I’ve grown so attached to the Bialetti man. The first time I really looked at him I think I might have blushed, even though I’m pretty sure I knew he wasn’t meant to be giving me the finger. Then years and years went by without me giving him much thought, or even noticing him at all. He was a small, unavoidable fixture in my – and everybody else’s – kitchen; I saw him all the time, everyday, and so I never saw him at all.
And then, after over a decade in which I’ve seen a million Italians order a million coffees at the bar without really looking at them either, I spent two weeks in the US, returned home, took one look at the Bialetti man and saw what had been right in front of me all along: He’s ordering a coffee.
(Although I think I might prefer my original interpretation. It no longer makes me blush, but it definitely makes me smile.)