#sicilian bar logo

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Beautiful floor tile pattern at Bar Turrisi, Castelmola, Sicily.

It's actually their logo - check out the menu. Go to their website and spot them all.

Souvenirs.

https://restaurantguru.com/Turrisi-Castelmola

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery Part 37/? - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius

Where has Newton gone next?  It’s a pun.

By morning, the smoke had cleared and the volcano was quiet.

This was definitely not what anyone had expected.  As the group ate breakfast in the hotel’s little restaurant, the news playing on the television above the bar was all about the sudden cessation of the eruption.  An anchorwoman said in Italian, with rather poorly-translated English subtitles for the tourists, that scientists were puzzled but Etna seemed to have gone back to sleep.  If the volcano remained quiescent for twenty-four hours, the evacuated Sicilians would be allowed to return to their homes on the slopes.  There were interviews with several people who expressed their gratitude to God that their farms were not going to be destroyed, and their eagerness to go home.

“They did something,” said Sam, pointing a fork at the TV.

Natasha had been thinking the same thing.  Desrosiers must have come here because she knew Newton would go to an erupting volcano to get geothermal energy from it… maybe that was where the enormous heat in his gauntlet had come from.  Somehow, he’d convinced her to help him make the philosopher’s stone, and now that they had the notebooks, they’d returned to the volcano to drain the rest of its energy.

“Do they have everything they need now?” she wondered aloud.  “Are they ready to just make the philosopher’s stone?”  Maybe they were working on it right now, down in the bowels of the volcano… or would it still be too hot in there?  “Where’s our Voynich book?”

Sharon pulled it out of Sir Stephen’s backpack.  “We still can’t read it,” she said.

“Yeah, but there might be something to give us a hint,” said Nat.

That seemed pretty unlikely, even to Nat, but for the moment nobody had any better ideas.  They flipped through the softcover facsimile.  There were no pictures of volcanoes anywhere in the book, but Nat supposed any form of energy would do.  Solar, geothermal, wind… ancient alchemists might have even tried to do it with fire.  The Minoan alchemists on Santorini had used the volcanic heat of Thira.  Heaven knew what Rasputin had found in the middle of Siberia, maybe one of the powerful Russian rivers.  Of course, if Newton could drain energy from a volcano to store and move it, he could go anywhere he liked.

Even so, she was pretty confident now that Newton was not going to Australia.  The simple fact that he’d gone out of his way to mention it seemed evidence enough of that.  She glanced at the book again, as Sharon idly turned pages, and then something caught her eye.

“Wait,” said Nat, and turned back a page or two.

It was an illustration of a plant – this entire section of the book was drawings of plants.  Notes in the margins said that botanists believed it might be a sunflower, which suggested that the book was about the plants of the Americas.  Somebody had even offered the theory that its alphabet was an attempt to record a native American language in a way that would be intelligible to Europeans.  But Natasha, thinking of volcanoes, had noticed something else.

Taormina was full of volcano-related souvenirs and merchandise right now, and as she and Jim had walked down the street yesterday, they’d seen multiple versions of an illustration showing a cross-section of the mountain.  The posters, postcards, and t-shirts depicted many fissures branching off a big central well that brought lava to the surface, where it erupted from the vents and gave off steam that rose into a tower with billows at the top.  Everything in alchemy was recorded in codes and metaphors.  This was not botany.  This was geology.

“Etna,” said Natasha.  She put her finger at the top of the page, where a heading was written: five of the mysterious letters, the first and last the same.  The name of the mountain in Greek was Aetna.

“No way,” said Sharon, turning the book to face her again.  “Really?”

“Somebody get a pen,” Nat ordered.

A waitress was walking by.  Jim snatched her notebook and pen from her.  “Sorry, need this,” he said, and sat back down to copy out the four letters that were A, E, T, and N.  These were fairly common letters in Greek, so they were soon able to get to work on the rest of the page.  The results were disappointing: they found things that might have been words, but many more seemed like random groups of letters.  Some were repeated multiple times, some appeared to be backwards or to have had the letters arranged in alphabetical order.  There must be layers and layers of code and cipher here, Nat thought, and without the key they didn’t know what to look for where.  Figuring it out might take years.

“If the sunflower is a diagram of the mountain,” Nat said, “maybe these labels are places to say where to best collect its energy for alchemical purposes.”  Unfortunately, it was hardly a map to scale.  Without being able to read the text, they couldn’t tell where to look for Newton and Desrosiers.

