Espresso should be tipped from a tiny cup, in a crowded train station, standing up. Others methods exist, but they lack style.
Lucia taught me. Actually, it was her mom. We’d ditched our dreary dorm and turned up at her family’s place in Perugia. At midnight, a carload of cousins met our train. We swerved up a steep road and tumbled out to a long table, bright with candles, heavy with wine bottles, fragrant with oranges and pistachios.
Lacking the language, I followed along. Mornings: market. Afternoons: kitchen. Evenings: candles, wine, oranges, and pistachios. On the weekend, in Rome, her grandfather showed me old photographs and her grandmother, in exasperation, urged: "Parla italiano! E facile!”
Then Lucia’s mom packed us into the car, careened around corners, and lurched to a stop at the station. She walked her stippled leather boots across the hall, ordered an espresso, and, balancing on those spiked heels, downed it.
I’ve always minded that lesson. Sometimes I embellish with a crisp orange-pistachio bite. It’s as close as I come to speaking Italian. As promised: It’s easy.
