Boozehound - Jason Wilson [46]
Finally, we were joined by Lorenzo Vavassori, a regional marketing director who oversees the United States. That’s when I mentioned that many of the high-end cocktail bars in America were mixing with Italian spirits. “Just look at cocktail menus in New York and San Francisco,” I said. “Campari, Aperol, Punt e Mes, Cynar …”
“Cynar?” Vavassori looked at me, and then furtively at Reina. The look was clear: are you putting me on? “This is surprising to me,” he said. “It’s something I’m interested in investigating.”
“I really, really think you should bring Zucca into the United States!” I said, perhaps a little too exuberantly. “I know you’d have a lot of bartenders clamoring for it.”
Vavassori laughed and was now thoroughly convinced I was joking with him. Exporting Zucca to the United States was definitely not in the strategic plan. “Maybe I need to take you to my meetings with Bacardi,” he said.
After my unsuccessful plea to the Disaronno people, it was time to head to Milan. While I waited for a taxi, I drank a Zucca with sparkling water in Illva Saronno’s company bar. So what does Zucca taste like? It’s a weird yet entirely pleasant mix of earthy and delicate, vanilla and bitter, yam and coffee—to toss out some pretentious, winelike descriptors. What Zucca really tastes like, to me, is Milan itself.
I arrived in Milan just before happy hour. That’s what Milanese call it: “happy hour,” untranslated, in English. This, however, is where the similarities to our hallowed American institution end. For starters, look at what’s in the rail: Campari, Aperol, bianco vermouth, Punt e Mes, and bottles of prosecco on ice. It’s not exactly the high-octane stuff most American bargoers are used to.
Take a gander at the crowd. This is not a shot-and-beer crowd or a Captain-and-Coke crowd. Look at those coiffed men with red pants and brown belts, or crisp blue suits and brown shoes, or sweaters draped around their necks, all nursing bitter, orange-colored drinks. They spill outside the bar, onto the sidewalk, into the street, chatting up the lithe, tan, sunglassed women who drive Vespas in their high heels and puff on cigarettes, causing you to rethink your whole position on smoking. No one seems to be in any hurry, and happy hour usually stretches well into the evening. Finally, look at the prices. Milanese happy hour does not involve two-for-one Coronas. The prices actually go up a few euros during happy hour, when an Americano averages about eight euros. And, wait, you can’t pay the bartender directly. Be sure to go to the cashier—she’s the really bored woman dressed in Prada over there behind the counter—and get a receipt. Now you may have your aperitivo.
Once you have your Negroni Sbagliato or Aperol Spritz in hand, that’s when you realize what you’re paying for—the “complimentary” snacks. In Milan, at places like Radetzky or Bar Brera or Bhangrabar, they don’t just toss out a bowl of nuts or a tray of lukewarm hot wings. There are perfect little tramezzini and panini, made with the finest speck and bresaola and culatello and prosciutto. There are wheels of Parmigiano-Reggiano, squares of polenta covered in Gorgonzola, and three kinds of olives. There are caper berries, slices of melon, and artichoke hearts. There are platters of risotto, tortelli di zucca in butter-sage sauce, and black linguini made with squid ink.
I spent a lot of time at happy hour years ago as a student in Italy. I’d join the crowds hopping from bar to bar and piece together an amazing meal on my meager budget. I’ve continued to mingle in the crowded happy hours on my return visits, but I’ve never been able to solve this one great mystery: with so much great food, how do the fashionable Milanese still fit into their chic clothes? In Italy, happy hour is an everyday ritual that illuminates two innately Italian traits at once: it involves an opportunity to enjoy excellent food and drink; and it provides a wonderful chance