Hugo Spritz

There’s a version of me that still exists in a piazza in Sicily, one glass of something bubbly and pale gold in hand, watching the whole town come out for its evening walk.

We’d found a little cafe table on the edge of the square just as the light went soft and everything turned that particular shade of amber. And then, right on cue, the passeggiata started — couples arm in arm, grandmothers in their good coats, kids weaving through legs on scooters, everyone dressed like the evening itself was an occasion. Nobody was in a hurry. That was the whole point.

I ordered it on a whim, going with whatever the waiter recommended without thinking twice — Prosecco, elderflower, a whisper of mint and lime, poured tall over ice. One sip and I understood why an entire town builds its evenings around a drink like this: light, effervescent, the kind of thing that tastes like a warm night and nowhere to be. It’s not really about the alcohol. It’s an excuse to sit still and watch people love their own town.

We don’t get a piazza most nights. We get a balcony, a wobbly little side table, and whatever’s left of the evening after everything else is done. But the drink travels well. Muddle the mint, build it over ice, pour slow, and for five minutes it’s Sicily again — light, refreshing, perfect for a warm summer night, someone I love across the table.

Hugo Spritz