three black, three white, three black—and he will slide the tray carefully into a bag and hand it to you with the pride of an artisan.
The morning after I arrived, I decided to walk to the trade show, which was only fifteen minutes from my hotel. I love to walk, and Milan is a perfect place for walking.
Just as I started off, I noticed a little espresso bar. I ducked inside to look around. A cashier by the door smiled and nodded. Behind the counter, a tall, thin man greeted me cheerfully, “ Buon giorno !” as he pressed down on a metal bar and a huge hiss of steam escaped. He handed a tiny porcelain demitasse of espresso to one of the three people who were standing elbow-to-elbow at the counter. Next came a handcrafted cappuccino, topped with a head of perfect white foam. The barista moved so gracefully that it looked as though he were grinding coffee beans, pulling shots of espresso, and steaming milk at the same time, all the while conversing merrily with his customers. It was great theater.
“Espresso?” he asked me, his dark eyes flashing as he held out a cup he had just made.
I couldn’t resist. I reached for the espresso and took a sip. A strong, sensual flavor crossed my tongue. After three sips it was gone, but I could still feel its warmth and energy.
Half a block later, across a side street, I saw another espresso bar. This one was even more crowded. I noticed that the gray-haired man behind the counter greeted each customer by name. He appeared to be both owner and operator. He and his customers were laughing and talking and enjoying the moment. I could tell that the customers were regulars and the routines comfortable and familiar.
In the next few blocks, I saw two more espresso bars. I was fascinated.
It was on that day that I discovered the ritual and the romance of coffee bars in Italy. I saw how popular they were, and how vibrant. Each one had its own unique character, but there was one common thread: the camaraderie between the customers, who knew each other well, and the barista, who was performing with flair. At that time, there were 200,000 coffee bars in Italy, and 1,500 alone in the city of Milan, a city the size of Philadelphia. It seemed they were on every street corner, and all were packed.
My mind started churning.
That afternoon, after I finished my meetings at the trade show, I set off again, walking the streets of Milan to observe more espresso bars. I soon found myself at the center of the city, where the Piazza del Duomo is almost literally lined with them. As you walk through the piazza, you’re surrounded by the smells of coffee and roasting chestnuts and the light banter of political debate and the chatter of kids in school uniforms. Some of the area’s coffee bars are elegant and stylish, while others are bigger, workaday places.
In the morning, all are crowded, and all serve espresso, the pure essence of coffee in a cup. There are very few chairs, if any. All the customers stand up, as they do in a western bar. All the men, it seemed, smoke.
The energy pulses all around you. Italian opera is playing. You can hear the interplay of people meeting for the first time, as well as people greeting friends they see every day at the bar. These places, I saw, offered comfort, community, and a sense of extended family. Yet the customers probably don’t know one another very well, except in the context of that coffee bar.
In the early afternoon, the pace slows down. I noticed mothers with children and retired folks lingering and chatting with the barista. Later in the afternoon, many espresso places put small tables on the sidewalk and served aperitifs. Each was a neighborhood gathering place, part of an established daily routine.
To the Italians, the coffee bar is not a diner, as coffee shops came to be in America in the 1950s and 1960s. It is an extension of the front porch, an extension of the home. Each morning they stop at their favorite coffee bar, where they’re treated
The morning after I arrived, I decided to walk to the trade show, which was only fifteen minutes from my hotel. I love to walk, and Milan is a perfect place for walking.
Just as I started off, I noticed a little espresso bar. I ducked inside to look around. A cashier by the door smiled and nodded. Behind the counter, a tall, thin man greeted me cheerfully, “ Buon giorno !” as he pressed down on a metal bar and a huge hiss of steam escaped. He handed a tiny porcelain demitasse of espresso to one of the three people who were standing elbow-to-elbow at the counter. Next came a handcrafted cappuccino, topped with a head of perfect white foam. The barista moved so gracefully that it looked as though he were grinding coffee beans, pulling shots of espresso, and steaming milk at the same time, all the while conversing merrily with his customers. It was great theater.
“Espresso?” he asked me, his dark eyes flashing as he held out a cup he had just made.
I couldn’t resist. I reached for the espresso and took a sip. A strong, sensual flavor crossed my tongue. After three sips it was gone, but I could still feel its warmth and energy.
Half a block later, across a side street, I saw another espresso bar. This one was even more crowded. I noticed that the gray-haired man behind the counter greeted each customer by name. He appeared to be both owner and operator. He and his customers were laughing and talking and enjoying the moment. I could tell that the customers were regulars and the routines comfortable and familiar.
In the next few blocks, I saw two more espresso bars. I was fascinated.
It was on that day that I discovered the ritual and the romance of coffee bars in Italy. I saw how popular they were, and how vibrant. Each one had its own unique character, but there was one common thread: the camaraderie between the customers, who knew each other well, and the barista, who was performing with flair. At that time, there were 200,000 coffee bars in Italy, and 1,500 alone in the city of Milan, a city the size of Philadelphia. It seemed they were on every street corner, and all were packed.
My mind started churning.
That afternoon, after I finished my meetings at the trade show, I set off again, walking the streets of Milan to observe more espresso bars. I soon found myself at the center of the city, where the Piazza del Duomo is almost literally lined with them. As you walk through the piazza, you’re surrounded by the smells of coffee and roasting chestnuts and the light banter of political debate and the chatter of kids in school uniforms. Some of the area’s coffee bars are elegant and stylish, while others are bigger, workaday places.
In the morning, all are crowded, and all serve espresso, the pure essence of coffee in a cup. There are very few chairs, if any. All the customers stand up, as they do in a western bar. All the men, it seemed, smoke.
The energy pulses all around you. Italian opera is playing. You can hear the interplay of people meeting for the first time, as well as people greeting friends they see every day at the bar. These places, I saw, offered comfort, community, and a sense of extended family. Yet the customers probably don’t know one another very well, except in the context of that coffee bar.
In the early afternoon, the pace slows down. I noticed mothers with children and retired folks lingering and chatting with the barista. Later in the afternoon, many espresso places put small tables on the sidewalk and served aperitifs. Each was a neighborhood gathering place, part of an established daily routine.
To the Italians, the coffee bar is not a diner, as coffee shops came to be in America in the 1950s and 1960s. It is an extension of the front porch, an extension of the home. Each morning they stop at their favorite coffee bar, where they’re treated
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