The Dolce Vita Diaries

Italians make the best coffee in the world, right? We all know that, it’s a given, they do it in their sleep. The French do the best patisserie, the Italians do the accompanying beverage. There is probably a tiny village somewhere on the French Italian border where a French madame has married an Italian signore, they’ve opened a cafe and there you can probably enjoy the world’s superlative breakfast experience. (If anyone finds it please let us know).

So anyway, there is this fact that Italians make the best coffee. On average, that is. If you were to take all the coffee-making Italians and all the coffee-makers of all the other countries in the world, add them all up and divide by their number – the Italians would surely win. I’m sure this experiment has been done. But to reach an average, or a ‘mean’ value if we are being pedantic which we clearly are – there will be several people who really excel, who reach beyond the average ‘quality’ number. And there will be others who fall somewhere behind. Sometimes very far behind.

On holiday in Sardegna (lovely, beautiful place, delicious food, crystal sea, charming company, thanks for asking) we met one of those very far behind coffee-makers. We have photographic evidence of their crimes. I am not going to name names but suffice, I hope, to say, that a cappuccino does not have a smiley face daubed on it in red and brown chocolate sauce. That, my friend, is not a cappuccino, it is an affront to all that is Italian. So publish and shame, that’s our simple aim.

This whole cappuccino business is sensitive because the time of day when one is most in need of correct coffee satiation is the morning, a sensitive time for most of us. When we lived in Rome, we spent days researching the best possible cappuccino amongst the dozen or so bars and cafes within a 100metre radius of our flat. There was a clear winner, a cafe on the corner we dubbed ‘The Brothers’ because all of the three or four baristas who worked there had the same nose. We became loyal supporters, going there every day for our perfect cappuccino, perfectly foamed with bubbles so tiny the smoothness competed with a bambino’s derriere, perfectly roasted coffee, perfectly strong, nothing added. That cappuccino made every day that bit better.

Then one day a dreadful thing happened. I went in alone, we’d been away so hadn’t been in for a while. By way of celebrating my return, brother number 2 made a ‘special’ cappuccino. It had a cobweb lattice crafted on top, of caramel and chocolate interlaced sauces. I could have cried. It was worse than the day my brother ripped up my Leif Garrett poster. In my shock and horror all could say was ‘Wow…. grazie mille’ or something of that ilk. The cappuccino was ruined, all its delicacy decimated by this vulgar sickly snail trail. Brother 2 looked at me, all eager and pleased and I wanted to be Italian and upfront and honest and tell-it-like-it-is. What I said was ‘Mmm delizioso’ and as it came out of my mouth it sounded horribly convincing.

I tried again the next day hoping it was an aberration. But brother 3 gave brother 2 a knowing nod that said as clearly as if he’d graffiti-ed it on the Colosseum ‘Remember what our nice lady friend enjoyed so much yesterday.’ The same perfect cappuccino was presented, again devastated by vile gelatinous confection. I smiled, drank it, said ‘Ciao’ to the brothers with a sad heart and knew that I could never go there again.