My doppio at Café Sant Eustachio

The experience was like boarding a plane in China or riding the 30 Stockton on Muni in San Francisco. Both require the tenacity of a Blue Heeler, complete disrespect for social distancing, and the use of one’s elbows. But instead of pushing my way to an aisle seat on a quick commuter flight to Chengdu, or grabbing any available spot before the doors closed for a breakneck jaunt through the Stockton tunnel to Union square, the prime directive was to get to the counter so I could hand over my chit for a double macchiato. Because all of humanity seemed like it was packed into a small coffee place in Rome called Café Sant Eustachio.

I’d walked past Café Sant Eustachio many times over the previous few days en route to the big ticket sights including the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, and the Galleria Borghese. For the record, the Pantheon is the single greatest structure any kind I’ve ever seen. The Trevi Fountain was being cleaned to prepare for next year’s jubilee, so had no water bubbling away from fanciful marble statuettes. But that didn’t stop a hoard of tourists from forming a long cue to amble across the scaffolding to take boocoo selfies with the now pristine marble figures. Some still threw coins into empty stone-lined troughs that otherwise would be filled with water. I guess if you’re in desperate need of good luck, you’ll take it however you can get it. As for the Borghese Gallery, it’s easily one of the greatest art collections in the world. And they serve up excellent coffee downstairs in the café. It’s Illy, one of the mainstays of the Italian espresso world.

Long before heading to Rome, I’d chatted about all things espresso with my good friend Rudy, who’s been in and out of the coffee business in Seattle and other domestic environs for over 40 years. We agreed that the Italians, who invented the process and technology for what we call espresso, still do it better and more consistently than anyone. I can attest to that having been in Italy four times over the years, always marveling at the fact that any corner joint or a truck stop can serve up a perfectly made espresso, macchiato, or cappuccino, and for cheap. Meanwhile, on this side of the pond, ordering an espresso often results in a small cup of piping hot bile water that’s bitter, devoid of flavor, and completely lacking crema, the all-important creamy foam that tops a good espresso.

Rudy agreed with my assessment. But he also said that as of late, third-wave roasting had somehow managed to establish a beachfront in the Italian coffee industry. Meaning the youngsters were under roasting espresso just like here in the U.S., with the predictable results of green, vegetal, and bitter coffee. Sacrilegio.

I was curious as to what I’d find with the state of espresso in Rome. Any concerns and contribulations were quickly assuaged on day one when my niece Maya and I walked several blocks from the apartment on the Campo Fiori to a popular neighborhood joint called Forno Monteforte. It’s sits at a busy corner and throughout the day vacillates between bustling and crammed to the gills. Step in and step up to the counter to order slices of any one of a half-dozen styles of Roman pizza, smaller sandwiches, pastries, coffees, wine, or beer.

Lunch that day—and we would come back a total of four times—was pizza and a cappuccino. I know that’s about as gringo as you get for Italy, but given the fact that I’d just gotten off an 11-hour flight and was hungry and in need of stimulants, the combination of pizza and coffee was perfect.

I’m a longtime fan of Neapolitan pizza, thinking it’s the mothership of pies. Perish the nonsense of Chicago deep-dish and the rest of the wannabees. But within minutes, I changed my Chef Boyardee tune to Roman pizza as my favorite with its thinner and crispy crust, savory toppings, and the rare use of any sauce other than olive oil. And then the coffee. Monteforte was using Illy, as do many places in Rome. Even the Vatican uses Illy. I hope the pope drinks it as he navigates the murky waters of life in the 21^st century.

Otherwise, the pizza was delicious. The coffee was strong but not bitter, the milk was frothed to the right texture and temperature, and the smidge of prepackaged raw sugar was just the right amount. In my jet lagged state, I had the first of many verklempt coffee moments; glad to be alive to be able to enjoy such a simple yet exalted beverage. Also, wondering for the first of many times why the same thing can’t be accomplished back in the states. Not to mention the cost. Lunch that day with pizza and cappuccinos for two was €10, less than $11 at the current exchange rate.

Two days later, I was at the Vatican Museums. I booked an early 8:30 AM ticket, a good things as the crowds, even in late November, quickly get insane as the day wears on. St. Peter’s square was a 25 minute hoof from the apartment. I’d already steeled myself with a breakfast of local granola topped with vanilla yogurt that could double as dessert. It tasted like melted vanilla ice cream. Also a cup of strong-ass coffee that Robert, my brother-in-law, had made in the traditional Bialetti Moka Express.

