A Moka in Liguria

Lisa Minucci

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2 min read

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Aug 3, 2023

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Gawd, I hate crowds. But it was Saturday morning and our Airbnb had only an aluminum Moka coffee pot. Anytime I cook anything in aluminum, I’m sure I’ll soon be scrawling my name on the wall with my own feces. We agreed to a very early expedition to the village of Finale Ligure, no doubt a zoo by mid-morning on this warm, sunny weekend.
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White-knuckle navigating the hills (one-lane roads with two-way traffic) complete with hairpin turns and blind corners behind stone walls quickly lessen the effects of my morning smoke, but views of an already sparkling green-blue Ligurian Sea provide their own high. Hills are covered in lemon and orange trees, the harmonic hues of Le Corbusier’s color theory come to life; natural colors creating atmosphere. Passing a shrine to Madonna made with seashells, I prayed we’d find a parking spot, arriving early enough to miss the stroller set, the day-trippers, the hustlers.
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A stainless Moka was found at a kitchen shop in the old quarter, the owner, a scarecrow of man, extending the customary discount, a charming Italian oddity. My wife stumbled into a minuscule plant/pet store in an alleyway, purchasing treats to buy puppy silence. I’m convinced I would’ve been one of those parents who park their kids in front of a TV for an hour (or three) for a bit of fucking peace.
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Set on a square away from the main piazza in front of a gigantic church, the cafe was mostly empty, the bells not yet striking ten. Mary by the Sea (or an equally beatific moniker) boasts white marble slab steps, their edges rounded from the heat and salt of the Med; the limestone’s black veins softened from the trodding of millions of pilgrim feet, or from the sneaker-clad hooves of looky-loos like me, who push open every heavy wooden door on every chapel and cathedral, searching for quite literally god-knows-what.
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Just as creme-filled brioche are dipped into frothy cappuccino, a blue Cadillac-hearse parked in front of us, spotless and glinting in the sun, ensnaring us as unwitting audience to someone else’s circle of life play. Somber folk filed into church behind the casket, casting each bite and sip of our breakfast uniquely delicious, utterly appreciated.