These are complex subjects in Italian life.
There are many tacit rules that guide coffee culture (observance of which would be to the benefit of American coffee drinkers). One rule, which I just broke—knowingly, so does that make it ok?—is that no milk should be consumed after lunch. A cappuccino, or a caffe con latte, is an appropriate breakfast or late morning drink. One should drink it standing at a marble bar, or sitting briefly while eating a small pastry and talking a lot. (Addendum: what we call a “latte” contains an amount of milk Italians would think obscene. A twenty-ounce cup of hot milk with a bit of esspresso served in a paper cup and called a “venti”? Horrors!) After lunch, the only acceptable coffee behavior is to drink a caffe (espresso) or a machiato (espresso dabbed with milk foam).
Today, it’s about fifty degrees outside, and I’m wearing a long-sleeved but thin cotton dress. I was cold, and I just didn’t think an espresso would do the trick of warming and comforting me while also giving me the jolt to go on with my dissertation-writing (or blogging, as it may be). I asked Gabriel, the Academy bartender, for a cappuccino, and received a look that combined raised and furrowed brows. Ah, well. I’m a barbarian. (Addendum #2: I bought the dress in Vermont, and it has a Vermont theme: deer.)
self-portrait in deer dress
Alright, on to the cookies. Again, a comparison with cookie culture in the U.S. is instructive. A sugar-heavy blob the size of your palm receives the name of “cookie” at home, and might more properly be called “unhealthy meal-replacement item” because why eat a meal when you have a quarter-pound cookie with your venti latte? Here in Italy, cookies are called biscotti, and they are more like delicately sweetened, tiny, crunchy biscuits. With my misguided cappuccino after lunch, I nibbled a pistachio biscotto that tasted like lightly sweetened crushed pistachios, with a hint of butter. It was just perfect.
The biscotti above are of a particular species of cookie called ciambelline. They’ve been catching my eye here and there for awhile, because they are usually labeled ciambelline al vino rosso, and they look like little doughnuts. I finally bought some the other day, at a nearby family-run forno (bakery/oven) called Panificio Beti. (Addendum #3: the breads are all displayed on a low counter behind the glass, and beneath each type is a list of the ingredients, which are few and of the best quality. I like this kind of proud transparency.) They had on display five different kinds of ciambelline: vino rosso, limoncello, walnut, anise, and one other which I think was just a savory version of vino rosso (no sugar). I asked for uno per tipo.
Back at home, I brewed some coffee in my beloved Bialetti, and broke off a bite of each. Not having had them before, I was pleasantly surprised. They were hard, not chewy, and they had just a trace of sweetness. Traditionally, they are made with olive oil in place of butter, and are served after dinner with sweet wine, in the regions of Tuscany, Umbria, and Lazio, where Rome is. These are cookies I’d like to have around at all times.
Inside, a curved bank of display counters embraces the gaggle of customers pointing high and low to the breads and pastries they want.
The Roving Locavore 