33giri — Rome’s Revolving Ritual
By Rafi Mercer
New Listing
Venue Name: 33giri
Address: Via del Falco 37–38, Rome 00193, Italy.
Website: @33girirom
Instagram: @33girirom
Rome’s nights have their own rhythm — slower, looser, warmer — the kind of pace where conversation lingers and the air itself seems to carry melody. 33giri understands that instinct better than most. Hidden in the cobbled calm of Borgo Pio, just behind the Vatican walls, it’s part wine bar, part kitchen, part listening room — a space that hums like a perfectly balanced record.
The name says it all: 33 giri, thirty-three revolutions per minute — the speed of a long-playing vinyl. That’s the heartbeat here. Inside, the room glows with ochre light against terracotta walls; wooden shelves stacked with records frame the bar. A pair of turntables sits on a stone counter beside an open rack of tubes and dials. The sound is intimate and physical — low-end that feels carved from walnut, highs that shimmer like glass.
Music comes first. The bar runs a rotation of selectors and collectors spinning vinyl — soul, Brazilian, Italian jazz, funk, deep disco. Some nights the playlist drifts into cinematic Morricone scores; other nights you’ll hear Sade, Ryuichi Sakamoto or a little Fela. Every record is chosen with narrative intent. The room is small enough that you feel each change in tone: the moment the needle drops, the shift in conversation, the way a groove can rearrange the air.
The sound system is a collaboration between local audiophiles and craftspeople — hand-restored Technics SL-1200MK2s run through a McIntosh C52 pre-amp and a pair of Klipsch Heritage La Scala speakers. Everything about it favours precision over volume. The engineers even adjusted the ceiling acoustics with natural cork panels to dampen reflections — a Roman interpretation of the Japanese kissa ideal.
Wine holds equal weight. The cellar lists small organic producers from Lazio, Piedmont, and Sicily: volcanic whites, soft-tannin reds, orange wines that glow like sunset. The staff pour with care and talk about texture — how a certain Montepulciano hums alongside a Nina Simone track, or how a chilled Frappato complements the rhythm of a slow-burning Marvin Gaye record. You begin to realise they’re not pairing food and wine; they’re pairing taste and tone.
The menu is Roman simplicity reimagined: cicchetti-style plates, local cheeses, artichokes fried in olive oil, anchovies with lemon and fennel. Each dish feels designed to accompany conversation — delicate, deliberate, and perfectly timed between sides of an album. The chef, Lorenzo Pini, once described his work as “food that listens.” It shows.
By dusk, the crowd shifts. The early diners give way to listeners: musicians, designers, couples, locals who’ve swapped the chaos of Trastevere for something slower. Glasses clink softly against the bassline. The lighting drops another shade. You feel the weight of Rome outside — the monuments, the traffic, the hum of scooters — but in here, the tempo steadies to thirty-three revolutions a minute.
On Fridays, the bar hosts its Serate in Vinile — themed listening nights that orbit a single mood or artist. One week might be dedicated to Japanese ambient; another to Neapolitan funk. There’s no stage, no spotlight, just the act of listening together. The turntables become instruments; the selectors, storytellers. It’s the kind of evening Rafi Mercer would lose himself in — glass of natural red in hand, hearing how the record breathes in the Roman air.
Design plays a quiet supporting role. The interiors were crafted by local studio Le Strade, known for blending vintage Italian design with modern restraint. Exposed brick meets marble countertop, reclaimed wood meets copper. Every surface is tactile, absorbent, meant to catch sound and hold it close. Even the bar stools are wrapped in linen rather than leather, softening the acoustics further.
33giri feels less like a concept and more like a gesture — a reminder that music, wine, and presence can occupy the same frequency. There’s no Wi-Fi password on the tables, no televisions, no rush. You notice people actually listening: heads nodding, fingers tapping against glasses, small smiles at a familiar riff. It’s not performance; it’s communion.
By midnight the room hums with low conversation. The last bottle is uncorked, another record slides from its sleeve, and the crowd leans in — maybe a groove from Patrice Rushen or Lucio Battisti. The sound is warm enough to make you forget time entirely. You realise you’re in one of those rare rooms that carries both elegance and intimacy; a space that lets Rome slow down just long enough to hear itself again.
Step back outside onto Via del Falco and the city exhales — the cool night, the sound of mopeds, distant bells. Yet in your ears the music lingers. You walk away lighter, tuned differently, knowing you’ve found one of the city’s new sanctuaries of sound.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
