From left: Lorenzo Mocchiutti of Vignai da Duline in his vineyard; waiters at the Caffè San Marco in Trieste welcoming the author’s dog, Monte Cristo.
Italian city and has the espressos to prove it (Illy coffee comes from here), but Viennese-style architecture, grand cafés worthy of Sigmund Freud, and, of course, strudel are unmistakable heirlooms of the halcyon days of the empire. With its dark wooden interiors, lace curtains, and large crystal chandelier, Pasticceria La Bomboniera would make a perfect setting for an early-19th-century spy novel: A chubby man with a Franz Joseph–style mustache and worn but well-tailored clothes enters this gorgeous pastry shop, crosses the glistening black-and-white tiles, and tries his best to blend in with the plump ladies and their silly poodles. At the counter he receives two parcels. Once outside he hurries back to his hotel, unwraps the larger parcel, and stares for a short while at the beautiful creation in front of him, the Rigó Jancsi—a chocolate sponge cake filled with chocolate cream and covered with more glazed chocolate—a distant Hungarian cousin of the more famous, less delicious Sacher torte. He tries to put it all in his mouth, but some gets caught in his enormous mustache. This is the best moment of his life. Next he opens the other parcel, in which he finds his instructions from the emperor’s men, a little note that reads, “Kill the baker—he can’t be trusted anymore.” Life is cruel. These days Pasticceria La Bomboniera is headed by a Sicilian, Gaetano La Porta, who started working here as a young man, alongside the previous owner. Originally founded by a Hungarian family in 1836, it has belonged to several distinguished families, each one carrying on the tradition. Gaetano tries to change nothing: he still toils every day in front of the signature woodburning oven; he still makes the cakes he’s always made. And they may be the best in the world. I state that as a fact, not a compliment. The front of house is, in true Italian fashion, managed by his wife and daughter—charming, hard-working, and devoted. My next stop is the historic Caffè San Marco, previously a haven to literary giants like James Joyce— who, disillusioned with Dublin, came here and wound up writing the first part of Ulysses—and, at least in my fantasy world, an array of spies. I can see them in their dour, colorless trench coats, taking off their hats at the door, scanning the rooms for hostiles, sitting down for a drink. It’s another grand, handsome place in the Viennese tradition, well preserved but not without its scars. This café has survived many wars but has managed, like Trieste, to reinvent itself while maintaining its identity. It houses an enormous bookstore, and the food—a modernish take on Italian cuisine with a few Austro-Hungarian touches—is much better than I expected. In a far corner, against a backdrop of books, a cute, smart-looking kid is playing chess with his Slovenian father. Nothing about the scene is modern, but it’s hopeful and bright, and while the kid is probably a Russian spy, I’m encouraged. As I sit here at Caffè San Marco, I study the waiters: bearded, handsome, Austrian-looking. Openminded and looking for something. I order a Campari. I can see the mustached man at the next table reading La Gazzetta dello Sport. A few tables away a dark-haired, olive-skinned man is kissing his beautiful girlfriend. They seem to be drinking Aperol spritzes. There is enough pasta in this room to convince even the most ardent skeptic of its italianità. Still, it doesn’t seem like I’m in Italy, nor does it seem like I’m not. Either way is fine by me.
Condé Nast Traveler / Vol. II 2018
81