I love this espresso granita, but if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s people returning from Paris, Rome, or Prague suddenly incapable of discussing anything that isn’t Paris, Rome, or Prague.

Everything becomes “the bread in France,” “the tomatoes in Italy,” or “the way they make coffee in Prague.” They tell these stories with the quiet certainty that those of us who weren’t there simply can’t understand.

The annoying part? They’re usually right.

My college roommate spent six weeks in England taking a government class held at Cambridge. It wasn’t actually Cambridge University, a distinction he somehow misplaced immediately upon returning.

Within forty-eight hours he had developed a faint British accent. Not enough to fool anyone, just enough to make ordering cereal uncomfortable. Every vowel had apparently studied abroad.

But this post is supposed to be about food, isn’t it?

Just two weeks after returning from France, my mother’s friend Suzanne sighed dreamily,

“Oh Trevor, you have never tasted anything like the veal we had that night at La Tige D’or!”    

Well, having never eaten at La Tige d’Or, I was at something of a disadvantage in the discussion. I couldn’t very well argue that her veal wasn’t transcendent. I wasn’t there. For all I know the calf spoke French and was rude to foreigners. Suzanne had me cornered. Since I hadn’t actually eaten the veal, my only available response was,

“Well… I’m happy for you.”

She then went on about her ‘motor picnic’ in the country,

“It was the most amaaazing bottle of wine we have ever had and it cost only 2 Euros. Can you believe that?  You just can’t find wine as good as that here in *this country*.  I would put that bottle up against anything in Wine Spectator.”

She stretched the word “amazing” over three syllables, which I have since learned is one of the accepted side effects of returning from Europe.

To be fair, if I’d spent ten thousand dollars wandering through France, I suspect I’d remember that two-euro bottle rather fondly myself. Confirmation bias is a marvelous thing. So is drinking wine in a vineyard you’ve dreamed about for twenty years. Under those circumstances I’d probably describe windshield washer fluid as “surprisingly expressive, with hints of citrus.”

The condition isn’t always temporary, either.

I once briefly dated someone who had spent four months in Australia. Six years later he was still living there conversationally. Every third sentence began with, “Well, in Australia…” as though we’d all been waiting patiently for the Australian perspective on folding laundry or ordering Chinese takeout.

Enough already.

The Best Espresso Granita in Rome?

So naturally…

Three weeks ago I returned from Rome and immediately sat down to tell you about something you simply cannot appreciate unless you’ve stood exactly where I stood.

Yup, I have become the very person I claim here to despise. And it happened faster than I imagined.

I know what you’re thinking. Surely we made our way to the famous Cremeria Monteforte on Via della Rotonda, the one championed by David Lebovitz. We did not. Nor did we join the line at Tazza d’Oro, just across from the Pantheon.

No. Three weeks in Rome was apparently all it took for me to develop very strong opinions about Roman coffee bars.

Fortunately, our expatriate friend Rick has lived there long enough to have actually earned those opinions. He steered us instead to Sant’Eustachio Il Caffè, tucked away in a quiet little piazza between the Pantheon and Piazza Navona. Bernini’s magnificent fountains nearby are, of course, incapable of directly improving the flavor of coffee, despite what every travel writer would have you believe. The café itself has been roasting coffee since the 1930s, which, in Rome, is practically new construction.

 I knew we were in for a special treat when I saw that the granita at this Sant’Eustachio Il Caffè was so well thought of that real Romans were lining up at its counters in the middle of this hot-as-blazes Roman summer.

“Trust me when I say that you have never tasted anything as good as this particular granita! You just can’t find espresso granita as good in The States.”  

Perhaps not. Espresso granita isn’t something you stumble across very often on this side of the Atlantic unless you’re willing to make it yourself. And while no recipe can fully reproduce the feeling of discovering it on a sweltering afternoon in Rome, that’s true of almost every memorable meal we encounter while traveling. Food has always been about more than ingredients.

Vacation, after all, has always been one of the finest seasonings known to man.

Fortunately, this is one souvenir dish that travels exceptionally well. It’s remarkably easy to make, and every time I do, I’m reminded of that wonderful afternoon, in that wonderful city, and the simple pleasure that comes from  discovering something worth bringing home.

I Have Become That Person

Of all the culinary inspirations I packed into my suitcase this trip, this espresso granita is the one that has found a permanent place in my kitchen. Whenever it’s sweltering hot I immediately think of it. Unlike so many memorable travel dishes, this one is wonderfully easy to recreate at home. The ingredients are simple but it is the memory is the secret ingredient.

I’ve come to realize that when people return from Italy or France unable to stop talking about a particular meal, they aren’t really trying to impress you. They’re trying, usually unsuccessfully, to describe how a place made them feel. Sometimes an espresso granita isn’t just frozen coffee with whipped cream. It’s a hot afternoon in Rome, good company, and the discovery of something unexpectedly perfect.

Yup, I have become exactly the sort of person I used to make fun of.

And I’m beginning to understand why.

(Ask me about the pizza sometime.)

Espresso Granita (Granita di Caffè con Panna)

Postscript (July 2026): Every now and then I come across an old post that’s worth dusting off. This post, from September 2011, has always been one of my favorites, and since I’m making espresso granita again this summer, tonight actually, it seemed like the perfect excuse to revisit it. I haven’t been back to Rome in years, but thankfully this recipe still remembers the way.

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A Bourbon Bundt Cake Worthy of Its Name

Every family has a recipe like this one — the thing that shows up at every gathering, half-joked about, entirely devoured, and passed around on a folded paper napkin, or on nothing at all. In our case, it’s a vanilla bourbon bundt cake. Or, as we’ve always called it, Bundt Cake Gladys.

