Italy’s Best-kept Coffee Secret Is This Stunning Port City and Its Timeless Cafes

I thought I knew everything there was to know about Italian coffee. I’m a three-cup-a-day man, and my standby is a single shot with a bit of foamed milk: a classic macchiato. When in Rome, I frequent Caffè Sant’Eustachio, where the baristas make a gossamer crema, masking their technique behind a hulking Cimbali machine.

In Naples, I make sure to ask for my espresso without sugar: southerners prefer robusta beans, which are dark and high in caffeine, so they tend to compensate by sweetening their coffee. I’ve even made the pilgrimage to Turin, where Italy’s first espresso was served at an industrial fair in 1884, to visit its slick interactive coffee museum and try a drink called bicerin, a mix of coffee and hot chocolate topped with a chilled crema al latte.

But on my first visit to Trieste, the small city tucked away in the northeastern corner of Italy that many consider the true capital of coffee, I was at a loss. At the Antico Caffè San Marco, my first stop after getting off the slow train from Venice, the closest thing to a macchiato was a goccia, an espresso topped with a drop of milk foam. If you want a standard espresso, order a nero — which in other parts of Italy will get you a glass of red wine. Most people ask for a capo in b, which a server told me is like a cappuccino, but with less milk, and served in a bicchiere, or glass, rather than a cup. Mine arrived on a silver tray, along with a small glass of mineral water, the way it might at a Kaffeehaus in Austria. Indeed, with its intricate woodwork, Comedy and Tragedy masks, and patrons quietly examining the day’s broadsheets, the cafe felt more like one in Belle Époque Vienna than modern-day Italy.

Trieste is the Mediterranean’s leading port for coffee beans from Africa and South America. While Turin is the home of Lavazza, Trieste is the city built by Illy. It’s said the typical Triestino consumes 22 pounds of beans a year, almost double the Italian average. Perhaps not coincidentally, given all its cafes, Trieste is also a city of writers: Casanova and the poet Rainer Maria Rilke spent time there, and the late travel writer Jan Morris subtitled her book-length tribute to this out-of-the-way city “The Meaning of Nowhere.”

To learn more, I arranged a chat with Cristina Favento, a travel and food journalist who has researched the history of Trieste’s cafes. We met on the terrace of Caffè degli Specchi, in the Piazza della Unità, a vast seafront square lined with stately 19th-century palazzos. “A hundred years ago, there were four cafes here, and their tables and chairs would have filled up almost the whole piazza,” Favento said. “Everybody wanted a different coffee, so the waiters came up with short names for them, like goccia or capo in b.”

Favento attributes Trieste’s unique coffee culture to its history as the main seaport for the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Starting in 1719, coffee and other imports were no longer taxed. The Hapsburg ruler Maria Theresa opened the city to Jews in 1771 and, 10 years later, Emperor Joseph II issued an “edict of tolerance” that codified freedom of religion. These declarations attracted people from around the Mediterranean, many of whom went into the coffee-importing trade.

After World War I, when Trieste became part of the Kingdom of Italy (until 1943, when it was occupied by Nazi Germany), the cafes kept their Mitteleuropean traditions — and not just when it came to coffee. While many Italians enjoy croissants known as cornetti with their morning espresso, Triestini might instead snack on buttery brioche or a slice of strucolo, the local version of strudel.

Today, at least 10 historic cafes remain in Trieste, each with its own distinctive character. The oldest, Caffè Tommaseo, was founded in 1830 as a series of jewel-box rooms adorned with sculpted cherubs and red velvet seating. The terrace of Caffè Urbanis, located on a bustling piazza, is a great place for a shakerato, chilled espresso shaken with ice and sugar or simple syrup. Unfortunately, an overreaching renovation of the interior didn’t leave much more intact than the whimsical floor mosaics depicting the bora and the other winds of the Adriatic. More to my taste was Antico Caffè Torinese, where the marble counter dates back to 1919 and the interior resembles that of an ocean liner. (The original designer went on to decorate the Saturnia and the Vulcania.)

Caffè Pirona has its own literary legacy: James Joyce was a regular during his years in the city at the start of the 20th century. While standing at the counter, I struck up a conversation with barista Massimo Zulian about the origins of the capo in b. “There’s lots of wind in Trieste, and it’s cold in the winter,” he explained. “The story goes that they served espresso in a glass so people who had to work outdoors could warm up their fingers.”

Before I departed Trieste, I returned to where I’d started, Caffè San Marco. In a lifetime of coffee-shop sitting, this may be the best cafe I’ve ever encountered. Part of the appeal is that it’s attached to a wonderful bookstore, Libreria San Marco, which hosts readings and other literary events. But what really spoke to my writerly soul was the hushed, dimly lit interior, which features a frieze of gilded coffee leaves.

As I fantasized about Joyce walking in off the street and ordering an aperitivo — or something a little stronger — I claimed one of the marble-topped tables. I asked for a capo scuro, a macchiato with a little extra coffee, which, I’d discovered in Trieste, is my new favorite drink. 

A version of this story first appeared in the December 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “A City Abuzz.”