I love that about Boston and city life in general. The streets were crowded with tourists and soccer fans heading to dinner and taking in the sights. And the one at the end of the block wasn’t reading my card. But the ATM across the street was out of order. That should have made for a quick trip while L finished her coffee at our table. Yeah, that whole gentrification and development thing again. That dreamy, haze-filled moment lasted briefly because Caffe Vittoria is cash only. It re-awakened that desire most people have to drop everything and move to Europe to become a travel writer and work the vineyards in the summer. I wanted to climb the statue of Paul Revere (that was the caffeine). I felt connected to the history that soaks these streets. My next sip of nectar was my only concern. Ironic, given the surge of caffeine pulsing through my veins at that moment, but I was in my happy place. The world was no longer in a hurry. Are you sick and/or aroused yet? Good.įor a moment, sitting in that coffee shop with Italy vs England in the background, I felt new. The sfogliatella was constructed with two million layers of flaky pastry baked around a rich lemon custard. A true complement to the bitterness and acidity of a well-made espresso. The steamed milk was thick, frothy, and buttery–it added a texture and dimension to coffee that I’d never tasted before. Remnants of a cafe latte and a sfogliatella at Caffe Vittoria on Hanover Street in Boston. The two have conspired for decades trying to turn me into a fat piece of garbage. This is a legendary spot directly next to the equally renowned Mike’s Pastry. So, this was my first caffe latte experience, appropriately at Caffe Vittoria on Hanover Street. I like my coffee black, my beer dark, and my steak rare. I’m not a foofy coffee type of guy, generally speaking. “The Original Italian Caffe in the North End of Boston” - shirt from Caffe Vittoria on Hanover Street A lower population (barely 25% of its 44,000 peak during the influx of immigrants in the 1930s) means less community services are required, like schools, which leaves more room for development.īut not enough room for parking. It rivals anything that comes out of New York, Sicily, or the Pope’s house. The Italian food in this neighborhood is world-class. Stiff competition is good for the consumer–with so many Italian restaurants and cafes vying for your dollar, the quality of your experiences will always be top notch. Those blue Italia jerseys were purchased with good ol’ American greenbacks.Įver since I can remember, the North End was packed with restaurants, a few designer shops, and a lot of historic attractions. Maybe their grandparents or parents came here from Italy, but like me, they’re first or second generation Americans now. Those toasted bar patrons I mentioned? 99% of them American-born. Little Anthony would hardly recognize them. Even my beloved Prince Pasta hasn’t been local since 1987–they’re a lone brick in a massive Spanish-owned food conglomerate based in Madrid. The floods of Italian immigrants and their children have moved on replaced by floods of tourists, young professionals, and business owners. The red-brick tenements that once lined the cobbled streets are now upscale restaurants and condominiums sold off to the highest bidder. The echoes are still bouncing off the narrow alleys if you listen carefully. I think it was the cheering that did it: hundreds of toasted bar patrons wearing blue Italia jerseys screaming with joy as Italy went up 1-0 against England in the World Cup match. An accordionist serenades customers waiting in line at the world famous Mike’s Pastry in Boston’s North End.īoston’s North End has come unstuck in time.
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