Expressly Espresso: The rhythm of making an Italian Coffee

It’s quick. It’s intense. Just, as I imaging, is an Italian man in bed.

It starts with a quick and loud bang to get the spent coffee grounds out of the single-sized, spouted-cup that will be swiftly shoved back into the massive stainless steel espresso machine.

BANG! BANG! BANG! The fourth bang empties the cup completely.

The bean grinder hums a quick hum and dispenses a perfectly portioned amount of grounds back into the spouted cup.

The tiny espresso cup "chings" when it is placed under the spout to receive the coffee.

Then the hot water chimes in and floods through the coffee grinds to create an intense and insanely hot cup of espresso.

Gulp one. Gulp two. Gulp three. It’s over... and I’m spent!

Happy Hour Should be Ashamed of Itself!

In Italy it is completely unacceptable to sit at a table or at a counter while in a bar or restaurant unless you pay extra for service. Same food, same drinks, but if you order at the bar and stand at the bar it’s cheaper. If you sit, you’re charged a service fee. Same concept as in the States, but you don't tip based on the cost of the meal, you pay a flat fee.

The exception to this rule is Aperitivo. You can sit during Aperitivo and not pay a service fee. Aperitivo is similar to Happy Hour, but it starts later and ends later (around 6:30 to 9:30 PM) and provides an extensive and free buffet of make-your-mouth-water Italian dishes.

Warm penne pasta with pesto? Sure. Why not? Mini faccia sandwiches with salami and pecorino cheese?  Why, yes, thank you! Caprese salad; thin crust pizza; creamy risotto with asparagus; bow tie pasta with olives and cherry tomatoes; pistachio nuts; marinated olives… YES, YES, YES! And all for around 6 to 9 euro, the price for one glass of wine. OH MY GOD, I LOVE APERITIVO!

I must find a way to get this tradition instituted in the United States. Happy Hour must be adjusted from measly drink specials and discounted mini burgers to a full buffet of Italian wonderment for less than $10! C’mon my American compatriots! Who’s with me?

October 29 - A Foreigner in Florence

I spent the entire day traveling within the Historic Center of Florence meeting potential roommates and visiting new apartments to live in while staying in Florence.

I am quite fond of Katrina (pronounced Kat-air-ee-na in Italian) the woman I have been renting a room from for the last 11 days in Sud Firenze (south Florence), but the bus trip from her house into the heart of the city is taking up to an hour due to construction. Florence has captured my heart and I want to be a part of it. Living on the outskirts of the city isn’t real enough. I want to be in the center. I want to be part of the city; part of its energy. I want to be a Florentine! Allora, the outskirts will not do!!!

My first stop of the day ended up being the apartment I selected. My new flat mate is a French woman who has 47 years. Italians don't say “years old.” Agnès (pronounced An-yay) teaches French at the University of Florence and speaks French, Italian, and (thank God) English fluently. Of course she speaks English with that amazing French accent that every man melts for and every woman would love to have... Oh, oui, Val-au-ray, I wood lik to off-air you zis flat, az I think you air a lovely perzon, noh? 

My room is large and bright, thanks to a nice-sized window that lets in tons of natural light. It’s been painted a soft yellow, has a queen bed, and a big white desk and bookcase from IKEA. French posters are hung on each wall. The cutest antique chair rests in the room.

My view out of the window is of the terracotta rooftops next door. I love terracotta roof tops! The color, dimension, and texture give the roofs their own personality. Too me they are art.

It’s about a 15 minute walk to the Historical Center from my new home. I can see the very top of the Duomo from my new street. My neighborhood is chock-full of beautiful buildings with character and style that new construction simply cannot recreate. The area is blissfully free from the graffiti that plaques much of Italy.

After my new domicile was secured with the required deposit, I ventured out to discover my neighborhood. An Italian girl, who looked to have about 25 years, stopped me to ask for directions. When I hesitated at her question she said in broken English, “Oh, you no speak Italiano,” and I quickly replied in Italian, “Yes, I speak a little!” I motioned for her to go ahead with her question. She asked if I knew a particular street in the area, which, of course, I did not. BUT, I had a map of the city.

I whipped out my map and found her street in less than 5 seconds (it was only one street over from where we were standing). She looked at me, laughed, and said in English, “I can’t believe a foreigner had to give me directions!” I smiled and walked on thinking to myself, “Yeah, well, THIS foreigner just handled that situation pretty well.”

Feeling proud of myself, I walked into the self service market at the end of the block to buy a bottle of water. I pulled at the refrigerator door lightly at first and then with more gusto, but I couldn’t get it open. I pulled again, with no luck. Oh god! Was it not really self service? I tried to look casual. The shop keeper said something to me in Italian. After seeing the confused look on my face he rolled his eyes, walked from behind his counter, pulled the door open from the opposite side I had been tugging on, and handed me a bottle of water.

I paid the man, smiled, and thought to myself, “Yeeaaah, this foreigner could have handled THAT situation a little better!”

24 October: Allora!

I’ve only been in Italy for 2 weeks and I am already sick of the word, allora.

Allora!

My spell check doesn’t even like that word. I can tell by the way it continues to underline it in deep red as if to say, "CAUTION! DO NOT USE THIS WORD! WE DO NOT LIKE IT." And, at this moment, I can relate to my trusty spell check. I don't like it either.

Allora means so, hmmm, or well then  in Italian. Oh, don't expect to see it in the latest version of Rosetta Stone. This is a colloquialism that one has to be in Italy to learn. It’s used many different ways including as a start, middle, filler, and sometimes end of a sentence, if the sentence ends in a question.

Allora doesn't sound too bad right? But now, factor in my very poor understanding of the Italian language and listen to a sentence as I hear it: Allora, blah, blah, blah... Allora, blah, blah, blah. Allora.

Yeah, it gets old after 14 days.

20 October: A Green Apple

As I entered the local produce market in Cortona this morning, the shop keeper, a tall stately man with graying brown hair was waiting on a portly, well-dressed Italian woman with deep creases in her face and a stiff waddle in her step. The woman followed the shop keeper around the tiny shop to inspect his selection of her fruit and vegetable order, as there is no “self service” in this shop.

I stood as out of the way as I could and watched the transaction. The woman seemed impatient with my presence. As if she were thinking, “I'll take all of the time I want and YOU will just wait!” And she could have. I had plenty of time before I had to catch my train to Florence.

The shop keeper handed the woman her bag and change and, at the same time addressed me in Italian. Unsure of what he just said, I responded, “buongiorno.” Yes... not the most appropriate response, as I’m sure he was asking what I would like. I waited a second or two longer before speaking. I was not quite sure the old Italian woman was officially done, even though she was counting her change.

“Posso avere una banana e una mela? Per favore." (may I please have a banana and an apple)?" I asked,

The shop keeper looked surprised that I addressed him in Italian. He darted over to the barrel of bananas, selected one, and showed it to me for inspection.

“Si” I responded in approval. He then moved to the barrels of red apples. “Gala?” he asked. “Ah, no,” I responded and pointed to the bushel of granny smith apples.

“Ah, si, mela verdi (green apple),” he responded.

“Ah, mela verdi,” I repeated with a pretty good Italian accent.

“Mela verdi!” the old woman still standing by the cash register repeated with bravado in her tone.

I looked toward her, surprised she was paying attention. “Mela verdi” I repeated in a tone equally as bold.

“Mela Verdi” she said again, this time introspectively and with a seemingly proud smile; proud, perhaps, of her heritage and of me for respecting it.