As far as I can recall, it was the only thing my grandmother ever baked in her bundt pan, which I still have. It’s a thin, cheap supermarket aluminum pan, worn and a little bent along the edges. It’s also the oldest baking pan I own, and the only one I’ll probably never throw out. She may have had others in her lifetime, but this was the one she had at the end, and in my mind, that makes it hers forever.

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If cocktails had personalities (and they do, especially after the second round), the Pink Lady would be your eccentric aunt. The one who insists on full costume for brunch, douses herself in vintage Chanel No. 5, and waits until everyone has dismissed her as harmless. Then she casually eviscerates a guest with a one-liner that clears the room. Yes, she’s pretty. No, she’s not harmless. And yes, she’s stronger than you. Beneath the ruffles and rouge lies a gin-soaked backbone you ignore at your own peril.

..

Let me tell you how I learned not to underestimate a Pink Lady first hand…

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Aunt Caroline wasn’t whipping up Lemon Lime Champagne Granita the night she sent Uncle Drew out for lemons. However, when the weather turns scorching hot and I spot a bowl of lemons on the counter I can’t help but chuckle and think of Aunt Caroline and this particular dessert. And, of course, that unforgettable night when Uncle Drew went out for lemons and never came back. (more…)

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Here is the thing with Roasted Bone Marrow and me: I always get anxious introducing this personal preference of mine to anybody new. Am I about to lose my new friend, or will admitting some small nugget of truth serve to cement our friendship further? Or, as is sometimes the case, will I be surprised with a knowing glimmer and nod, unmistakably signifying “me too”?

Once revealed, one can never be too sure about biases to or against one’s truths. My advice: be prepared for any and every reaction! And if said reaction is adverse, well, take comfort in the fact that no matter what one’s preferences are, one is rarely alone with them. As with all characteristic peculiarities,  a large community of like-minded residence usually exists nearby. Go and seek them out for support and communion!

One day, I was all alone, feeling destined for a life spent alone with my desires, and then BAM! A community formed all around me, growing in pride, losing its shame, increasing its visibility and public understanding, appearing just about everywhere on appetizer menus.

Yup. I eat the bone. Roasted Bone Marrow. Mmmm. Bone. (more…)

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If Dorie Greenspan thinks that just because she publishes a souped up, fancy schmancy, new and improved recipe for gourgeres I’m going to kick her oldest recipe for gourgeres the curb, well, she has another thing coming. (“My Newest Gourgeres”, page 8, “Everyday Dorie: The Way I Cook”)

No ma’am. I am way too loyal to her classic recipe! I won’t turn my back on the faithful, classic recipe I fell in love with just because some shiny new version comes to town and winks at me while showing me her ample poufs.

Oh, and wink at me these newest gourgeres do! Who knew that  younger-model gourgeres would be the temptresses they are? Ms. Greenspan certainly knows how to turn on her savory wiles and seduce even the most resistant gourgeres monogamist. With only a few bumps and grinds to the original recipe she had me forgetting all about the commitment I made to her original recipe.

FACT: Dorie has been turning my head for eight years now! It is this history together which causes such conflict when confronted with these sexy newest gourgeres. How can anyone resist these delicious, sexy, flavorful mouthfuls of pleasure?  How does one stay faithful to one’s first love when the honeymoon is over?

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I need to get out my step stool in order to conjure gems like this Aperol Tequila cocktail.

Way up high, back in The Inconvenient Cabinet sitting behind the refrigerator, you will just over a dozen bottles of booze. These aren’t my  “main squeeze” libations, no, these bottles are the rather queer stash of alcoholic this-and-thats I couldn’t say goodbye to. I think of these oddballs as my alcoholic booty calls — quite ready to satisfy me at a moment’s notice, but knowing never to ask for any real commitment from me. If they were ever bold enough to ask for a permanent place in the main pantry I would toss them out of my cabinet (and life) tout de suite.

For now they benefit from my general unwillingness to say goodbye and the knowledge that once day, as it always does, I will require a quick thrill without the request for main pantry fidelity.

When that moment inevitably happens I will get a step stool, crawl up to The Inconvenient Cabinet and cruise around the dusty neglected bottles to look for a quickie.

Aperol knows the rules.

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I can’t say I know much about the differences, if any, between ice pops and paletas. I don’t consider myself an expert at either. “Expert” is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. I’ve been making paletas, especially these Lime Berry Paletas, every summer ever since some wonderful company, I can’t now remember the name of, had the great idea to comp me a set of pop, er, paleta molds. Best freebie I ever got! Who knew some inexpensive, formed plastic, retailing for less than $10 would come to define summer for me?

“Pops” must be those icy treats associated with childhood, comprised of somewhat singular flavors such as “orange”, “cherry”, or, um, “purple.” Paletas, on the other hand come in countless flavor combinations, often containing a wide assortment of fruits, nuts and other ingredients. Even booze! And whereas a pop is often cloyingly sweet and unimaginative, a paleta (a name derived from the Spanish word for ‘stick’) embraces a more sophisticated profile of the sweet, spicy and sour flavors that everybody loves.  (more…)

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Curried Chicken en Papillote should hardly be considered a revolutionary act. But then neither should being able to feed yourself. Sadly, the latter now seems to be. Or at least so says none other than Jamie Oliver, who has taken it upon himself to start a global campaign purposed with reinstating food curriculum in our youth’s schools. To that end, today is his fourth annual Food Revolution Day intended to engage and inspire young people to learn about food and how to cook it.

It kind of blows my mind that a kid today could grow up without learning the basic life skill of knowing how to cook a healthy meal for themselves. If this particular food blog is about anything, it is about the how the generational continuity and sharing of food and its preparation has storied my entire life. So it just goes to say that if a kid doesn’t know how to cook for himself he or she will grow into a parent that can’t teach that same skill. How sad is that? (more…)

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