jackpot

When we moved into our apartment, one of our very first purchases was a great big bottle of Campari. (It was 3rd on our list, right below 1) sheets and 2) towels.) Luckily for us, at the grocery store three blocks from our place, a whole liter of the stuff cost just 9,79—whereas, in Minneapolis, we paid about $20 for the same. We christened our new home by clinking together two lovely big glasses of Campari.

And then we did it again the next evening. And the next…

Well, you get the idea. And this was all well and good for some time.

But then, tragedy. One day, suddenly, Campari simply vanished from the grocery store. Weeks went by—weeks!—without a restock. Every time we shopped there (which was often, as we are rarely capable of planning further ahead than that night’s meal and maybe some snacks), we hopefully checked the bottom shelf, even crouching down to push aside other bottles and peer back into the shelf’s dusty recesses. Nothing.

What to do? We had seen bottles, way up high on the top shelf, at Castroni, a nearby café and gourmet grocery. In addition to serving the usual coffee and sandwiches, this establishment sells fancy Italian candies, freshly ground coffee, and assorted other things tourists might like to buy, as well as exotic imports such as Heinz Baked Beanz and French’s Yellow Mustard. As you might expect, everything here is just a bit spendier than it should be. And the Campari? Highway robbery at 18 per bottle. Sure, we’d shelled out close to that in the States—but this is Italy! This is no longer an import we’re talking about! No, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to pay that.

So we began adopting various stopgap measures. We tried Aperol, a sweeter, pinker, lower-alcohol-content liqueur. In fact, we weren’t even sure that this beverage had any relation whatsoever to Campari—for example, is it even a bitters? It sure seems awfully sweet for a bitters—but it was near where the Campari usually was, and it was sort of a similar color. We were DESPERATE.

At some point it occurred to us to check the shelves at Standa, which is quite a bit farther away and also pricier—but they did have Campari. Only in smaller bottles, though—750ml each—and only three of those bottles. This was unnerving—why only three? Was there (god forbid) a city-wide—or at least a Prati-wide—Campari shortage?

I hardly need to tell you that we weren’t about to take any chances. We scooped up all three bottles and headed for the checkout. And boy, did I ever feel self-conscious as we waited in line. I determined that a good portion of my unease stemmed from the novelty (to a MInnesotan) of being able to purchase liquor at the supermarket. It’s great, but it also a bit discomfiting if you’re unused to it. At a liquor store, when all you’re buying is alcohol, well, that’s just fine—that’s what you buy at the liquor store. But at a grocery store, it feels a bit…I don’t know…irresponsible. After all, you could be buying breakfast cereal and fresh vegetables and all manner of other healthful, wholesome things. But not us. No, we were clutching 2,250ml of alcohol and a razor for J. A strange and potentially deadly combination.

*****

As long as I’m going on and on about our quest for Campari, I suppose some introductions are in order, just in case you’re not acquainted with the libation. It is, as mentioned above, a bitters, and it is made from an old and super-secret recipe that I suspect is comprised mainly of roots and berries. The official website claims the following:

…the recipe, which has remained unchanged, originated in Novara in 1860 and is the base for some of the most famous alcoholic beverages around the world. Campari is an alcoholic aperitif obtained from the infusion of bitter herbs, aromatic plants and fruit in alcohol and water.

J and I tend to dispense with all the flowery language and just talk about “Vitamin C.” The provenance of this very affectionate nickname is—much to my dad’s chagrin—this: in the very early days of our stay in Rome, I’d said in an email to my parents that the language barrier was still very firmly in place, tall and metal and bolted to the floor and guarded by bouncers, even more imposing than the barrier between me and Morrissey at the Apollo show (more on that later). However, I added proudly, we were getting fairly adept at navigating the really important social interactions: ordering ice cream, coffee, and Campari. My dad wrote back to say that when he’d told us to take our Vitamin C, he hadn’t been speaking of Campari.

Well! That was clearly a sobriquet we couldn’t pass up. It was perfect. J and I even had several detailed discussions about getting our daily vitamins—C would be Campari, C₂ would represent coffee, and Vitamin G, of course, would be gelato. Mmm, nutrition.

As for how we take our vitamins, my dad himself always insisted that the best way to drink Campari, according to the Italians, was neat with a twist. I’ve had it this way and it’s very good. But actually ordering it didn’t turn out to be a breeze, which is part of why it was an accomplishment worth sharing. First of all, if you simply ask for “due Campari,” you will almost definitely be served Campari Soda. This is just what it sounds like—Campari mixed with soda water, and served over ice. It’s not bad, and can even be quite refreshing once in a while, but when you want the “real thing” the Soda pretty much just tastes watered down.

What you need to ask for is “bitter Campari.” And no, you don’t translate bitter—you just pronounce it as if it were an Italian word, so that it comes out “beetehr.”

From here, if you specify no further, what you will get is Campari on ice. To get it without, the most stylish course is to order it liscio—the equivalent of “neat,” and literally meaning “smooth.” The more pedestrian but also much more straightforward senza ghiaccio (without ice) will work, too.

But we found that when we ordered “bitter Campari liscio,” we received not only no ghiaccio, but also no twist of limone or arancia—just straight Campari in a glass. Again, this is good, but not quite as good as a twist could make it. And while I suppose we could have tried asking for “bitter Campari, senza ghiaccio, con limone,” we…well, we just didn’t. Instead we took the easy way out and started having our Campari with ice. What we discovered was that, as a summertime drink, Campari on the rocks—with a slice and sometimes a squeeze of lemon or orange—really can’t be beat.

*****

By the time our grocery store’s shelves had been bare of Campari for more than a month, I’d really begun to lose hope. I hardly even glanced in the old spot anymore when we shopped. J had greater faith, but conceded that the situation was bleak. As each day passed, it seemed less and less likely that our Vitamin C would ever reappear.

And then one day, we were doing our shopping and I had lagged behind J somehow, probably by stopping to gaze at the selection of cheese or some such thing. When I finally turned the corner into the liquor aisle I saw J standing there, transfixed, with a broad smile across his face. I followed his gaze, and there they were—gorgeous 1-liter bottles, neatly arranged four abreast on the bottom shelf, exactly where they used to be.

I actually squealed with delight. Right there in the grocery store.

And now, because it would hardly be fair to keep the benefits of a balanced diet all to myself, see below for the mixing instructions to a few cocktails that go beyond the basics. Just click for the recipe cards!

Americano	Campari Orange
Goodnight Kiss	Negroni