| The
Week I Became a Doppio Addict |
| It was 7 a.m. in the Amsterdam airport (1 a.m. stateside)
and I needed a pick-me-up to keep me awake until we arrived
in Rome later that day. Officially, (meaning what I tell my
nutritionist) I drink decaf. However, when I feel myself dragging
or need a burst of creative energywhich is about every 17
minutesI sneak a regular coffee. |
| I approached the airport coffee counter and ordered a "café"
so as not to give away my Americanism. I handed the barista
a five euro bill. He gave me back three euro coins. I had
not yet figured out the numeric equivalent of "two bits, four
bits, six bits a dollar" and I must admit that after the whole
Susan B. Anthony debacle, I'm still not comfortable with these
kinds of coins. |
| After pocketing the coins, I watched the barista approach
the Airbus A380 coffee machine to make my drink. This bad
boy would kick Mr. Coffee's carafe. This was hardcore, steam-driven,
testosterone-level caffeine, and the barista worked like Michelangelo
shuffling cups, turning knobs and pushing buttons. Then, with
the grace of a ballerina, he turned and handed me a cup the
size of my daughter's American Doll tea set containing a small
dose of concentrated black oil. |
| I wasn't sure whether to sip it or throw it back like a
shot of tequila. Since I had two hours to kill, I took a sip.
I felt the layer of enamel melt off my teeth. The burn down
my throat forced me to yell "Ricola!" (I WAS in Amsterdam).
I took a second sip, which, by the way, was also the good-to-the-last
drop, and felt a surge of caffeine course through my veins.
|
| I had just survived my first European espresso…and I wanted
another hit. |
| "Again," I said, and this time I threw it back like an old
pro. |
| We got to Rome at about 10 a.m. (4 a.m. our time) and I
needed another jolt while we waited for our train. I slid
up to the coffee counter and glanced at the menu. That's when
it hit me. We were in the land of cappuccino and espresso,
grandé and venti, DeNiro and Pacino. Starbucks hadn't invented
the macchiato; they stole it from the Italians. And now I
got to try the real deal. |
| I ordered another café. The barista said, "Americano?" I
was impressed that he knew I was American from a simple "café"
and said, "Why yes, thank you." He handed me a regular-size
cup two-thirds full of what looked like American coffee. While
it had a similar taste to the espresso in Amsterdam, it had
been watered down. I later learned that this café Americano
was the Italian version of American coffeeespresso mixed
with water so the girly Americans can have their "full" cup
of Joe. It tasted good but lacked the high-octane rush of
the espresso. So I ordered another non-Americano. |
| I didn't know it then, but I had stumbled into the jittery
caffeine jungle and there was no turning back. I could even
hear the drums beating. No, wait, that was my heartbeat. |
| The biggest problem for me was ordering the right drink.
Most Italians simply order "café" (one shot of espresso).
I needed a "café doppio" (two shots of espresso). Misunderstanding
my order, the baristas always gave me a café Americano apparently
because I was speaking Americano. Finally, by the end of the
week, I discovered that if I ordered an "espresso doppio,"
they knew what I wanted. So order I didfor breakfast, lunch,
mid-afternoon and dinner. I even snuck one from the hotel
bar after my family went to bed. |
| Upon returning to the United States and after being awake
for 45 straight hours, I tried to recreate my caffeine adventure
in Italy. Regular Starbucks' coffee tasted like diluted water.
A café Americano was betterat least it tasted like diluted
coffee. But if I was to grow hair on my chest like the Italian
women I admired, I'd have to find a stronger coffeeand one
that lasted longer than a simple shot of American espresso. |
| It took several attempts, typically after my family went
to bed, but I eventually discovered that a small cup of coffee
with two shots of espresso most closely resembles the taste
of the hardcore cafés of Italy. I once again savored the burn,
the rush and the jitter. |
| My name is Ron Culberson and I am a doppio addict. |
| Until next time, just humor me. |
