The Aperitivo Crisis – When did it start costing more than a bowl of pasta?“€3.90 Spritz! €3.90 Spritz!” shouted my now-favourite bar owner in Rome (whose name and establishment I will keep private for selfish reasons – I am not an influencer). While his enthusiasm is initially rooted in salesmanship, I was more than happy to find an affordable answer to my adoption of the daily aperitivo. His defensive business model of undercutting may be saying something about the inflation of aperitivo prices, but in this economy not all heroes wear capes — they give you a good spritz and ask about your day.The traditions of the aperitivo trace back to ancient Rome, where the elite enjoyed gustatio before their banquets: a pre-dinner course of salty snacks and sweet drinks designed to stimulate appetite. However, the aperitivo as we know it today was born in 1786 in Turin, when distiller Antonio Benedetto Carpano created vermouth by infusing white wine with aromatic herbs and spices. Unlike gustatio, which remained the preserve of the wealthy, vermouth was affordable. For the first time, aperitivo spread across social classes. By the late nineteenth century, the ritual had spread throughout Italy. As writer Edmondo De Amicis described in his 1880 book about Turin, “Vermouth Hour” became a moment when liquor shops crowded with people socialising. The tradition evolved as new drinks emerged: Campari in 1860, the Negroni in 1920s Florence, and eventually the Spritz, which gained popularity in Venice during the same era. These were ordinary, accessible moments of connection. The mathematics of the modern Roman aperitivo reveals a stray from these origins. Venture near the Colosseum or the Pantheon (to name a few) and you may be asked to fork out up to €15. If anything, the price of a spritz could be used as a barometer of how “touristy” the area you’re in is. Take the Aperol Spritz, for example: Aperol, prosecco, acqua frizzante, a slice of orange, and a couple of ice cubes. Three ingredients at its core. The only difference between a few euros and fifteen is a few fairy lights and an Instagram-worthy photo taken by ring light. The Instagramification of aperitivo (and Rome — if not the world — in general) has worked to produce some fascinating behaviour. I recently watched three people spend fifteen minutes arranging their drink and crisps (chips for Americans) for the optimal photograph. The post probably garnered dozens of likes from people who will likely visit the same bar, order the same drink, take the same photo, and wonder why their aperitivo tastes vaguely disappointing and pricey.   To be fair to the bar owners charging inflated prices, running an establishment in central Rome isn’t exactly cheap. Rent near tourist landmarks is extortionate, business rates climb annually, and maintaining that carefully curated aesthetic of exposed brick and hanging plants requires investment. Nowadays many tourists will pay almost anything, creating a pricing arms race that slowly pushes the traditional model into extinction.   The irony is that nearly all posts or articles titled something like “Instagrammable Spots in Rome” are directing many unknowing visitors to the same overpriced bars, creating a closed feedback loop. I’m not suggesting tourists should stop coming to Rome or that they should somehow magically ascertain which bars are “authentic” before entering. But I am suggesting that if you’re paying extortionate prices for a bitter with a dash of prosecco, all you’ve discovered is dynamic pricing.   If you find yourself paying more than around five or six euros for a spritz, you have fallen victim to a trap. The real aperitivo still exists, but you’re unlikely to find it on Instagram, where you aren’t being confronted with charcuterie art. When and if you stumble upon a proper aperitivo, try not to Instagram it.

The Aperitivo Crisis – When did it start costing more than a bowl of pasta? “€3.90 Spritz! €3.90 Spritz!” shouted my now-favourite bar owner in Rome (whose name and establishment I will keep private for selfish reasons – I am not an influencer). While his enthusiasm is initially rooted in salesmanship, I was more than happy to find an affordable answer to my adoption of the daily aperitivo. His defensive business model of undercutting may be saying something about the inflation of aperitivo prices, but in this economy not all heroes wear capes — they give you a good spritz and ask about your day. The traditions of the aperitivo trace back to ancient Rome, where the elite enjoyed gustatio before their banquets: a pre-dinner course of salty snacks and sweet drinks designed to stimulate appetite. However, the aperitivo as we know it today was born in 1786 in Turin, when distiller Antonio Benedetto Carpano created vermouth by infusing white wine with aromatic herbs and spices. Unlike gustatio, which remained the preserve of the wealthy, vermouth was affordable. For the first time, aperitivo spread across social classes. By the late nineteenth century, the ritual had spread throughout Italy. As writer Edmondo De Amicis described in his 1880 book about Turin, “Vermouth Hour” became a moment when liquor shops crowded with people socialising. The tradition evolved as new drinks emerged: Campari in 1860, the Negroni in 1920s Florence, and eventually the Spritz, which gained popularity in Venice during the same era. These were ordinary, accessible moments of connection. The mathematics of the modern Roman aperitivo reveals a stray from these origins. Venture near the Colosseum or the Pantheon (to name a few) and you may be asked to fork out up to €15. If anything, the price of a spritz could be used as a barometer of how “touristy” the area you’re in is. Take the Aperol Spritz, for example: Aperol, prosecco, acqua frizzante, a slice of orange, and a couple of ice cubes. Three ingredients at its core. The only difference between a few euros and fifteen is a few fairy lights and an Instagram-worthy photo taken by ring light. The Instagramification of aperitivo (and Rome — if not the world — in general) has worked to produce some fascinating behaviour. I recently watched three people spend fifteen minutes arranging their drink and crisps (chips for Americans) for the optimal photograph. The post probably garnered dozens of likes from people who will likely visit the same bar, order the same drink, take the same photo, and wonder why their aperitivo tastes vaguely disappointing and pricey.   To be fair to the bar owners charging inflated prices, running an establishment in central Rome isn’t exactly cheap. Rent near tourist landmarks is extortionate, business rates climb annually, and maintaining that carefully curated aesthetic of exposed brick and hanging plants requires investment. Nowadays many tourists will pay almost anything, creating a pricing arms race that slowly pushes the traditional model into extinction.   The irony is that nearly all posts or articles titled something like “Instagrammable Spots in Rome” are directing many unknowing visitors to the same overpriced bars, creating a closed feedback loop. I’m not suggesting tourists should stop coming to Rome or that they should somehow magically ascertain which bars are “authentic” before entering. But I am suggesting that if you’re paying extortionate prices for a bitter with a dash of prosecco, all you’ve discovered is dynamic pricing.   If you find yourself paying more than around five or six euros for a spritz, you have fallen victim to a trap. The real aperitivo still exists, but you’re unlikely to find it on Instagram, where you aren’t being confronted with charcuterie art. When and if you stumble upon a proper aperitivo, try not to Instagram it.