Coffee That Gives a Real Jolt

Andrew Burton for The Wall Street Journal

Giorgio Milos makes a cappuccino at Vive La Crepe, above.

My wife and I disagree about Starbucks. One may wonder what kind of marriage we have that a coffee chain could trigger conflict. She doesn't love or even like its coffee. But she thinks the chain has been a net benefit to humanity because it provides people a place to meet, write their novels or just check their email.

I'll give her that. It's also been a boon to journalists: If you can't come up with anything else you can always interview your sources at your friendly, or at least disinterested, neighborhood coffee bar.

My skepticism instead has to do with the whole American fetishization of coffee.

If you've been to Italy where the idea of the coffee break is integral to the culture, and the coffee itself pretty damn good, one of the most charming things about it is that nobody treats it like a big deal. There's no more ceremony than if you go to Papaya King in New York and order a couple of franks with mustard and sauerkraut.

If you asked for a caramel macchiato or a vanilla-bean frappaccino in Rome or Naples they'd probably point you in the direction of McDonald's. Italians have a different idea of how to improve a cup of cappuccino and espresso: Add a shot of grappa or sambuca, transforming the beverage into a "corretto." Whatever Italians' flaws, you've got to love a people who consider a shot of 80-proof alcohol in their morning coffee a corrective.

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Andrew Burton for The Wall Street Journal

A macchiato at RBC

I mention my hesitations only to say that Giorgio Milos, the master barista for Italian coffee maker illy caffé, had his work cut out for him convincing me of the value of his calling when we embarked on a coffee tour Tuesday afternoon at RBC NYC, an unassuming espresso bar he'd selected in TriBeCa.

"It's very similar to an Italian café, even if there's no counter like in Italy," said Mr. Milos, who's an instructor at his company's Universita del Caffe. "We never sit down for espresso."

Exactly. I explained my reservations about this whole coffee cult thing. Mr. Milos couldn't have been more charming, diplomatic or, well, Italian. He had no problem with somebody putting a little milk or, in my case, sugar in their coffee. "Coffee has to be a pleasure," he explained.

My impression is that the people typically knocking out espressos in Italy haven't been trained in "latte art" at a university—caffe or otherwise. The "barista" is typically the restaurant or café's owner, its cashier or bartender; in a crunch, the pizza chef or proprietor's mother can step in and make a perfectly respectable espresso.

And I'm apparently not alone in my skepticism. Mr. Milos conceded that Italians aren't as receptive to his techniques and tutorials as Americans. "I have more things to do here," said the barista, who had returned the previous day from the West Coast where he had been teaching coffee making, milk steaming and foam formation (the smaller the bubbles apparently the better) at the Culinary Institute of America's Napa Valley campus. "The coffee culture is growing here. I find very passionate people. Italians know everything, they think. It's a different culture."

About the coffee at RBC NYC: It was good, strong as jet fuel, and served in a glass. "It's very short, very concentrate, good smell," Mr. Milos pronounced. "Personally, I prefer ceramic cups."

The barista, something of a celebrity in coffee circles, was recognized by Bryan Newton, one of RBC's baristas, who brought over a second, complimentary espresso made from different beans than the first—Mr. Milos suspected Costa Rican and Guatemalan. "He's definitely stirring up the pot," said Mr. Newton, without saying how, but who follows the master's pronouncements on the blogs. "I have a lot of respect for his opinion."

On the way to our next stop, La Colombe, a coffee bar on Lafayette Street, the barista shared a little of his background. His mother worked for illy caffé for 35 years, in quality control. "When she retired I took her place," he said. He lives in Trieste, illy caffé's headquarters, and plans next month to marry his fiancée, Aurora, a fellow and perhaps even superior barista who, according to Mr. Milos, is both a master technician and perfect host. "I'm more trainer, teacher," Mr. Milos explained. "She's more entertainer."

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Andrew Burton for The Wall Street Journal

Two espressos at Vive La Crepe

He thought RBC's espresso better than La Colombe's—which he didn't think bad, though a little too short. He appreciated the fact the coffee came with a small glass of water to cleanse the palate and was served in a ceramic cup. However, he took exception to some liquid that spilled over the side and hadn't been wiped clean.

Our last stop wasn't even an espresso bar but Vive La Crepe, a creperie on University Place where they knew Mr. Milos and where he went behind the counter to make us cappuccino. "It's very late for Italians," he cautioned. "No Italians drink cappuccino after lunch."

He produced his "barista kit," which he always carries with him. The kit consisted of a brush to clean the filter, a second, smaller brush for the screen, a thermometer, a steaming pitcher, and perhaps most importantly his favorite tamper, which he described as "my best friend."

The cappuccino was excellent, but even more impressive was the way Mr. Milos poured the steamed milk—creating heart, leaf and tulip designs in the foam; but without any of the Strum und drang or self-congratulation that attends the average American barista's efforts.

"One of my masters, Mr. Marino Petracco, told me one time, 'You know what milk, sugar, syrups are—coffee contaminants,'" Mr. Milos confided. "I'm a purist. I'll drink my coffee black."