On getting to St. Peter’s, I did my usual one wrong move before pulling out my phone only to discover I was in the security line for the basilica and a considerable distance from the museums. Then a ten minute schlep to get in the right line. In short order I had my ticket checked twice, and then joined the throngs streaming inside. Once there, I had a plan thanks to prepping via one of Rick Steves’ podcasts. So I knew what to see, what to skip, and where to spend extra time.

The museums are a remarkable display of art and wealth acquired by the church over 1,500 years. A long grandiose hall filled with a succession of different sections of ancient Greek and Roman statuary, tapestries, and maps. Then there are the four magnificent chambers painted by Raphael. However, the main event of the tour is the Sistine Chapel. To fortify myself for the experience, I stopped in one of the museum’s cafes and had a quick cappuccino and cornetto (croissant). With the latter, I opted for the one filled with Nutella. When in Rome… The cappuccino was excellent and done with a machine using Illy espresso. The cost for both was €4.20.

Vigor restored, I traipsed up a couple of short flights of ancient marble steps, took two left turns, and entered the Sistine Chapel. Immediately, I stopped in my tracks, completely gobsmacked. Then, I responded like any tourist by pulling out my phone and taking two quick pictures. In seconds, I was immediately accosted by two Vatican security guards, who called me over and proceeded to ream me in Italian. Then, when it was clear I didn’t speak the vernacular, they reamed me again in English. NO PHOTOS! UNDERSTAND!? I played the part of the clueless American tourist, apologized, and then quickly disappeared into the crowd. Afterwards, I spent a long time in the chapel. I think it’s the single greatest work of art in the history of Western Civilization, and Michelangelo the greatest painter. It (chapel) must be seen in person to be truly appreciated.

Two days later, Robert, Maya, and I made a trek to the Palatine Museum that overlooks the forum with the Colosseum in the distance. On the walk over, we stopped at Café Sant Eustachio. It was founded by brothers Raimondo and Roberto Ricci in 1938. In time, they visited South American coffee plantations long before anyone else in the industry, developing relationships with the growers. Their shop and small café has been a fixture in Roman coffee culture since it opened.

That morning there wasn’t a line to get into the café. There usually is. We stepped in and Robert ordered two cappuccinos and a macchiato. Then he handed over the chit to a guy behind the counter driving a large La Marzocco espresso machine. In minutes, we had our coffees. The momentary lack of a crowd meant we could also stand at the counter and enjoy them. My cappuccino was superb, even by Roman standards. The coffee was savory and not as deeply roasted as the typical Illy. I scraped every last bit of the crema dregs out of the cup and made a mental note to come back later in the day to have another coffee and snag a bag of the yellow Nespresso-ready pods to take home.

Hours later, I did just that. By then, the masses had descended. I waited over 15 minutes in a long line before finally entering the place. I quickly grabbed a bag of pods (€20 for a bag of 50) and ordered a double macchiato. Then I turned and started to squeeze my way into the mosh pit that was the crowd trying to get to the counter to order their coffee drinks. Here is where the skills learned boarding a flight in China and riding the 30 Stockton at rush hour paid off. I quickly found the shortest line (still 5-6 people) and started wading my way towards it. Once there, I inched forward every time someone moved. It’s the same strategy a boa constrictor uses every time its prey exhales.

As I got closer to the counter, I made note of a large guy behind me to my left and two young Italian women behind me to the right. Finally, the couple in front of me left, leaving a spot at the counter just next to one of the mighty La Marzocco’s. I quickly handed one of the employees my chit. Within minutes, he put a double macchiato in front of me. I added a small packet of raw sugar, stirred, and took a sip. And then time stopped. Well, sort of. Let’s just say that in that moment, the double macchiato at Sant Eustachio’s was the best coffee drink I’d ever had. I know that may sound like a load of mortadella, but the combination of aroma, flavor, balance, and texture was perfect. I had a moment. Probably the same kind of moment I had as an infant when I discovered I could induce the passing of gas. Be that as it may, I got a little verklempt. Around me the chaos of the mosh pit still trying to order coffee raged on. But I made sure to savor my doppio macchiato as best I could. And I also made sure to once again scrape the dregs of the crema out of the cup using the tiny spoon.

Then it was time to go. Pushing my cup forward, I thanked the hombre who had made my coffee. Then, in an instant, I made an executive decision. Using the classic screen maneuver in basketball, I turned my back to the large guy, now desperately straining to get the counter, and let the two young women take my place. They smiled and offered thanks. And like that, I was gone.

As I write this, I’m back home at my desk, enjoying a double cortado made with two of the Sant Eustachio pods. It’s really good—but not as good as the double macchiato I had that day at the café. Not a surprise as context plays such a huge part in any experience with food, wine, and—of course—coffee. So I may never again have a doppio that good, unless I head back to Rome. It’s something I’m more than willing to do.