It’s 7am on the Sunday before Christmas, and we’re heading to Turin, Italy for the day. We’re jet lagged — and therefore wide awake — as we walk into the tiny Italian cafe just around the corner from our hotel, and we’re on the hunt for a proper Italian coffee before jumping on Milan’s antiquated metro to the train station. There is nothing modern about this place, and it is diametrically opposite to a cafe at home: there’s nowhere to actually sit, and those who are in the cafe are standing at a tall, polished and marbled wood bar; the place is devoid of laptop hobos and newspaper-readers — this is not a place for hanging out; behind the bar, two older gentleman are gently but determinedly hurrying to prepare each customer’s order. This is not a place of smiles and customer service. It’s a brusque and to-the-point kind of place, and this is the norm in Italy; this is a typical Italian cafe. Geoff and I gawk at the selection of pastries in the glass case, and when we’re ready to order, I walk to the bar and try my hand at ordering in Italian.
“Una brioche a la café, una brioche a la cioccolato, una capuccucha, una café.”
We’ve been in the country for less than 24 hours, and I don’t know the Italian word for and, but one of the men behind the bar softens when we try to order in Italian and — success — he moves towards the pastry case to collect our order, which turn out to be like croissants on crack: oozing with coffee-flavoured and chocolate cream, they are a diabetics’ personal hell. I don’t even know what a brioche is, but I know I’m in love. The thing about Italian pastries is, there are so damn many of them, I don’t even know how to label them in English.
English is a pastry inadequate language.
Hello! Brioche! I Love Yoouuuu!
He delivers our pastries and checks our order: are we sure we want just una capuccha — one cappuccino – and una café — one espresso? What he’s really asking is whether I want a proper Italian espresso or a cappuccino, which is essentially a pussy drink in Italy. I confirm the order – thank god it’s breakfast time, or he’d no doubt give us shit for ordering even one cappuccino — and he gets to work on a gigantic espresso machine. In Italy, the espresso machines are massive and beautiful pieces of machinery; the machinery in an Italian cafe would probably make your average Starbucks barrista quiver in their uniform black boots.
An older woman walks in, draped from head to toe in thick, luxurious-looking fur. It literally looks like she has a dead animal spooning her head, and this seems to be the norm in much of Europe. PETA just hasn’t made the same in-roads here, I guess. She’s made-up and her hair — that which we can seen under her furry head companion, at least — is coloured and formed into perfect old lady curls; I guess that she has probably put more effort into her appearance on this Sunday morning than I do on an average day at home; this is fashion-focused Milan, not the fleece-draped Pacific Northwest from which we came. She walks to the bar and chats with the gentleman in a familiar way that makes me think this is part of her daily routine. She orders una café and una brioche and waits at the bar, chatting cordially as the barmen prepare her order. Within minutes of her espresso being placed atop her spot at the bar, she is finished. She waves her goodbyes, and makes chit chat in a way that makes me think she’ll probably be back at the same time tomorrow — no Nespresso for this broad.
As Geoff and I sit at the bar, people come and go – such is the way of the Italian cafe. This is no Starbucks, where the brand is paramount and the coffee is a nice way to make money. The Italian cafe is a place free from branding (except…well…the branding on the espresso machines). I’m in love with it: it feels like community and coffee are wrapped in each others’ embrace, and it is delicious.
After not too long – after all we have nowhere to sit — we pull ourselves away from the allure of this place and walk to the metro. We take the metro to the train station and the train to Turin, where we spend the day wandering from Italian cafe to monument, and back to Italian cafe, one of which ends up being San Tommaso 10, the home of Lavassa coffee. And then we jump on a train to Germany; as we head north through Austria, we both drift off to sleep. When we awake early on Christmas Eve in Munich, I can’t help but feel a tiny pang of regret when we see a Starbucks.
On the way to Turin, Italy
I hope you enjoyed Around the World in 80 drinks, a series that takes us on a drunken whirlwind of adventure around our planet. Except it doesn’t really take us on an adventure. Blogs can’t do that: you need aeroplanes and autobuses and camels and all sorts of other types of transportation to actually go around the world. But we’ll go on the adventure – a drunken whirlwind of adventure, if you will – and then we’ll come back and tell you about it. And it won’t always be drunken, because sometimes (like today) we’ll talk about delicious non-alcoholic drinks (we also recently talked about a certain delicious dark beverage from Colombia). But also sometimes we’ll talk about boozy goodness, like champagne and vodka. Please let us know what you think in the comments, or say hello on Facebook and Twitter.
This post brings back memories – when we were in Italy, we went to a cafe just like this one and had insanely delicious pastries and espresso every morning. It always amazed me how Italians can start their day early with an espresso and a sugary pastry, and then not eat again until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Breakfast of champions, I guess.
Jessica recently posted..A Little Love for Italy’s Heel
How do I become Italian? i want to eat sugary pastries every morning and pasta every night, AND remain as thin as a rail. Who do I need to talk to about this?
Thanks for the article, I hoping to visit Pisa someday and see the leaning tower. I am looking at taking the traing from Florence, is it wise?
Great question, Alex. Sadly, we’ve never been to Pisa, so I can’t be of much help there!
I loved this beautiful depiction of an Italian café! It reminds me so much of the endless hours I spent in the cafés of Portugal drinking espresso, and watching the apparent daily guests drink theirs on the counter. I miss this Mediterranean coffee culture so much!
And I could really use one of these strong espressos to pull an over-nighter now
Julika recently posted..Picturesque Monday: The Ancient City of Évora
Ha ha! I couldn’t agree more, Julika. It is a great way to spend the day!
Wow, that looks so delicious! Luckily, us females can get away with ordering a cappuccino.
Adventurous Andrea recently posted..The Game Changer for My Travel!
It WAS delicious! I am in love with Italian cafes, and wish we had more places like this in Canada!
Hello,
I live near Torino and would just let you know that our city has many historical cafés which were opened on the end of the 18th century (such as il Cambio, Baratti e Milano, al Bicerin, Fiorio, Mulassano): they are part of the custom and the culture of the city; you can comfortably sit to chat while tasting pastries and chocolates like the famous gianduiotto (another local specialty), drinking a coffee or a bicerin (a mix of coffee, hot chocolate and cream).
I suggest you another ritual of the city: the aperitif !!
On the website of TURISMO TORINO you can easily find more info and also book guided tours of said cafés.
You will not be disappointed!!
Hello Cristina,
Thanks for taking the time to provide your suggestions – next time we are in Turin, we will be sure to try gianduiotto at some of the other cafes! And we did get to try the aperitif tradition in Milan – such a great tradition!