Sharon turned the page.  There was another plant… was this one also a volcano?  The second letter of its name was an E, but the rest weren’t ones they’d figured out.  Nat counted them, and made some guesses.  The headings were the most simply encoded parts, and letters one and five in this word were the same.  If those were Greek beta, then the whole name might be…

“Vesuvius,” said Jim, before Nat could speak.  “We gotta go to Mount Vesuvius.”

“Not necessarily,” said Sam.  He reached over to flip a few more pages.  “The Mediterranean’s full of volcanoes.  What about Stromboli or Kolumbo?”

“No, he’ll go to Vesuvius,” said Jim.  “I’m sure.  Trust me.”

A piece suddenly fell into place.  “He’s right,” said Nat.  “He’s got to be.”

“You’re biased,” said Clint.

“No,” Nat insisted.  “It’s a word game!  Alchemy is all in puzzles, codes, and puns.  Newton in German is Neustadt, and in Greek it’s Neapoli.  That’s the area in Athens where his apartment was.  What’s the city below Vesuvius?” she asked, and waited expectantly.  One by one, she saw her companions’ expressions change as the light dawned.

“All right,” said Sam, as Sharon closed the book.  “Naples.”

With the evacuees returning in droves, it was no problem to get a ferry to the mainland.  In Calabria they got on a train heading north to Termini in Rome, where they transferred to one bound for Naples.

It was a hot day when they arrived, but it wasn’t like the pounding dry heat of Santorini or Athens.  Naples was drowning in a thick, humid heat that sweating did nothing to help because there was no wind to make it evaporate.  Locals didn’t seem to mind, but the tourists walked around fanning themselves, their faces red and glistening from exertion.  Shops selling bottled water and gelato did very brisk business.

They reached Naples late in the afternoon, and as the train entered the city they could see a cruise ship in port.  Nat caught Clint peering at it, trying to figure out whether it was a familiar one.

“It’s not,” she said.  “Wrong company.  See the logo on the superstructure?”

Clint nodded and looked back down at the screen of his phone.  He’d just typed in the question would you like anything from Naples?  A flashing icon suggested that Laura Francis, back home in Nottinghamshire, was typing her reply.

“What are you looking for?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know yet,” said Clint.  “She hasn’t answered.”

“No,” Sam said, “I mean, why were you looking at the boat?”

“He thinks the Scorpio II is following us,” said Nat.

Clint shook his head.  “Next time we are definitely doing this on a cruise ship,” he said.  “If I’m going to hop from island to island around the Mediterranean without ever having time to stop and see anything, I’m gonna do it with room service.”

“Foot massages,” said Sharon.

“Wi-fi,” said Natasha.

“Cold beer,” Jim agreed.

“That’s it.”  Sharon nodded.  “When we get back, we’re telling Fury and the Queen that from now on we only travel by cruise ship.”

Nat grinned as she imagined that conversation.  Fury would roll his eye, fully aware that they were joking and determined not to dignify it with an acknowledgement.  The Queen, on the other hand, might just take them seriously.  She spent her own vacations in Monte Carlo and a series of palaces, so why not?

Clint’s phone vibrated.  He took a look.  “Oh, great,” he groaned.

“What’s it say?” asked Nat.

He turned the phone around to show them.  Laura’s reply said simply, surprise me.

Sam whistled.  “You’re being tested now, my man,” he declared.

“I know,” Clint said.  “And I don’t think one of those glitter-covered panda figures is going to do it.”

The moment they stepped out of Napoli Centrale, they were bombarded by vendors offering them tours and trinkets.  Nat kept her head down and tried not to make eye contact, but she did have to look where she was going and the Neapolitans were happy to follow the group out into the street.  Brochures, maps, hats, and sunglasses were all thrust into her face in quick succession, and it was very difficult to keep a hold on the instinct telling her to throw these people across the road.

“I have changed my mind,” Sir Stephen announced, as they shooed the last of them away.

“About what?” asked Sharon.

“About whether this is like going on pilgrimage,” he said, and turned to wave away a man offering tour tickets.  “No, thank you, Sir, we do not want to visit Positano!”  Returning his attention to Sharon, he went on: “this is exactly the sort of thing that greets a pilgrim in Canterbury.”

“Canterbury didn’t become a place of pilgrimage until the late twelfth century,” said Natasha, but she wasn’t going to worry about it much.  Sir Stephen’s world was not one that concerned itself with historical accuracy.

