Chinese Espresso: How Chinese Coffee Bars Are Brewing a New Italy

Behind a single cup of espresso made by Chinese hands is a story of migration, identity, and cultural redefinition.

Every morning around 9:30, 81-year-old Claudio Gatta walks into Bar Foscarini, a coffee bar tucked beside the iconic Accademia Bridge in Venice. He orders his usual: an espresso and a tuna sandwich. The espresso is rich and hot, the sandwich flavorful—prepared and served by Chinese staff who now own and run the establishment.

Bar Foscarini has existed for over 70 years, its decor a classic Italian tableau: gleaming marble counters, polished espresso machines, and a familiar menu of pasta, pizza, and aperitifs. But it’s also something new—a microcosm of Italy’s demographic evolution.

Behind the bar, 20-year-old barista Sophia Li, originally from Putian in China’s Fujian province, chats with her Bangladeshi coworker as she prepares drinks with deft precision. Nearby, Zia Wen, who emigrated from China 17 years ago, swiftly assembles sandwiches in the kitchen. Both women are part of a growing phenomenon: Chinese-run coffee bars spreading across Italy.

What seems like an ordinary espresso bar is, in fact, part of a quiet cultural shift. The traditionally sacred ritual of Italian coffee is now increasingly made and served by Chinese immigrants, stirring debates about authenticity, identity, and coexistence in a changing society.

Espresso with a Side of Identity

Coffee bars in Italy are more than retail spaces—they are sacred social arenas. Italians gather here not just for caffeine, but for community. Locals read the morning paper, debate politics, and greet neighbors over short sips of espresso. The barista, like a bartender or confidante, becomes a pillar of these micro-communities.

But for some Italians, the sight of a Chinese person behind the espresso machine triggers discomfort. “Some people peek in, see we’re Chinese, and say cinesi—then turn around and walk away,” Sophia says. Zia chimes in angrily: “They think we’re taking their money. Some of them just don’t want to accept us.”

It’s a pattern that echoes Italy’s own internal migrations. Decades ago, Southern Italians moving north were mocked as terroni—uneducated peasants. Now, the focus of prejudice has shifted to migrants from Asia, North Africa, and Eastern Europe.

Even tourists get caught in the authenticity trap. One English-speaking reviewer wrote on Google Maps: “The chef is Chinese. That should say enough.” The underlying assumption: only Italians can make “real” Italian food and coffee.

But Claudio, the antique shop owner next door, isn’t bothered. He’s become a regular, delighting in Sophia’s spritz cocktails and Zia’s homemade dumplings. “I’m amazed how fast she works,” he says. “She doesn’t even taste the drinks. I tell her to try them. She always laughs and says, ‘No, no, I know it already.’”

From Seamstress to Barista: The Chinese Path to Entrepreneurship

The rise of Chinese-owned bars began accelerating after the 2008 financial crisis. As aging Italian owners retired and their educated children pursued white-collar careers, many bars changed hands. Chinese migrants—once relegated to garment workshops and wholesale shops—saw an opportunity to take center stage.

Coffee bars were attractive: low startup costs, long hours, and steady demand. With family members working in shifts, Chinese owners kept labor costs down. Today, there are over 2,000 Chinese-owned bars registered with Italy’s Chinese Bar Association, with many more operating independently.

Rome bar owner Zhang Yaxian describes the shift: “When trade slowed down, people turned to bars. They realized it’s a stable business.”

Zhang moved to Italy after university to help his mother run Caffè Camerino, which now anchors a suburban Roman community. “In the beginning, people laughed at us—‘What can Chinese people know about running a bar?’ But now we’re the local hub.”

Coffee as a Cultural Bridge

These coffee bars don’t only sell drinks—they facilitate what anthropologist Ting Deng calls conviviality, a daily intimacy that bridges cultural divides.

At Bar Foscarini, Sophia navigates three languages with ease—Italian, Mandarin, and Bengali. Her coworkers are often Bangladeshi, another growing immigrant group in Italy’s service sector. In Venice alone, one in ten residents is now foreign-born, with Chinese, Egyptian, and Albanian migrants making up the majority of new shop owners.

Even in Prato—Italy’s “Little China” with the highest concentration of Chinese in Europe—coffee bars remain contested spaces. In the heart of Prato’s Chinatown, one Italian-run café proudly declares: “Every morning, Italians and Chinese come here for coffee.” On its walls hang euro notes from around the world and photos of Chinese regulars downing espresso like locals.

The Price of Integration

Yet, beneath the multicultural buzz lies a stark labor divide. Many Chinese bar owners prefer hiring within their communities—or from equally marginalized groups—because local Italian workers often seek shorter hours and labor protections.

“Most Italians want weekends off, but weekends are our busiest times,” says Lin Yichen, a 29-year-old Chinese bar owner in Venice. “They also take all their paid holidays. How do I keep the bar open like that?”

Lin himself works two jobs—mornings in his family’s supermarket, afternoons and nights in the bar. “I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. I used to go to the tax office with a dictionary to help my parents fill forms.” He hopes his son won’t have to repeat the same sacrifices.

“The younger generation wants to rest. They want options,” he says. “They’re becoming more Italian in their mindset.”

A New Normal in the Old World

Despite lingering tensions and stereotypes, Chinese coffee bars are gradually becoming part of Italy’s urban tapestry. In Rome, one of the most popular cafés among young locals—Caffè Perú—is Chinese-run. Its vintage interior graces tourist postcards, and no one seems to mind who owns it.

Researchers believe this signals a “new normal.” Italian patrons may still bristle at perceived cultural shifts, but increasingly accept that espresso can come from any hand, so long as it tastes right.

Back in Bar Foscarini, Claudio doesn’t see a foreign invasion—he sees a new neighborhood, new friends, and a damn good cup of coffee.

Epilogue:

At the heart of Italy’s coffee culture today is not just a barista with a portafilter, but a shared space—where a Bangladeshi waiter calls out orders in Italian, a Fujianese woman froths milk with YouTube-taught skills, and an 81-year-old Venetian regular smiles as he sips his daily espresso.

Sometimes, it only takes a cup of coffee to imagine a new kind of Italy.

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