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Sizing Up the
Coffee Consumer
A Day in the Life
of a Coffee Grower
 A
Cupper's
Covenant
The Art of Blending
Master of the Roast
Brewing a
Golden Cup
Deconstructing
Decaf
Portrait of the
American Barista
American
Coffee Culture
Kopi L'Amour in
Kuala Lumpur
In
Search of
the Perfect
Italian Espresso
Confessions of
a Socially Responsible
Coffee Drinker
Voyage in a Cup
Muddy Waters
Burlington, Vermont
Stumptown Coffee
Portland, Oregon
Ancora
Coffee Roasters
Madison, Wisconsin
From the Publisher
From the Editor
Coffee Resource
Directory 2001
Advertiser Index
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In Search of the Perfect
Italian Espresso
by Richard Reynolds
A well-made espresso is as unique and memorable as a fine wine. It is a tiny bit
of flavor-packed nectar that explodes on the tongue with the essence of coffee.
It is to drip coffee what glace de viande
is to canned chicken stock. It must be strong and have a healthy layer of crema—a
dark surface foam indicating that the oils in the coffee have been emulsified.
Finally, it must have a rich, viscous texture. "Texture is always featured," as
David Schomer of Seattle's Espresso Vivace puts it, "and should feel like a pair
of velvet pajamas wrapped around your tongue." Vacationing in Italy last spring,
I was determined to visit the temples of espresso in the country that invented
it. My quest? To seek out the ultimate cup.
My trip begins in Rome, where two neighboring cafés have developed
a strong competition. On an earlier trip to Italy, Sant'Eustachio, a small espresso
bar on a plaza not far from the Panteon, had served me the espresso that had come
to represent the standard by which I judged all others. It was smooth, rich, captured
the essence of coffee, and featured an astonishing amount of crema.
This time, the barista at Sant'Eustachio, attired in an aqua waiter's
jacket with gold cord epaulettes, proudly presents me with a demitasse of coffee.
But the crema doesn't look right. It is light brown and has the consistency of
egg whites. I scoop up a spoonful of the foam and find it quite palatable, though
it tastes more like whipped cream than crema. The coffee beneath it, served with
sugar already added, is good but unremarkable. Watching the barista, now at work
on another coffee, I notice something odd. There is a screen on the side of the
machine, shielding his actions from view. Behind the screen, he goes through an
extensive series of mysterious movements, then comes out bearing another coffee
with the same curious foam on top. I have no idea what he is doing behind that
screen, but Sant'Eustachio immediately falls from its perch as my high temple
of espresso.
I head for Tazza D'oro, a few blocks away and just off the square
in front of the Panteon. The bar is quite a bit larger than its rival, and the
machines are in plain sight, inviting customers to watch the process. The coffee
dribbles into cups in a slow, irregular stream, and the resulting brew features
a dark brown crema that is clearly the real thing. The coffee is stronger than
Sant'Eustachio's, and much more satisfying. When I ask about Sant'Eustachio, Jimmy
Banerjee, the English-speaking manager, tells me, "They do something over there,
so they have to hide it. Here, everything is in the open." He shows me the burlap
bags of green coffee beans they roast for their blend and indicates the prominently
displayed machines. About the rivalry, he declares, "We have no rivals." But I
wasn't ready to concede his point. While Banerjee's coffee was good, it still
had a rough edge to it.
That afternoon I take a train to Naples. Carlo di Ruocco, who grew
up near Naples and now owns Oakland, Calif.-based Mr. Espresso, had told me that
when a Neopolitan gets off the train in his hometown, he heads directly for "Mexico,"
an espresso bar near the station. Sporting an orange awning, Mexico is on a distinctly
menacing block. But I brave the fusillade of unsavory-looking characters hanging
out on the sidewalk and make my way to the bar, which features old-fashioned La
San Marco piston machines with massive levers.
Here, I am served a coffee so dark that it seems to consume the
light around it. As I pick up the cup, I nearly drop it on the floor. It is hot.
Not just warm, but so hot I examine my fingers for blisters. This ominous-looking
brew, with sugar already added, is as smooth as silk and has a taste that hints
of chocolate.
The hot cups, it turns out, are a signature of Neopolitan espresso
bars. According to di Ruocco, one of the secrets of Neopolitan coffee is that
they use a much lower brewing temperature than in the north, so the cups are kept
in steaming trays of hot water to make sure the customer gets a hot coffee.
It's nearly impossible to get a bad espresso in Naples, and there
is infinite variety, as the area is filled with small roasters, and many bars
roast their own. Common to all of those I taste is a substantial, creamy texture.
The most prevalent brand in Naples is Kimbo, which produces a rich coffee with
excellent body that can be found throughout Naples and the Amalfi Coast. Mexico
uses a brand called S. Passalacqua.
Tasting my way around the Neoplitan cafés, I head, with some trepidation,
to Caffe Gambrinus. The most famous coffeehouse in town, it is characterized by
surly waiters and is often the first stop for tour groups. It's the kind of place
that can be guaranteed a steady stream of customers no matter what it serves.
Though I simply order an espresso, the waiter produces a beautiful ristretto the
color of burnt umber. As I add sugar to this half-ounce or so of coffee, the beautiful
crema coats the spoon. The coffee has a nutty quality with a touch of smokiness.
It is a tiny taste of heaven in an elegant demitasse—my ne
plus ultra of espressos.
From Naples, I proceed to the Amalfi Coast, then on to Palermo
and other destinations in Sicily. As one moves away from Naples, a fine cup of
espresso is no longer guaranteed. But I soon discover a fail-safe method: find
a small bar that advertises the brand of coffee it serves and is frequented by
working men. In Sorrento (as in other destinations on the Amalfi Coast) the tourist
spots can't always be trusted. But if you walk over to Frisbe, a bar near the
train station that serves Kimbo, you'll get a great espresso. In Trapani, a city
on the northwest corner of Sicily, the spot for reliable espresso is a tiny hole
in the wall called Bar-Market (adjacent to the fish market) that serves Moka Ef'ti.
My last espresso in Italy is drunk at the Milan airport. The taste
is bright and quite pleasant, but my heart is already taken. One sip and I find
myself longing for the dark, full-bodied coffees of southern Italy.
Richard Reynolds is communications director
of Mother
Jones Magazine and has been obsessing
over espresso for the past 20 years.
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