From the city, there was a clear view of Mount Vesuvius.  Mount Etna in Sicily was surrounded by other peaks, all of which had once been exit points for the volcano but were now extinct.  Vesuvius stood alone.  From this angle only one of its two cones was visible, covered with green woods all the way to the snow line.  There hadn’t been a major eruption since 1944, leaving the vegetation plenty of time to recolonize the slopes.

Even so, the mountain looked almost exactly like how a child might draw a picture of a volcano: a steep conical hill with a crater in the top.  Nat had to wonder how the people of Pompeii and Herculaneum had ever thought this was a good place to live.  Then again, she observed, here they were nearly two thousand years later, with people still living in Naples and Sorrento.  The very reason this city was called Napoli was because it was the New City, founded after an eruption had destroyed the older one.

Volcanic soil was excellent for wine grapes.  Maybe in Italy, that was enough to make people stay.

[toddlazarski]

Milwaukee’s Best Ethnic Eating Strips

Shepherd Express

“Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now!” implores Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, before some tasteful profanities, and in the middle of raining bloody ax murder upon an unsuspecting Jared Leto. Dorsia, as it happens, is the name of the new restaurant taking over the lease of Mimma’s Cafe. Which means the longstanding pasta emporium, largely credited with establishing the neighborhood as a dining destination in the 80’s and a reminder of the quarter’s Italian heritage, is being replaced by a name inspired by every frat bro’s second favorite movie (behind only Boondock Saints). In the process, a classic, with a perfectly situated mid-strip spot, will join the likes of Cempazuchi, Bosley on Brady, the real Glorioso’s, and, soon, around-the-corner Trocadero, as victims of the mysterious restaurant death panel that might make a long time Milwaukee-observer ponder: what’s happened to Brady Street?

There’s still foot traffic, and really nothing to complain about at Easy Tyger or La Masa. But, looking around, seeing the Whole Foods-ification of Glorioso’s, the rock n’ roll rehash of Angelo’s Lounge, hearing the names of Sinatra-soundtracked Brady Street Sicilian joints of a longgone yesteryear - Cataldo’s, Tarantino’s, Joey’s, Giovanni’s - it’s hard not to get a little nostalgic for the old standby strip. Or, at the very least, the idea of the old standby strip: The kind of immigrant row with whiffs of an old country, like De Niro setting up shop in the Lower East Side in Part 2. With a sense of neighborhoody appetite buzz, single-item specialists, familial business secrets, and many dining options far from Jack’s American Pub (actual name). If you stick to the main drags of Milwaukee food now - monied Milwaukee St, hip KK, new and whitewashed ‘Tosa North Avenue -  it’d be easy to wonder: Did such strips ever even exist?  

It actually takes a bit of poking around the Milwaukee fringes, a bit more gas money. But a little searching can still yield little enclaves, unexpected bands, and classic ethnic eating cluster streets that really should be setting property values.  

6.

2nd and National

Yes, everybody knows about Walker’s Point - Milwaukee’s little Brooklyn. With tattoo-ed chefs and their fetishistic food and low rent former warehouses becoming small plate destinations. There’s Braise and the Noble. The great and nearly indistinguishable 3 M’s (Morel, Meraki, Movida). The friendly, delightfully-greasy, curd-crushing Camino. The delicious and miraculous melting pot that is still Steny’s. The old zapato comfort of Cielito Lindo. But what many may miss, maybe unless you happen to be lucky enough to occasionally await the 15 bus southbound on 1st and Bruce, is the confluence of cooking smells from the Walker’s Point Plaza that is a bit like walking through the halls of an overcrowded apartment building in Queens at supper time. Indian, Mexican, and Greek, side by side, wafting, offer a gastronomic cloud as stinkily delicious as possible. A little fish, some lamb, ghee, fry grease. Despite all the offerings - Cafe India, Taco Bandito, Gyro Palace - being just decent, it’s the American experiment come back to life. Plus, it’s part of a Mobil gas station lot, with a liquor store built right in. It’s actually a magically utilitarian corner, and a manifest of the truest kind of melting pot.    

5.

