Enjoying Rome--with a Campari Spritz

We arrived in Rome in mid-April ready to imbibe (no doubt from the Latin for "drink"—bibere) a lot of Campari,  the somewhat bitter liqueur that we had first experienced decades ago, and immediately disliked. The bars in San Lorenzo, Piazza Bologna, and elsewhere in the city were ready to oblige the evolution in our tastebuds. The Campari Spritz (Campari and Prosecco with a twist of orange peel) is ubiquitous, exceeded in popularity only by its counterpart, the Aperol Spritz—sweeter, not to our liking.

The classic Negroni—made with equal parts Campari, sweet vermouth, and gin, is also very popular, as is the Milano-Torino (Campari and sweet vermouth, no mixer), known familiarly as the Mi-To (pronounced Me-Toe), the name derived from the origin of the ingredients: Campari is made in Milano, sweet vermouth [by Martini and Rossi] in Torino (mito also is "myth" in Italian). 

In the city center, across from Piazza Venezia, a busy bar filled with tourists had as its centerpiece over-sized bottles of Campari and Aperol.

High-up, center: Campari featured prominently at the local bar, "My Way," we frequented in
the Piazza Bologna area (it was our favorite morning coffee bar in the neighborhood).
 And 5 bottles Campari to 1 Aperol.

In Rome, the "spritz" is almost always served in a large wine glass with plenty of ice. 

Nothing like a spritz (pronounced "spreetz") to put a 
smile on your face.

You can also get a "spritz" to go. At this place—at a Liberation Day celebration—the price was E6 (about $6.60).

The spritz has also reached London, but only in the trendier areas, like Soho in the photo below. The Brits will have trouble giving up their beer.

London

The standard price in Rome for a Campari Spritz is E5 (the Happy Hour price) to E6/7, and the price sometimes includes potato chips, olives, and peanuts. The price was E10 at Satyrus—no chips, no nothing—but it's a trendy, seasonal bar, on the edge of Villa Borghese, across the street from the National Gallery of Modern Art (with free admission that day, so we could afford the pricey spritzes, and the Euro is currently a beguiling $1.10).

Dianne at Satyrus—

—overlooking the gallery

Enjoying a "spritz" at Tree Bar on via Flaminia—note the hand-cut chips and other goodies.

Of course, the grocery stores carry Campari Soda, in those cute one-portion triangular bottles designed by Futurist artist Fortunato Depero in 1934, shown here in an all-Depero exhibit currently at Rhinoceros Gallery in the Hotel Rhinoceros. The gallery is just steps from the Bocca della Verità and down the street from the Campidoglio. 

Curiously, it proved difficult to find our own bottle of Campari, for home consumption (mostly by our guests, we claim). Rome's grocery stores all carry copious amounts of wine, spirits, and liqueurs, but Campari was never on the shelf. In one store, a cashier who appeared to be knowledgeable told us that the Campari was under lock and key in storage, because it was a frequently stolen item. He sent an employee to the back room—he was sure it was there—but the employee came up empty, twice, as did the cashier on his own expedition. Then we noticed that some bars had what looked like Campari, but the label was somewhat different; we wondered what was going on. 

Finally, we found our Campari, in of all places—a mini-market just down the street from our Piazza Bologna apartment. Mission accomplished!

Mini-market to the rescue! An ample supply of Campari. Aperol, too. Sweet vermouth to the right.

We later became aware that over the last decade or so, Campari—made only by one company—has now and then been in short supply. Given that some young folks have abandoned wine for beer and cocktails, and given that Campari is a widely favored cocktail ingredient, the shortage that we experienced makes sense.

Just a few years ago, a sign for "cocktails" would have been a rare sighting in Rome. Not today. We have since learned from a teacher friend that Italians are not particularly good with the apostrophe—even in their own language, let alone English (nor are Americans, we've noticed).

 

Bill

The Rome Mini Market: Suddenly Controversial

It's after midnight in your corner of Rome, and you need a bottle of wine, cookies, milk for your morning cereal, some cheese and fruit.  There is no 24-hour supermarket.  One small chain grocery closed at 10, another at 8.  Where do you go?  To the MINI MARKET, of course.

There are lots of mini markets in Rome, and the numbers are up.  In 2016 there were 1432 mini markets.  In 2017, 1622. 

The prices are higher than at the grocery stores--you can expect to pay E9./10 for your Ribolla Gialla (white wine), rather than E7.  But at 12:25 a.m., convenience is everything.  The mini market it is.

Mini Market, Salario

We're not sure why mini markets are flourishing.  We know that Rome has become a late-night (or later-night) city.  A decade ago, one could wander the Centro at 10 p.m. and not find a place to get a plate of pasta ("abbiamo buttato l'acqua per pasta" - "we've thrown out the pasta water," we heard at 10 p.m.).

No more.  The Movida--that late-night gathering of young drinkers/partiers, once concentrated in Campo de' Fiori, Ponte Milvio, and Trastevere, has spread to Ostiense, middle-class Piazza Bologna, and other locales.  Grocery store hours failed to meet the growing demand for late-night drinks and food.  Mini markets filled the void.  Similar growth has occurred in frutterie--small stores selling fruits and vegetables, and sometimes wine.

The rapid rise of the mini market has not been universally accepted. Indeed, the department of Rome's city government that regulates this sort of commerce recently passed a regulation freezing for 3 years the number of mini markets, frutterie, and other small shops, including self-service laundries, places that roast chickens, gold-buying centers, and massage parlors. 

Mini market app for Rome

What's going on?  One theory is that the authorities dislike the late-night drinking that these small businesses encourage, or abet.  That's certainly a factor. It's well known that young folks, especially, buy their late-night alcohol at mini markets. Best evidence for this interpretation: there's actually an app for Rome's late night mini markets, one apparently designed to help thirsty youth find the closest one.  Appropriately, the app takes its name from the Bangladeshi, the largest mini-market ownership group after native Italians. At right a screenshot of the app, "Bangladino" [just type "bangladino" in the App Store search blank].  It shows you the mini markets around your location, when they close, and the price of a beer (in this case E1.5) for comparison shopping.

But you can't get a beer while selling your gold, or at a massage parlor, at a laundry, or at some of the frutterie we've frequented.

The real story has to do with who owns the mini markets and other small shops. Of Rome's active mini markets in 2018, the majority are owned by Italians (1,473); Bangladeshi own 664; Egyptians own 48; and Romanians 40.  It makes sense that new immigrant groups would be active in mini markets and related businesses; these small stores require minimal capital, allow new owners to profit from extended hours (involving the whole family) that long-established, Italian-owned businesses are unwilling to sustain; and they would seem to be an obvious place to begin the process of achieving middle-class status.

in della Vittoria

Even so, it seems clear that the inroads made by new immigrant groups in these businesses are disturbing to Italians, some of whom see themselves as wrongly displaced, victims of globalization and immigration.

Anxieties about immigrants and the Italians they presumably displace: that's the reason for the 3-year moratorium on mini markets, et. al.

Bill