piece of its joy forever.