Layton Avenue

The proximity to the airport makes for apt appetite takeoffs - really toward all points. But one should start with Pho Hai Tuyet, a onetime fast food spot hastily rejiggered as a Vietnamese joint. There’s a bountiful menu, all kinds of pho, noodle and rice dishes, many dishes that start with the letter ‘X’. But there’s only one bahn mi, and only one necessary. It’s certainly the best sandwich of it’s kind, or maybe any kind, in Milwaukee. The big French bready beast is remarkably consistent, always put together with love and a liberal topping hand, with a subtle sauciness, gigantic fresh jalapeno slices, not too much carrot wedgery, and a garden of cilantro. It’s such a construct even mediocre meat would round out the package. Yet the bit-sized pork scrags are always tender, moist, indefinably, piggily perfect every time. Kim’s Thai applies near the same care to chicken. Curries and fried rice dishes abound here, with customized spice levels, and careful crisp all around. But it’s the house specialty - chicken wings stuffed with minced chicken, vegetables, noodles and cilantro, that defies reason with good taste. Or maybe vice versa. Also down the block are Bangkok House, Ramallah Grille, Pho Cali, etc, seemingly for good measure, for helping prove the hypothesis that the best food in most towns resides within a tortilla’s toss of the airport.

There’s Oakland Gyros for something completely different, the greasy standby at once a reminder of college drunken munchies, and, something still exotically Mediterranean. Or, at the same end of the caloric spectrum, but of a time continuum so different it feels cultural, is Nite Owl. It’s a burger joint comfortably situated somewhere between early Eisenhower and American Graffiti, all grease and meaty, onion-y, soft white bun satisfaction. A bit closer to the here and now is Martino’s, the only even semi-legitimate offerer of Chicago’s every-corner Italian Beef sandwich. Like embracing a fear of flying, it’s important to remember you only live once, so, get it dipped - the entire beef and pepper and mozz brick quick-bathed in au jus, then appearing like a glistening meat sponge on your tray. As long as you’re this far off any kind of sensible diet wagon, why not embrace the buttery gluttony of our very own Culver’s? No matter how far your appetite travels, it’s nice to know you can still go home again. And home tastes like stomach-regret - but the worth-it, Grandma’s-griddle kind. 

4.

South 27th Street

You wouldn’t think it, what with the car dealerships and wide boulevard of suburban traffic and glaring hints of Chili’s country, but from Grange-ish down to College, behind the 27th Street scenes exists a lamb-scented mini Middle Eastern row. Al-Yousef boasts two massive spinning shawarma's, a sizzling flattop, and subsequent smells of a back alley food bazaar. The beef kofta kebab is a saucy, spicy Turkish sort of burrito, chock with garlic-y meat, pungent juices, snappy vegetables, and thai hot sauce, the whole thing grilled for good measure and impossible to leave the parking lot without tearing through the butcher paper for. Then there’s Holy Land, with arguably the best hummus in town, and falafel reminiscent of street cart-Istanbul. Amanah Food Market is the spot for Arabic bread and hookah and tobacco needs. And, again, of course, kebabs. If you’re looking to go further, much further, east, you’re already right there. Pho Viet yields massive bowls of luxuriant pho. Or you can get adventurous in your own kitchen. Pacific Produce is next door, and provides the refrigerator-list necessities: rambutan, durian, jackfruit, dragonfruit, frozen frog, duck heads, duck eggs, and, yes, if you want to be boring, fresh fish.

3.

13th & Oklahoma

It says it all that this humble Morgandale strip could lose so much and still offer everything. Recently departed is Christie’s, Jason Christie packing his bags for sunnier pastures, bringing with him meal memories from a place that was nothing short of a miracle of corner bar, mom-is-cooking charm. Also gone are the best asada tacos in town from Los Altos de Jalisco, in the sadly shuttered Mi Super Foods.

But what remains makes amends in quality and quantity. JC Kings, a solid but jokingly-painted taqueria, is maybe most distinct for its ability to combine delicious and disgusting within just a single bite. Try a half, or really a quarter, of any of the gluttonous torta breeds that marry the likes of ham, mozzarrella, pineapple, or, maybe chicken, chorizo, and hot dog? If such a meat massacre isn’t for you, just walk a few blocks north or south. Tortilleria El Sol brings a similar vein of bang for your buck, with massive sacks of delicate corn tortillas for at-home taco forays. Going the other way, El Tucanazo may remain quiet king of that elusive ‘authentic’ label - the colorful counter-and-three-table joint offering a deep menu of rich sauces, tender meat, and enough character that a native of the Mexican state of Hidalgo told us it’s the spot that most reminds of home. There’s also Taqueria Arandas, Mexican run-of-the-mill in the best sense - comforting and bustling, with piping, grease-saturated and cilantro-popped tacos, lots of perfect bases for that ubiquitous southside Milwaukee sauce that is the creamy jalapeno emulsification. When you realize the amount of protein herein, know that Bombay Sweets can level out the most stubborn of no-fun diets, offering strictly vegetarian Indian fare. Two kinds of saag can distract from lack of meat.     

