Cappuccino in the Morning: Part II

Coffee marks time in Italy.  Espresso at the bar on the way to work in the morning.  Cappuccino before noon.  Gulp back your espresso and head out of the bar in minutes.  It is a caffeine-laced labyrinth if you want to immerse yourself in coffee culture in Italy.  Here are a few rules that I gleaned from a Telegraph article from 2009.  

Let's start with the word 'espresso'.  In North America, and I presume in the UK, espresso is used in coffee shops or when you purchase coffee in the store to indicate a particular kind of coffee.  In Italy, all coffee is espresso therefore if you simply want an espresso, you order il caffe'.  I remember making this mistake a couple years ago.  We were in a hotel in Marina di Ravenna that included breakfast.  The first morning our hostess asked us if we wanted il caffe' and I specified espresso.  She gave me a very odd look and said, "Si', il caffe'" then shook her head presumably thinking she was dealing with an ignorant foreigner - which I was - at least about coffee.

As I mentioned, cappuccino should only be consumed before noon and even then between 11am and noon is questionable.  The thinking behind this is that hot milk is not good for you on a full stomach which you presumably would have after lunch.  And god forbid that you should order a cappuccino after a meal in a restaurant.  This would certainly label you as a boorish foreigner.  What applies here to cappuccino also applies to any other coffee drink that contains milk.

A "Godfather"-themed bar in the town of Corleone

Coffee is ordered in a bar.  Bars are not quite the same as in North America.  Besides serving alcohol, they also serve coffee, soft drinks, gelato, pastry, panini, pizza, and (if you are lucky and in Sicily) arancini.  Children can enter bars.  Bars open in the morning and, at least in Cianciana in the summer, stay open until 2 or 3 in the morning.

Our favourite bar in Cianciana - Antico Bar Trieste

Waiting for il caffe' with our new friend, Gaetano

In Canada, if I go to a coffee shop and order a coffee, I will sit and sip my coffee taking my time to finish it.  In Italy, if you drop by a bar to order il caffe', you stand at the bar, stir in heaping spoonfuls of sugar and toss your coffee back quickly.  Afterwards you drink the glass of water they often offer you, and then you head off out the door - no wasted time.  Another note - if you are living in a small town, you should spread your custom between all the bars in order to stay on friendly terms with everyone.

What to call your coffee: these are just a few of the options you can get in a bar.

Il caffe' - we would call this espresso.  It will have a thin light brown foam on top which is called 'crema'.  You will hear the gentlemen in the bar discussing the quality of the crema as it is considered a very important part of the quality of the coffee.

Caffe' Hag - this is decaf.  It is the name of the largest producer of decaf coffee and has been adopted as the general name for it.

Caffe' Americano - this is a much weaker and more bitter coffee and is closer to what is normally served in North America.  Italians also call this acqua sporca or dirty water which tells you what they think of it.

Caffe' con Panna - espresso topped with whipped cream.  Yum!

Caffe' Corretto - espresso with a small shot of liquor - often grappa (very strong Italian liquor) but other liquors can also be use.

Cappuccino - pretty much the same as in North America.

Caffe' Macchiato - espresso with just a touch of milk and foam.


Food that you can get in a bar:

Gelato in a brioche (sweet bun) - any place that serves ice cream in a sweet bun for breakfast is alright with me!

This is an arancine - it is a deep fried rice ball stuffed with meat ragu' or spinach and cheese or ham and cheese.  Truly a gift from the Sicilian culinary gods!

No description needed.

Cianciana Life: Saturday Afternoon – Return from Santo Stefano di Quisquina and the Summer Pool Club

Before we leave the forest of Quisquina, we sit in the car, air-conditioning cranked to full, and drink the now warm water that we brought with us.  The peaches are warm too, but the warmth brings out the sweetness and the flavour.  When I close my eyes the peaches seem to taste of the tan and orange hills that are ubiquitous throughout this part of Sicily.  Having forgotten to bring a knife, we bite into the cucumber and pass it back and forth.  

