Behind the Counter of a Little Piece of Italy
Whenever I enter a modern café today, I cannot help smiling. The espresso is still there. But everything around it has changed. In the 1960s and 1970s, Italian cafés were far more than places where coffee was served. They were second homes. A little piece of Italy in the heart of Belgium. During my travels throughout the country for FAEMA, I visited several establishments each day.
Before I even opened the door, I often already knew what would be waiting inside. The smell of freshly ground coffee. The soft hiss of steam. The familiar knock of the portafilter being emptied. The delicate clink of porcelain cups. And above all... The voices. Always those voices. Lively. Animated. Full of warmth. Sometimes it seemed that everyone was speaking at once. They talked about soccer. About Italian politics.
About the families left behind in Abruzzo, Sicily, or Veneto. About work in the coal mines. About children growing up between two countries. Most of the time, I listened more than I spoke. And it was precisely by listening that I learned the most. I began to understand that a café owner was far more than a person who served coffee. He was a confidant. An adviser. And sometimes even a psychologist. He knew his customers' joys.
But also their worries. He knew who suffered from homesickness. Who faithfully sent money to family in Italy. Who dreamed of one day returning to their native village. And who, deep inside, had already accepted that Belgium had become their new home. I saw men enter whose faces still bore traces of the coal mine. Their hands told the same story. Hands hardened by years of grueling labor. They rarely stayed long.
Most simply ordered:
"An espresso."
A few moments later, the little cup stood before them. Dark. Fragrant. Topped with a beautiful hazelnut-colored crema. Not large. Not diluted. But full and intense. Exactly as in Italy. They took a sip. And sometimes said only one word.
"Perfetto."
Nothing more needed to be said. Those few minutes at the counter were often a brief moment of rest during their long working day. People did not come only to drink coffee. They met friends there. Made appointments. Found work. Announced marriages. Came to introduce their newborn children. And sometimes they said goodbye to friends who were returning to Italy or beginning a new chapter of life elsewhere.
At the time, I did not understand that I was witnessing an important page of history. To me, it was simply my work. Only many years later did I understand how special those cafés had been. They helped thousands of Italian families feel at home in Belgium without ever losing their connection to their roots. Even today, when I see an old FAEMA E61, I am immediately carried back to those years. Not only to the machine itself.
But above all, to the people. To the café owner who welcomed every customer as though they were family. To the miner who, after a long working day, finally found a few moments of rest. To the aroma of freshly made espresso mingling with conversations in Italian, Dutch, French, and sometimes even the Limburg dialect. That was Belgium. A country where different cultures met. Not in conference rooms.
But around a simple counter. Perhaps that is also why I have always believed business is about far more than selling products. It brings people together. A good espresso gathers people around the same table. And whenever they take the time to speak with one another, understanding grows. Friendships are born. And sometimes new dreams begin. That is where I learned those lessons. Not in a book.
But behind the counters of hundreds of little cafés that together told a remarkable story. A story of courage. Integration. Homesickness. And hope. A story that still lives today in every espresso prepared with love.