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240 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
Coffee is never flavored; after all, coffee is a flavor… the protocol around coffee in Italy is strict, and experimenting is left to foreigners.
Bars in the center of the city [Milan] serve meals that people gulp in piedi come un cavallo, or standing like a horse.
Maurizio rarely smiles or speaks when fixing espresso; he must concentrate for perfection. The ritual begins as the barista bangs out the old grounds but never washes the coffee machine with soap since the flavor would be compromised. He loads it up with fresh grounds and packs it hard. The steam billows around the machine, and the black elixir dribbles down into a pair of heated tazze (cups).
He presents the tiny cups with only a thimble full of espresso lining the bottom. Everyone dumps in at least a teaspoon of sugar, which somehow dissolves in the already thick brew. Stirring the sugar is the longest part of the process and requires an absolutely bored expression, as though each swirl of the spoon might brings its stirrer closer to the grave.
The word safe doesn’t really exist in Italian. Sicuro is just “secure.” My students suggest non pericoloso (not dangerous) but add that everything has a certain amount of danger, so “safe” is a paradox.