2.

Silver City

The most concentrated sliver on the list, Silver City lets you go from Thai Bar Bar-B-Que, with impossibly juicy chicken, meatballs, curries, volcano sauce spice, Milwaukee’s best pho bowls of deep mid-winter comfort, to Fiesta Garibaldi’s Chicken Palace - in just a block’s time. The latter is a shabby, corner, yellow-coated Mexican fast-food joint, with a logo bearing slight resemblance to Gus’ Pollos Hermanos in Breaking Bad. Not the spot you’d expect one of the only salsa bars in town, with five distinct varieties and three chopped pepper and onion options. Chicken is the namesake protein specialty, and it’s offered every way. But the most intriguing delivery option is the tlayuda, essentially, a Mexican pizza, not readily found about town, here folded up in it’s own crisped, crunchy flat bread crust, with melty cheese, avocado and every tangible south of the border satisfaction Taco Bell looks like it has on commercials when you’re drunk. Wash it all down with a mangonada, and wonder why you’ve never heard that word before. Or how beautiful it is to combine mango sorbet with tamarind sauce, lime, and spicy chilli powder.    

For the less pepper-inclined, there’s the Puerto Rican La Isla across the street. But the area is most notably Asian forward. Along with Thai BBQ is Thai Lotus, Bamboo, Vientiane. Instead of your usual crab rangoon, these are the spots to try duck, to try lad, to try larb. Speaking of which, there may be no greater gastronomical disparity than the off-putting sound (aka ‘larp’, aka ‘laab’), unappealing description (it’s meat salad), and the delicious reality. The national dish of Laos busts with cilantro, mint, lime, green onions, and big spice. And, at Vientiane at least, tripe.     

When it’s all over, let the friendly blues joint Mamie’s offer up a domestic brew as digestif. Or, right your Shanghai-ed intestinal ship with a three-buck cheeseburger.

1.

Lincoln Avenue

It’s almost too much: between 5th and 20th a gritty narrow strip deliciously echoes San Francisco’s Mission, Chicago’s Pilsen or Little Village, and at once boasts the carnitas and top notch salsas of Don Lucho; the maritime aesthetic lunacy and seafood fare of both Fiesta Garibaldi and La Canoa; the massively comforting papusas of El Salvador; porky takeout Cuban sandwiches from El Rincon Criollo; the old school, family-style Mexican diner and professional Mariachi-style karaoke singers at Tres Hermanos; the churro, bollillo and holiday-time tamales of Lopez Bakery; another Arandas location; another La Salsa location; the occasional food truck or two. At 20th, where you’d hope to maybe arrive at some sort of Pepto dealership, you’ll only find the best of them all, El Tsunami. The tiny new spot with the open kitchen slings some of the deepest salsas, maybe the juiciest pastor, the most consummate of Mexican grandmother sauces - Veracruzana, diabla, mojo de ajo. Get any on a whole snapper, filet, shrimp, octopus. Then just sit and spoon the fallout with chips, as the waitress take a carcass away, and you await a stomach-settling horchata to go, giving thanks to be part of the country not so inexplicably afraid of the other.       

Like all good food tours, this is the one to leave an open mind pondering, maybe recalibrating pending and future real estate searches. Or at least it’s a happy, non-healthy, full-gut reminder that it’s fine to leave Brady and the bunch, for the usual drags to become, to un-become, to re-become, what they may. The curious and inspired can alway drive a few blocks west, get out of normal routes and big-deal new openings, embrace the other side of the wall, and the real buffet of options available.

[wineanddinosaur]

12 Things You Should Know About Campari

Few bottles stand out on the liquor shelf quite like crimson-hued Campari. Even when it’s poured into a glass, the drink’s distinct color makes it instantly recognizable.

Though contenders have emerged to challenge Campari’s dominance, when it comes to mixing classic cocktails like Negronis and Americanos, bartenders agree: There’s simply no substitute for Campari.

Want to learn more about this quintessential Italian apéritif? Here are 12 things you should know about Campari.

Campari is older than Italy.

In 1860, Gaspare Campari founded his eponymous drinks brand in the Italian town of Novara, 30 miles west of Milan. The company’s formation predated the unification of Italy by a decade.

Classic cocktails and a landmark shopping mall helped popularize the brand.

