How I Learned to Love Campari
An epic tale of obsession, flirtation, digestion, and bitter-sweet nostalgia
Some aspire to be skinny in stilettos, or preternaturally confident and polyamorous. The woman I wanted to be drank Campari.
Neither of us knew what licking the pavement tasted like, but I admit that Alison’s revulsive description of my favorite spirit wasn’t far off. Imagine the tight recoil of your tongue at first contact with the white underside of an orange peel.
Campari was hardly love at first sip for me.
It was a taste I vowed to acquire at all costs—in the same way that despite the cloudy sting of grapefruit rind when you dig one millimeter too deep with a serrated spoon, you forge onward toward a promise of sweetness.
Long before Aperol Spritz paved the way for citrus-driven bitters in the United States, Campari was always lurking around— relegated to a back corner of the bar where its noble neck and embossed label unfittingly collected dust.
I saw it for the time in my friend Vicki’s glass.
Short for Victoria, she dotted the ‘I’ with a heart and had a Mickey Mouse tattooed on her ankle—one of her quieter rebellions.
Vicki had grown up in the grasp of her father, who kept his only daughter close after her mother passed tragically young.
Vicki lined her eyes in blue and wore tangled strands of her mother’s pearls. She smoked Marlboro Reds and stashed them in a sandalwood box under her bed.
Her family traveled to Europe often and she stocked up on them at Duty Free along with the latest Dior perfumes. To me, Vicki was the picture of sex and sophistication.
We used to eat lunch at an Italian café near my college campus. When she ordered a Campari and soda one day, our server didn’t even blink. He didn’t ask her for an ID. He probably figured no teenager could possibly know what Campari was, let alone like it.
The drink came served over ice in a rocks glass crowned with an orange slice and accompanied by a miniature can of Schweppes soda. Vicki cracked it open and poured. A layer of pink foam fizzed above the Campari, itself a viscous electric red.
I never expected Vicki to drink such a thing. It was too pretty.
Vicki was the kind of girl who negotiated combat boots when her father insisted that she wear satin to the opera. Secondly, it resembled the most childish of cocktails: the Shirley Temple, which is mainly a vehicle for maraschino cherries, or the Cape Cod: a high school and cruise ship classic, designed to mask crass, inexpensive vodka with cranberry for the unpracticed drinker.
Vicki offered me a sip and I gulped without thinking.
Campari defies every preconception of color and flavor. Everything about it says candy. Instead, it is piquant, bitter, and bright.
It was nostalgia that fooled me into thinking such a color would be sweet and innocent.
It would later be nostalgia that hooked me on a spirit that is anything but.
While studying abroad in Siena, Italy during the summer of 2000, I noticed everyone drinking Campari Sodas. They came in tiny beaker-shaped bottles, poured over ice and a sliver of orange if the place was fancy.
One day, at the café where my favorite waiter worked, I tested out some of my new Italian language skills.
“Posso provare quello?” Can I try that? I indicated a nearby table where a couple were sipping Campari.
He winked at me and said, “Non credo che ti piacerà…” I don’t think you’ll like it…
I winked back. “Provaci.” Try me.
He watched me closely as I sipped.
I was determined not to grimace and put on a stellar performance.
The initial shock of bitterness hit the back of my palate, immediately followed by a cool burn and little aftershocks from the soda fizz, like ultra-fine fireworks.
I didn’t like the flavor, but I loved the feeling.
Even more so, I loved when he watched me finish it and said, “Wow. Sei piena di sorprese.” You’re full of surprises.
For the remaining weeks of summer, Campari became our secret code, served over ice and accompanied by innuendo. “Così, ti piace.” This is how you like it.
I drank three of them one afternoon and we kissed in a narrow street behind the café. He whispered, “Ti stai innamorando?” Are you falling in love?
The night before I before my flight back to the States, I only drank one, but I wrote down the address of my hostel on the back of the receipt. “Ci vediamo dopo,” he said. See you later.
To know is to love, and to love is to want to know more.
I made it my mission to learn everything about Campari, from its birthplace in Piedmont to its signature red color, which comes from a dye called Carmine, produced from tiny red insects called cochineals.
The word sounded suspiciously like coccinelle, the Italian word for lady bugs.
It was a worrisome etymological dilemma—but young lust, entomology, and selective empathy prevailed.
Once I was convinced that lady bugs were not being systematically slaughtered, and that Carmine dye wasn’t just in my glass but everywhere—from ornate Turkish carpets to drugstore lipsticks—I let it go.
I learned that Campari belonged to the ‘bitters ‘family: spirits infused with medicinal botanicals, bark, and spices, originally created as digestive tonics and sold in pharmacies.
Before that, ancient civilizations had used similar recipes for stomach upset, many of which were preserved and perfected in the cloister gardens of medieval monasteries.
I tested the out the science during a train ride to Milan a few months later.
I had returned to Italy to visit friends in Bergamo for the holidays. On the way up from Rome, I stopped in Siena to see if any old flames were still glowing. I didn’t have much time, and I didn’t spend it eating.
I caught the overnight train from Florence and grabbed the last salami sandwich from the only bar still open in in the station and tore into it in a state of ravenous oblivion.
I awoke midmorning, my stomach in tangles.
I raced for the bar car and took a Campari like medicine: On the rocks, no soda. It worked. By the time we reached Milan I was cured.
During the hour layover to Bergamo, I went to the café in the station.
A few men in business suits stood at the bar drinking Campari sodas and flutes of Prosecco. Campari is traditionally served as an aperitivo—an aperitif, designed to stimulate the appetite—something I’d always considered an evening ritual, akin to our happy hour.
I later learned that you can have aperitivo before lunch, which, as an American, struck me as the kind of luxurious and semi-scandalous behavior strictly reserved for vacation.
When one of the men offered to buy me one, I accepted.
I reveled in the feeling that something so Italian was suddenly mine too.
He asked me if I could take the next train and join him for lunch.
I would have accepted had I not spent the last few hours in and out of a train car lavatory.
I moved to Rome, Italy after college and stayed for almost a decade.
During that time, the novelty of Campari faded into something as ordinary as drinking espresso out of tiny cups while standing at the bar or exchanging unapologetic eye contact with men in broad daylight.
I was eager to absorb Italian life and report on it with the fresh voice of a foreigner. This required the constant unearthing of new and extraordinary flavors and places.
There was no end to the list of Italy’s indigenous grape varieties; each one came attached to a memorable meal, spectacular scenery, or a long night of lovemaking that left me limping a little and longing for more.
Campari was once again banished to the back shelf—this time in my house—in favor of Sangiovese, Nebbiolo, and Cesanese.
These days, Campari and I act like an old married couple.
There is always a bottle around, and while it doesn’t excite me the way it used to, it is a comfort—an affectionate reminder of my wild and curious youth.
Today, Campari is a staple of modern mixology.
I’m glad the United States has finally embraced it, but I do sometimes miss the raised eyebrows of American bartenders when I used to order it twenty-five ago, when they would dig up an old bottle, run the encrusted cap under hot water to loosen it up, and ask me how to serve it.
Most of all, I miss the secret of Campari in my glass.
That at first glance, a man might take me for some sweet girl with a candy red cocktail.
Only I know what’s inside. A life rich with travel tales and love stories.
Full of surprises.