A group of newly acquainted food writers wandered up the cobbled roads of a Roman hill, presumably toward a Michelin-starred restaurant, in April of 2016. Our loose parade extended half a block, whatever that means in Rome. Atop the hill was an architecture firm, in the penthouse of which awaited an eight-course dinner. Our fearless leader, absorbed in conversation, kept a good clip, and the folks at the back were getting steadily left behind. I paused for a moment in the middle, by a chalkboard in front of a little bistro. It read, “Kamut Pasta.” We made it to the metal and glass building, to my mild surprise, and took an elevator to the top. I sat at the end of a long table with Maureen Fant, an American food writer, and her Roman husband. I mentioned having seen a sign for kamut pasta. Fant winced, as if I’d said …