Shortly after launching his drinks brand, Campari opened a wine shop in Italy’s oldest shopping mall, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Located in the heart of Milan, steps from the city’s Duomo, the brand transformed the wine shop into the Camparino aperitivo bar in 1915, offering a range of proprietary apéritifs and liqueurs. None were more popular than its bitter red apéritif, which was helped, in no small part, by its inclusion in a number of emerging cocktails (more on those later).

Only two of Gaspare’s drinks survived succession of ownership.

When Camapri’s sons Davide and Guido took control of the company in 1920, they reduced the brand’s portfolio to drop some of Gaspare’s more experimental bottlings, downsizing to just one apéritif, Bitter Campari, and a clear, raspberry-based bittersweet liqueur, Cordial Campari. Production of the cordial ceased in the 1990s.

Campari pours definitively classic cocktails.

In the 1920s, the International Bartenders Association included two Campari cocktails in its list of classic drinks, The Unforgettables. With their inclusion, the Americano and the Negroni became two of a small handful of recipes where a specific liquor brand was named among the ingredients.

Not included in the list, but similarly iconic, are the Negroni Sbagliato (one part Campari, one part red vermouth, and one part sparkling wine) and the Milano-Torino, or Mi-To, which mixes equal parts Campari (which comes from Milan) and red vermouth (which traditionally hails from Turin).

Some Campari cocktails represent the unification of Italy.

Named after Giuseppe Maria Garibaldi, the Italian general who contributed to the country’s unification, the Garibaldi mixes Campari, cane syrup, and freshly squeezed orange juice. The drink is a symbol of the unification of the north and south of the country, with Campari representing Milan and Sicilian oranges representing the south.

Campari is much more than a bitter, red apéritif.

Though best associated with the bitter red apéritif, Campari is one of a number of liquor brands that make up Gruppo Campari. The group currently has offices and production facilities in 25 countries worldwide and comprises more than 50 different alcohol brands, including Aperol, Grand Marnier, Skyy Vodka, and Wild Turkey.

Art is integral to Campari’s history.

Starting in the 1920s, Campari enlisted a number of renowned artists to create posters advertising the drink and its iconic cocktails. The artists included Ugo Mochi, Adolf Hohenstein, Marcello Nizzoli, and Leonetto Cappiello, who created the famous “Spiritello” poster, in which a sprite emerges from an orange peel holding a bottle of Campari.

Another piece, “Manifesto Campari,” designed by Bruno Munari in 1964, coincided with the opening of the M1 subway line in Milan. The image features a fragmented composite of a number of different Campari logos, which were designed to be identifiable at a glance or at speed (i.e., from within a moving subway car). The graphic is now permanently exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Campari also has its own gallery.

Galleria Campari opened in 2010, the year of the brand’s 150th anniversary. It’s located inside the Liberty building in Sesto San Giovanni, Milan, which was also the first Campari production plant.

Campari has always been bitter, but it’s not always sold that way.

Traditionally, posters for the red apéritif included the words “Bitter Campari” and those touting the clear liqueur read “Cordial Campari.” With the brand no longer needing to differentiate between the two drinks, it has since dropped the word “bitter” from advertisements and massively reduced its prominence on bottle labels.

Campari changes around the world.

Depending on where it’s bottled and sold, Campari appears with a number of different alcoholic strengths. Iceland and Sweden receive the lowest-strength bottling, at 21 percent ABV, while in the U.S., Campari registers 24 percent ABV. Those wishing to sample Campari with a kick should head to Jamaica, where the bitter apéritif enters the bottle at 28.5 percent ABV.

Campari’s recipe is a closely guarded secret.

Campari’s bittersweet flavor profile arrives via the infusion of alcohol and water with bitter herbs, aromatic plants, and fruit. According to Eligio Bossetti, a historian at Villa Campari, only three individuals know the exact recipe, which is rumored to contain up to 80 ingredients. The formula is so secret, in fact, that the identity of the three recipe holders is also a closely guarded secret.

The color is (usually) artificial.

Traditionally, an insect-based coloring made from cochineal bugs was used to give Campari its crimson hue. In 2006, use of the insect was discontinued in most countries, including the United States, with artificial coloring included as a replacement.

At least one market, however, still uses cochineal. On Swedish bottles of Campari, the label lists the coloring agent E120, which is also known as carmine, carminic acid, or cochineal.

The article 12 Things You Should Know About Campari appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/campari-italy-guide/