the aperitivo that made me want to stay

the story of bittersweet goodbyes and aperitivos

Mitch and I have been turning heads in Genova. I guess that’s what happens when you carry your dog around in a backpack. The fact he suddenly pops into view whenever I tilt to the side to as if I can enter somewhere probably doesn’t help my case. And so, as we walk into the quiet Bar degli Asinelli around 5’30, the scene repeats itself.

“Ma que bello! Mira il cagnolino!”, they exclaims, usually nudging a coworker to come and see.

“Posso?”, they ask, already reaching out with a treat.

I’ll never get tired of how Italians love dogs. It makes me smile so much, and it makes things easier : I just bring Mitch everywhere with me. He certainly doesn’t mind being the center of attention at all times, getting almost an extra meal a day in treats.

I take a seat at a table near the counter. The bar is mostly empty. The décor is eclectic, with red and white checkered tablecloths, wooden benches and chairs, walls layered in old newspapers and hand drawn sketches, and miniature wooden ships hanging high up on the wall. At the back, a collection of bottles lines the shelves, with a small table tucked tightly in front, a sign of just how busy this place can get

I gesture to the barmaid for a corochinato, one of the drinks I had read about while putting together my Genovese food guide. She must’ve caught my Spanish slipping into my Italian, because she answers me in Spanish. I’m not against the break, as I forgot how tiring it can be to learn a new language. Your brain really does be working overtime. She’s from Ecuador, with the kind of long, glossy dark hair so many South American women seem blessed with. As she pours my drink, she explains that corochinato is a bittersweet fortified wine infused with local herbs and spices. It’s also known as “Asinello”, which is Italian for little donkey, a reference to how wine was traditionally transported down from the hills of Coronata into the city, strapped to donkeys. I’m a sucker for those kinds of facts lol. Just imagining that cute little donkey hauling wine? Ugh. Suddenly, the label on the bottle makes perfect sense

She places the glass in front of me. A small elongated wine glass with a thin stem and a slice of lemon. I bring it to my lips, enjoying the herbal and citrusy scents before taking a sip. It’s absolutely delicious. The bitterness hits first, but then the complexity unfolds. It makes you want another sip immediately, but I may be biased, because I adore vermouth, and this is kind of the same idea.

A basket of diced focaccia soon appears on the table, and Mitch starts shifting impatiently in his backpack. I’m amazed at how even the most underwhelming focaccia in Genova is still better than most anywhere else. This one is slick with oil, some pieces staler than the others, and I love it. Mitch seems to love it too, as he stares at me, waiting for another bite. His patience must run thin, as he places his paw on my knee, signaling the urgency of the matter.

Soon, the basket is empty, and the bar suddenly full.

I didn’t notice, too absorbed by my book.

Two men in running gear come in, scanning the room for seats. They spot the available chairs at the end of my table, now a hot commodity in this busy bar. I make room for them at our now shared table.

“Grazie! Sei molto simpatica”, the man in the red shirt says, patting my shoulder as they sit.

Their drinks arrive. Corochinato, of course. Apart from one older man ordering Prosecco, it seems to be the drink of choice here. It probably helps that it’s only €1.50 a glass, a price that hasn’t budged in years. No wonder the place is full of students

One of the gentlemen’s glasses catches my eye. It’s darker, redder than the usual golden hue. They must’ve noticed me staring with curiosity, because the man in red turns toward me, explaining that it’s with added amaro, a bitter-sweet herbal liqueur.

“Il amaro bilancia il dolce”, the man in red explains lively.

“Un po’ come il vermùt?” I ask cautiously, hoping not to say something dumb.

“Brava!”, he replies enthusiastically, which I’ve learned to be a good thing

We get to talking a bit. They seem intrigued by my presence here. I manage to keep up in Italian, and I guess a little liquid courage helps untie the tongue. I quickly go over my culinary journey traveling through Italy by train with my dog, exploring Italian cuisine and reconnecting with my creativity.

Pretty soon, we’re leaning in to hear each other over the rising background noise. A student must’ve graduated, as he’s celebrating loudly with friends, a kind of laurel wreath resting on his head.

The man with the red t-shirt introduces himself as Teverino. He has olive skin, dark hair and deep brown eyes. He’s confident but not arrogant, and is the kind of person who will hold the conversation if needed. He borrows my pen and scribbles the name of his restaurant onto the napkin I’ve been writing my newsletter draft on. A habit I’ve picked up here and can’t seem to shake.

Napkins as notebooks. My purse is full of them, each carrying my memories and ideas. Some make it to my iPad, others to my notebook, but all make it to my heart.

Turns out, his restaurant is not far from where I’m staying. He casually mentions I should stop by if I’m ever looking for a cooking job in Genova. An open invitation. I love it. I smile, and thank him for the offer.

His friend, Luigi, barely has time to introduce himself before they had finished their glasses and were ready to go. He has a short buzz cut, a white t-shirt, and a calm, steady presence. We exchange goodbyes, and off they go. Looking back, I guess it doesn’t get much more la dolce vita than sipping a corochinato right after a run. It’s called balance (lol), and I deeply relate.

I lean back into my chair, relax my shoulders and take the last sip of my sweet, fortified wine before ordering another one, this time with amaro.

I really have to come back to Genova.