Even though the cucumber has been sitting in the warm car, it still tastes of the cool earth and freshens our mouths after the sweetness of the peaches.  We reluctantly leave the pine forest and drive the two or three minutes into the town of Santo Stefano.  We need to make one more stop before heading home.  Gelato.  We stop at a little sports bar.  These bars, besides selling beer, wine and a variety of hard liquor, also sell panini, pizza, and the beautiful thing that is gelato.  Nick gets his gelato in a cup but I ask for mine in a brioche.  What a wonderful idea to take the sweet freshness that is gelato or granita (sherbet), slicing open a sweet bun and scooping it in.  This is heaven.  We sit watching formula one car-racing coming from Germany on the bar’s television.  This is the first television we have seen in a week and, while I enjoy it while we delight in our gelato, I am not reluctant to leave it behind when we leave the bar.

By the time we return home it is 1:00 pm.  The streets are virtually empty and the shops are all closed.  It is the beginning of the hottest part of a very hot day – the sign above the farmacia says that the temperature has hit 37°.  Not the hottest day we have encountered but today there is no breeze on the now quiet street making it feel like the hottest.  Time to nap.  In her book, Under the Tuscan Sun, Frances Mayes says that these few hours – approximately 1:00 – 4:00 – are prime time for television, and the hours when most babies are conceived.  It is also when many people nap and Nick and I, every day, make use of this time to sleep through the worst of the heat. 

Nick and I wake at 3:00 to the sound of the clock tower.  It is still hot and we are sticky from the sweat in our sleep.  We had heard that there were two swimming pools in town and one we passed one our initial drive into town.  A swim seems like a perfect idea.  Back into the car with the air-conditioning on full, we drive about 4 minutes to the turn off marked by a small sign demurely saying “Summer Pool Club”.  We follow the bouncy dirt road until we reach a parking lot much less demurely decorated with large flags from many countries.  No Canadian flag.  We determine that when we return next summer, we will have to correct that deficit.  A wall of green fabric surrounds the pool.  We poke our heads over the cloth to see a beautiful, clean pool surrounded by deck chairs, tables and umbrellas.  To the side is a bar.  On the far side, the forever amazing views of the mountains and valleys created a beautiful backdrop.  This doesn’t just look like a pool – this is a resort. 

For a mere 3 euros each we enter the pool, change, shower, and done the requisite bathing caps (you can purchase them there for 1 euro) and jump into the pool.  It is perfect balance between warm and cool and we gratefully feel the warmth of the day drift away from our bodies.  We are the only ones at the pool other than an inordinately attractive pair of lifeguards.  Is this Baywatch, Sicilian-style?  We ask the female guard why there is no one else there.  She flashes a brilliant smile and shrugs. “It is the wind, and maybe a storm is coming.”  She waves in the direction of the clouds that are gathering in a corner of the sky.  She is right about the wind.  It has picked up and our umbrella is shaking, edge flipping up and down above us.  The wind is perfect – keeping us cool as it evaporates the water from our bodies.  I walk up to the bar and order a limonata, a refreshing lime drink, to share with Nick.  I comment on the lifeguard/bar keep’s tattoo – an interesting Asian design with a date underneath.  In a mixture of Italian and English he introduces himself as Robert Clark: he is so ultimately Sicilian looking and sounding that his name seems truly out of place, but I don’t feel like I should ask.  He explains that he runs the town’s Bushido School (we have seen the signs as we have walked through Cianciana) and was World Jiu-jitsu champion on the date beneath his tattoo.  I am suitably impressed and congratulate him.  It certainly explains his god-like physique. 

Nick and I lay in the sun for a lovely, relaxing hour with the pleasant sound of the flapping of the umbrella and the occasional shadow drifting past as clouds slowly continue to gather in the mountains lulling us to sleep.  The female lifeguard has left, returned with her 8-year-old daughter (my god!  How could that figure have produced a child?) and then left again.  Two other men have joined Robert Clark and the three sit at a table, sipping from cold bottles of beer and playing cards.  Not one other patron has entered the pool.  This is a perfect afternoon.