One of the things I miss the most about Italy is the coffee. I taught and studied there for a year in 2000/2001 in Florence, and I really loved it. Not only did I get to study art, I also lived in a real Italian neighborhood in the center of the city not far from the Duomo. I tried to learn as much Italian as I could (not enough though) and learned to live like a native! (Well, almost).
I had an apartment on via Alfani just up the street from San Marco and before Sant' Annunziata. My next door neighbor was a sweet Italian grandma that I only ever knew as Nonna, but she came with a dish of food and a friendly smile, and a blurr of shotgunned Italian the first day after I moved in. We could barely communicate, but she became a wonderful friend. My other Mama.
She taught me how to use the funny little coffee pot that came with my furnished apartment, and I immediately fell in love with Cappucino. The pot allowed me to heat the milk at the same time and I got addicted quickly. But Tuscans only drink it for breakfast. The coffee bars around Florence cater to tourists though, so you could get it at a bar any time of the day....often with a beautiful design carved in the foam by the talented (and often very sexy looking) baristo. I was told that if he swirled a heart on top, rather than just a squiggle, it meant he was flirting with you. I am not a young thing, although single, and I don't know if it was true or not, but it was fun to think so. Italian men are huge flirts and they seem to enjoy women whatever their age!
This dedication to customer service was true of all the Italian vendors I met. They all took an enormous amount of pride in their work. Fruit vendors in the Mercato Centrale vied for your business by claiming to have the juciest and the best, hand picking it from their selection, carefully wrapping it in tissue like a small gift and making sure they put in a bit extra or a small sample of nuts or an exotic fruit to insure you came back again. The vegetable vendors did the same, always including a small bundle of aromatics for soffrito (celery, onion, carrot, a little parsley) since every Italian started their soup or sauce with these ingredients. No one hurried, and no one complained. Probably because they wanted the same individual attention when it came their turn.
Even the the waiters at the local pizzaria treated me like a VIP. I had a favorite ristorante and went there about once a week while I lived in Florence, often times bringing students or visiting family or friends with me. After awhile, they got to know me, called me "professoressa", and argued over who would wait on me. All the waiters were young gods who made my female students sigh, and it was very flattering to be treated as preferred customers. After about two months, two of the sons who worked in the business asked me to meet their parents who operated the restaurant. Mamma was the cashier, Papa was chef in the kitchen and made the lasagna and other fresh dishes in the back, and the cousins tossed pizza dough to bake in the brick oven where we patrons could watch. They tossed dough with a flourish, and served it with a smile. They all gave you personalized service and if they were serving or helping you, no one else existed. You did not get rushed service if they were busy, you got your full measure of attention, and were treated as if you were the most important customer they had. This was not a 4 star restaurant, this was the local pizzaria. They became my "Pizza Boys". They practiced their English, I practiced my Italian. On a quiet night, Guiseppi (the youngest ) would do his homework at my table while I sipped my after dinner coffee and we would talk. His brother Antonio wanted to move to New York and start a Pizzaria there when he got older. He told me he was looking for a rich American wife! They were sweet boys and I felt honored to be included in their little family. Can you imagine anything like that happening here in the US?
Another example of art of the heart - in more ways than one.
Sharon
I had an apartment on via Alfani just up the street from San Marco and before Sant' Annunziata. My next door neighbor was a sweet Italian grandma that I only ever knew as Nonna, but she came with a dish of food and a friendly smile, and a blurr of shotgunned Italian the first day after I moved in. We could barely communicate, but she became a wonderful friend. My other Mama.
She taught me how to use the funny little coffee pot that came with my furnished apartment, and I immediately fell in love with Cappucino. The pot allowed me to heat the milk at the same time and I got addicted quickly. But Tuscans only drink it for breakfast. The coffee bars around Florence cater to tourists though, so you could get it at a bar any time of the day....often with a beautiful design carved in the foam by the talented (and often very sexy looking) baristo. I was told that if he swirled a heart on top, rather than just a squiggle, it meant he was flirting with you. I am not a young thing, although single, and I don't know if it was true or not, but it was fun to think so. Italian men are huge flirts and they seem to enjoy women whatever their age!
This dedication to customer service was true of all the Italian vendors I met. They all took an enormous amount of pride in their work. Fruit vendors in the Mercato Centrale vied for your business by claiming to have the juciest and the best, hand picking it from their selection, carefully wrapping it in tissue like a small gift and making sure they put in a bit extra or a small sample of nuts or an exotic fruit to insure you came back again. The vegetable vendors did the same, always including a small bundle of aromatics for soffrito (celery, onion, carrot, a little parsley) since every Italian started their soup or sauce with these ingredients. No one hurried, and no one complained. Probably because they wanted the same individual attention when it came their turn.
Even the the waiters at the local pizzaria treated me like a VIP. I had a favorite ristorante and went there about once a week while I lived in Florence, often times bringing students or visiting family or friends with me. After awhile, they got to know me, called me "professoressa", and argued over who would wait on me. All the waiters were young gods who made my female students sigh, and it was very flattering to be treated as preferred customers. After about two months, two of the sons who worked in the business asked me to meet their parents who operated the restaurant. Mamma was the cashier, Papa was chef in the kitchen and made the lasagna and other fresh dishes in the back, and the cousins tossed pizza dough to bake in the brick oven where we patrons could watch. They tossed dough with a flourish, and served it with a smile. They all gave you personalized service and if they were serving or helping you, no one else existed. You did not get rushed service if they were busy, you got your full measure of attention, and were treated as if you were the most important customer they had. This was not a 4 star restaurant, this was the local pizzaria. They became my "Pizza Boys". They practiced their English, I practiced my Italian. On a quiet night, Guiseppi (the youngest ) would do his homework at my table while I sipped my after dinner coffee and we would talk. His brother Antonio wanted to move to New York and start a Pizzaria there when he got older. He told me he was looking for a rich American wife! They were sweet boys and I felt honored to be included in their little family. Can you imagine anything like that happening here in the US?
Another example of art of the heart - in more ways than one.
Sharon
1 comment:
Sharon ... I just felt an overwhelming desire to "Google" Missing Italy and found your blog. Truly you made me smile, remembering my recent visit to Florence (July 14-16/2008) you captured many of my fondest memories of the city, people, and of course, food! Be still my heart. What a pleasure it was to walk down that memory lane, if only for a brief moment. I hope to return there again (Porcino in the market should ensure my return) -- I love the people (coffee with smiley faces) and way of life--I'm not single, young, or wealthy, but hey, to sleep to sleep perchance to dream!
Cheers,
Canadian Cindy
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