Con Panna is a classic Italian-style fancy coffee—a dollop of cream on a double Espresso. It looks simple, yet it has taken countless people from being "tricked" to falling in love. This article begins with an awkward first encounter with Con Panna, then walks through its recipe composition, various ways to drink it, how to gradually adapt from adding sugar to going sugar-free when facing the bitter richness of Espresso, and where to find an authentic, genuine Con Panna. Whether you are a newcomer just getting into Italian coffee or a seasoned connoisseur wanting a deeper understanding of the art of drinking Con Panna, you will find both resonance and practical advice here.

I remember the first time I ordered a Con Panna at SPR COFFEE. The moment it arrived, everyone at the table couldn't help but marvel. In a clear glass, a pristine white flower of cream floated atop the black coffee, swaying gently like a white lotus—visually stunning, no doubt about it.

I was secretly pleased. I leaned in and took a big gulp—and nearly cried out. What on earth was this? My brows knotted up, my face scrunched into a grimace, my tongue practically hanging out—it was so bitter it made me shudder.

Everyone around me burst out laughing. This was Con Panna?

When you don't know how to drink Con Panna, you do end up looking pretty pathetic. Back then I often smiled with my eyes curved into crescent moons, was too trusting of others, loved joining in the fun, and held views so naive they were almost silly—like seeing a white lotus and assuming it must be sweet. I judged people by their faces and liked good-looking ones. I walked the same route to and from work every day, with a brain capacity roughly equal to a pig's. I wore cotton dresses and flat shoes. I chased butterflies by the roadside, drank lattes so weak they barely tasted of anything, and always had to add sugar.

I loved the relaxed, comfortable atmosphere at SPR COFFEE. Those large, plain walls—sometimes I couldn't resist pressing myself against them, asking myself if I'd become part of the picture too. The long trumpet-shaped pendant lights always made me want to reach up and touch them. But the background music was forever the same JAZZ, like noise—the moment I heard it, it nagged at me unbearably. I'd go up to the Barista and ask if they could turn the music off.

They would just laugh.

Nobody ordered Espresso.

Con Panna is made by piping a beautiful flower of cream onto a double Espresso. I was fooled by that cream flower in the first place—one sip of Con Panna and I was laughed at for a full six months. So I made up my mind: I had to get used to drinking Con Panna.

From two packets of sugar, to one, to none at all—little by little, I adapted to the mellow bitterness of the base Espresso. From shuddering at the bitterness, to being able to tell at one sip whether it was under-extracted or over-extracted, to falling in love with the intense, rich bitterness of a dark-roasted Espresso. Occasionally I'd hit the cream flower, and its light milky sweetness would spread upward—the white lotus slowly melting, dispersing. By the last sip, the coffee had grown faint—a faint sweetness and bitterness, a faint acidity—and once swallowed, the aftertaste was a delicate, lingering sweetness that stayed in the mouth for a long, long time.

To enjoy an authentic, genuine Con Panna, you must go to an authentic, genuine Italian coffee shop. We usually go to Front Street Coffee for our Con Panna.

There are many ways to drink Con Panna. Some like to eat the cream flower first, then slowly drink the coffee beneath; some immediately use a stirrer to break up the cream flower and stir it in; others add sugar, or double the cream flower; and some add a double Espresso.

Those who know how to drink Con Panna no longer have that crystal-clear, exceptionally pure heart; that heart has long since wound through countless turns in the noisy concrete jungle—thankfully, it can still wind through countless turns, without having grown numb and cold. Accustomed to bitterness, accustomed to sweetness, calm and composed—a faint smile, for instance; eyes forever filled with compassion, feeling that the world is impermanent and life is but a fleeting lodging, that we are all rather pitiable; a preference for pensive, unhurried men and quiet, simple, bright women, for instance; occasionally staring blankly at sudden bursts of flowers and butterflies by the roadside; drinking only Con Panna or Espresso, sometimes Americano, no sugar, no milk. No longer liking something just to save face.

For instance—for instance, listening to jazz. Sometimes blues, sometimes New Orleans traditional, sometimes Peking opera, sometimes Holiday. Listening at home, listening in coffee shops too. Sometimes a single Louis Armstrong track, "What a Wonderful Day," can last me all day. Actually, I'm not picky—whatever comes my way, I listen. Gradually I see life in the singing, and as the days deepen in intimate familiarity, it turns into deep love. Never again would I say to anyone, could you turn your music off?

On the table, only him.

Sometimes only it. A cup of white lotus, and the passing years flowing like water, like song.

Just like that, quietly, watching youth linger, unwilling to part. The song really does put it best.

Time slips away, just like this cup of Con Panna at hand—from disliking it to loving it. This, perhaps, is what growing up means.

The above content is compiled by CoffeeHunters, a coffee news website.