Caffe

     Un caffe, per favore.  

     Corto, lungo, macchiato, corretto, al vetro -- thick, thin, with a spot of milk, a dash of whisky, or in a glass. Those are just five ways I can think of quickly that Italians order espresso. There are more. Those are just the most obvious.   

     Not one of them is "con panna", or "doppio," which are the two variations on espresso you usually can get in the States, with whipped cream or a helluva lot of it. I know this from experience, because well, I've had lots of espressos in the States.  

     Had to. No choice. Unshakably lodged in the DNA.

     Even more so in the Neapolitan gene pool, a subtle distinction I learned more about yesterday.

     Stopped at my local for a mid-morning cappuccino on the fly. My husband and I have now firmly chosen the bar (I'm just talking coffee) at the bottom of our hill, the bar closest to us, as our local. 

     All Italians have their local -- the bar they go to every day for caffe (day after day, year after year, all together now, the comforting, rigid rhythms of Italian life).  

     And this bar has won out for us. The caffe -- however you order it -- is always perfect (and when I say perfect, that's what I mean) and the family who owns it has finally warmed to us. Many Italian shopkeepers can take a long time to warm to a new customer, because seriously, I mean, who are you and where do you come from? And what do I care?   

    But when they finally do warm up, it's like the sun's come out. 

    So. Went in, started to order cappuccino (long before lunch, so still okay) but then noticed an attractive, older, smartly dressed woman standing at the bar (that's the only way to have caffe), with the most sublime little caffe macchiato al vetro  -- espresso with a spot of milk in a glass -- in front of her.  The black caffe sat in a distinct line at the bottom of the squat little glass with its silver handle, and on top of it, a small, perfectly-formed dollop of milk. 

    A still-life painting more than a beverage. 

    Had that. Was there a choice? Two other people came in and ordered it too. This is what you have at that bar at about 11:15 a.m.   

    Started talking to the barrista (son of the owner). And explained to him that even though the Americans and the Brits have all bought the latest espresso machines (don't think his was the latest, just any old one), they didn't have a clue how to make coffee. Espresso especially. Any of it really, though.

    It's the grind, he says. They don't have the right grind. 

    The grind? That really seemed an unlikely culprit. How about the proportion of milk? The bitterness of the blend? The fact they don't even like small, short coffee -- that inimitable jolt of java -- and so have no idea how it's supposed to taste? That it's too watery, too hot, too bitter, has whipped cream on it or they've given you a boatful of it?   

    Doesn't Lavazza, Illy, or whoever manufactures Italian coffee for these big industrial machines just sell the same stuff? And so if you buy the stuff the Italians buy, the grind the Italians want, then you can do it too? 

   Nope. Seems not. There's the international grind for export. And that's the only grind you can buy overseas, he says. 

   And then for Italy, there's three different grinds -- Northern, Central and Southern. A looser grind for northern Italians, getting more compact as you move down the boot. Neapolitans are very fussy about their coffee, he says. They like it forte. With a small glass of water beforehand to clear their mouths.  

   I think of my Neapolitan father and the tiny swivel-top coffee maker, called la Napoletana, that my mother used to make his caffe at least twice a day when I was growing up.  

   Hmm, okay. He goes on.

   I only buy the central Italian grind, he says, because we're in central Italy, of course. 

   Of course. That makes sense.

   I've got a few Neapolitan customers, though, he explains. 

   I can still make it how they want it, of course.

   Of course.