Italian dinner happens at 8:30 or 9:00pm. American nutrition advice has spent decades insisting that eating late causes weight gain, that the body stores evening calories as fat, that the kitchen should close by 7:00pm. The Italians eat late and maintain lower obesity rates than Americans who eat early. This apparent paradox confuses Americans who …
The focaccia Genovese is the one the world knows, the dimpled, golden, olive-oil-soaked flatbread from Liguria that fills bakery windows from Genoa to Brooklyn. It deserves its fame. But it is not the only focaccia worth learning, and eight hundred kilometers to the south, the city of Bari makes a version that stands entirely on …
For a growing number of American retirees, the reason for leaving is not the weather or the food or the romance of Europe. It is the healthcare. After a working life spent fearing medical bills, and facing retirement with Medicare premiums, supplement plans, deductibles and the ever-present dread of a catastrophic diagnosis, many older Americans …
You have walked all morning through the Roman heat, and the Spanish Steps rise in front of you, a hundred and thirty-odd travertine steps sweeping up toward a church, sun-warmed and inviting. So you do the natural thing and sit down to rest. Within moments a police officer with a whistle is heading your way, …
A Spanish family meal does not end when the food does. The plates are cleared, or half cleared, and everyone stays. The talk keeps going, coffee appears, maybe a small glass of something, and an hour later the same people are still at the same table, in no hurry to be anywhere else. A lunch …
A woman in her early sixties stands at her apartment door in Lucca. She has been here for 26 months. She is going home to Pittsburgh. She is not unusual. Most American women over 58 who move to Italy do this. The return is rarely about Italy. It is about specific structural factors that the …
On a side street off a Roman piazza, a curved iron spout pours a steady arc of cold water into a drain, and has been doing so, day and night, for longer than anyone walking past has been alive. It never shuts off. The water is clean, it is free, and it is the same …
The barista has read you before you reach the end of the sentence. Not from your accent, though that helps, and not from your clothes. From the order itself, which in Italy carries more about who you are than most people crossing the counter realize they are handing over. Stand at the banco of a …
The pasta was twelve euros. The wine was reasonable. The meal was lovely. Then the bill arrives, and there at the bottom sits a line that was not on any dish: coperto, two euros per person, roughly $2.20 each. To an American, freshly seated in their first Italian trattoria, it looks exactly like the thing …
Say the word pesto and most people picture one thing: the bright green Genoese sauce of basil, pine nuts, and Parmesan from the north of Italy. But travel to the far western tip of Sicily, to the port city of Trapani, and you will find a different pesto entirely. It is red, not green. It …
An American walks into a bar in Rome, orders an espresso, and glances at the price list. The same coffee appears twice, at two different prices. One column says something like €1.20, roughly $1.30. Another says €3.50, about $3.80. Same cup, same beans, nearly triple the price. It looks like a mistake, or a trick. …
Watch the evening paseo in any Spanish town and you will see them. Women in their sixties in pressed linen, walking arm in arm at a pace they could hold for hours, faces lined but somehow light. Men the same age in proper shoes, straight-backed, arguing about football with their hands. We see it every …