Church bells are clanging outside my window. It’s noon on my first full day in Milan, and it started with a cream-filled cornetto.
I’m here in Italy for a couple of days taking in the sights and sounds of Milan Cortina 2026, Italy’s turn on the world stage as host of the Winter Olympics. But for me, the only thing I’ll be skating toward is the nearest trattoria.
Welcome to the Olympics of eating where my diet is completely upside down. Back home, carbs are my mortal enemy. Here, they're my best friend. By the time I’m done and head back home to New York, I know that Campari sodas, Aperol spritzes and red wine will make up the majority of my bloodstream.
I’m staying in an Airbnb near Milano Centrale. Much like Moynihan Hall in Manhattan, or LA and Chicago’s Union Stations, it’s a transit hub, and it simply made sense to stay close by. You can tell it’s an Italian Airbnb by the fact that it's not only equipped with a full kitchen but also a pantry stocked with olive oil: perfect for any emergency frying, sautéing, drizzling, or dipping needs. Hotels have long been booked at prices higher than the nearby Duomo, so Airbnbs are the way to go here.
As the sun rises over a gloomy Milan (where temperatures hover around 50 degrees), I map the nearest coffee shop for some morning fuel and land at Caffe Napoli; it’s a mini chain here in Milano, and the one I pop into is located on Via Vitruvio. Its menu is full of unique creations, including a drink made with espresso and Nutella, finished with a Nutella rim rolled in hazelnuts. Similarly, a drink with pistachio is made with cream from the nut.
Practicing some rare self-restraint, I opt for a classic Americano. “Single or double?” I’m asked. Hey, I’m in Italy. Make it a double, per favore. Unable to decide between a cornetto (fresh-filled here with pastry cream) and a rum baba, I get both, asking the kind clerk to package the baba to go. I end up eating everything right there, soaking in the cafe’s bustling energy.
Walking down Via Vitruvio toward the Duomo, the streets are full of adverts for iconic Italian brands (Martini, Campari, et. al.); what they’re not really full of is… people. One might think Milan would be slammed with crowds as the world descends on Italy for the Games. But with this Olympics being a more spread-out affair (with competitions in faraway places like Cortina and the Valtellina Valley), the crowds are diluted. Sure, the touristy spots have pockets of people. But much like glancing at your checking account total after a trip abroad, it’s much less than you’d expect.
Soon, it’s time for a drink. I don’t bother to check the time, but as the great American poet Jimmy Buffett once proclaimed, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” I enter a bar (the Italian version of our cafe) and order what amounts to four of the most beautiful words ever uttered together: Negroni Sbagliato, to go. In case you're not familiar, a Negroni Sbagliato (the latter word meaning "mistake" in Italian) is a classic Negroni recipe that substitutes prosecco for the gin component). It comes in a plastic cup, and the barista rips off a piece of tin foil to wrap on top so I can carry it out. Not needed, signore; I’ll be drinking this within seconds of walking out the door.
I try to order another glorious Sbagliato later that night at A Santa Lucia, located in the shadow of the mighty Duomo. A Neapolitan classic in Milan, this ristorante has been open for nearly a century and is like the Sardi’s of Milan, with walls plastered in a hundred years' worth of Italian celebrities (Sophia Loren included, of course).
Sitting down, I ask for another Negroni Sbagliato.
“Negroni,” my no-nonsense waiter replies.
“Sbagliato,” I say.
“Negroni,” he says again.
“Sbagliato,” I respond again.
“Negron…,” he repeats.
Fine, okay. I guess this place doesn't make mistakes.
I also order a loaf of focaccia and a plate of turnip greens, a mainstay of Italian menus. The greens are incredible — garlicky, spicy, salty — and don’t taste nearly as healthy as they are. Meanwhile, the “focaccia” was actually a pizza crust without any toppings. Resourceful as ever, I put the greens on the dry slices and pat myself on the back for inventing a new lunch order. I end the meal with a cannolo, prepared the classic way with an orange slice on top.
By nightfall, I score last-minute tickets to the opening ceremony. I hop into a Freenow car (Italy’s answer to Lyft), and my driver wants to drop me off about a half mile from San Siro Stadium. I ask him, please, to drive a little closer, and he replies by repeating, “It’s not possible!” I also think I hear him throw in the word “disaster,” referring to the traffic. I wound up hopping out of my car and walking with the international crowds in a similar situation until we reach the gargantuan San Siro Stadium.
Once inside, there are snaking lines everywhere. Miraculously, they take only about 10 minutes, and once through the gates I’m tiptoeing through bottlenecked crowds inside the old stadium, which turns 100 years old this year. Making it to my seat, I’m blown away by the spectacle; from Bocelli to Mariah, the impassioned speeches, and the tributes to the art and music of Italy. Of course, they also had to honor Italian food and drink, in the form of dancing Bialetti Moka pots.
Elsewhere, beer is the only alcoholic drink served in the stadium, with Corona the improbable sponsor. Some Italians are so unfamiliar with Corona that they actually think it’s an Italian brand, not the classic Mexican cerveza. I guess Peroni didn’t have enough cash for the marketing blitz the Games require.
By the time the ceremony ends, it’s around 11 p.m., and the other roughly 75,000 people in attendance spill out into the Milan night. The streets are crowded, so instead of packing into one of the few trains still running, I head to Family Bar on Via Novara, one of the few places still open. (It seems the Italians wanted to celebrate, not cash in on the crowds.)
Inside, I order a spritz and one of the workers simultaneously pours Campari and Aperol over ice, topping it with prosecco. A sing-along breaks out to songs like “Volare,” where much of the diverse crowd only knows the chorus and screams along to every word.
By around 2 a.m., I head back to my Airbnb, and who’s that I see? An opening ceremony performer in the form of a Bialetti pot. He’s carrying his hat (lid) in his hands, ready to brew another day.
