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A German bishop named Johanne Fugger, traveling to Rome for an audience with the Pope in the year 1113, sent his servant ahead to discover all the best wine along the route. When his servant found what he determined to be the finest wine in any village, he would write the Latin word \u201cEst\u201d in chalk on the door of the inn so the bishop would know where to stop, Est being a word that in this instance meant \u201cHere it is.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n The bishop\u2019s servant was so impressed with the Moscato wine in the town of Montefiascone, Italy, that he wrote on the door of the inn with great enthusiasm, \u201cEst! Est!! Est!!!,\u201d an appellation that remains attached to the wine of that region even now. It seems the servant knew his master\u2019s tastes well. Bishop Fugger was so enthralled with the wine that he remained in Montefiascone and kept drinking. He drank himself to death. From the stuporous fog of his last moments on earth, with his final breath it is said, he asked that his great wealth be left in trust and that every year, on the anniversary of his death, a barrel of Moscato be poured over his grave.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cIs that really your name? Raffi?\u201d<\/p>\n Rafael looked up from the espresso pouring into a shot glass and into the tight smirk of a face he\u2019d seen before. He\u2019d only been working as a barista at the coffeehouse for a few days, but the customer had been in several times, a regular.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s short for Rafael,\u201d he said, and smiled gamely.<\/p>\n \u201cMy parents made me listen to that singer, Raffi, when I was kid,\u201d said the customer. \u201cGod, what a dork that guy was. What is that, a Mexican name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt can be. In my case, it\u2019s Italian.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy family used to be Italian too, but they came over so long ago they were settlers not immigrants, you know what I mean, before the Revolution.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour cappuccino,\u201d said Raffi, placing the cup and saucer on the service counter.<\/p>\n The customer stared down at the drink and waved his finger over it. \u201cYou know this arty farty stuff is completely lost on me, so don\u2019t waste your time. The other baristas will tell you, Billy is a regular and spends a lot of money in here, but he doesn\u2019t need pictures on his cappuccino.\u201d<\/p>\n Billy picked up the cup, leaving the saucer behind, started to turn, then stopped and turned back. \u201cOkay, I have to admit, I\u2019ve never seen that before and it\u2019s kind of cool.\u201d He showed his cup to the customer next to him. She nodded and smiled, then rolled her eyes as Billy walked away.<\/p>\n Pouring wine over the grave of bishop Fugger became not only a ritual in the town of Montefiascone, but a time of celebration, a large festival so cherished that when the bishop\u2019s money was gone, the tradition continued nevertheless. That is, until 1657, when the plague came to Montefiascone. With the plague came Capuchin monks, summoned by the mayor to establish a friary and care for the sick and dying.<\/em><\/p>\n The humble Franciscan friars made the townsfolk feel ashamed for the money they spent on a ridiculous celebration punctuated by the wasteful pouring of wine over a grave. They encouraged a new tradition. Money that would have been spent on the barrel of wine and countless other frivolities associated with the annual event, was used instead to help the poor. The change to this new tradition was far from welcomed by all. After a few years of being deprived of their celebration, a group of belligerent men, drunk on their beloved Moscato, confronted the Capuchin monks.<\/em><\/p>\n The next day, from the middle of the line where he was waiting to order, Billy called out. \u201cHey Ravioli, how about another skull today. I forgot to take a picture and the morons upstairs don\u2019t believe me.\u201d<\/p>\n The other baristas looked at Raffi, who just shook his head. \u201cI think it was a tulip,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n Billy frowned at his cappuccino a few minutes later. \u201cWhat is that, a whole skeleton? I like the skull better but a whole skeleton, that\u2019s cool too. Morbid as shit though.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a rosette, brother.\u201d said Raffi.<\/p>\n \u201cA what? Bullshit. That\u2019s a skeleton, a skeleton sitting cross-legged.\u201d Billy showed his drink to the man waiting next to him, who said it looked like a flower.<\/p>\n \u201cWhatever,\u201d said Billy, turning his back on Raffi, talking as he walked away. \u201cNext time I want just that big skull, and I\u2019m not your bother. My brother isn\u2019t even my brother.\u201d<\/p>\n Of course, all the monks refused to fight or even defend themselves\u2026 all the monks except one, Brother Raffaele Fossombrone. It was no secret that leaders of their order questioned Raffaele\u2019s devotion to their \u201cRule of Life\u201d and considered him, perhaps, too impetuous and undisciplined for the Capuchin Brotherhood. Their concerns proved valid when the mob began shoving the monks and Brother Fossombrone backhanded one of the men across the face, shouting, \u201cHow dare you put your hands on men of God.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n This was all the excuse the angry mob needed. Since Fossombrone was the only monk willing to fight, the men converged on him and beat him in a wild frenzy until pleas from the other monks and the hands of others from the town stopped them. It was too late. He died a short time later as they were still tending to his wounds. His fellow monks carried his body back to Rome and he was buried in the crypt under the Capuchin church, Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins.<\/em><\/p>\n Billy was back after lunch and had another man with him, a man who didn\u2019t look happy to be there. \u201cThat\u2019s him,\u201d said Billy, while standing right in front of Raffi. \u201cHe\u2019s some sort of hipster goth kid, makes these spooky pictures on my cappuccinos. Do the skull. I want to show Tony.\u201d<\/p>\n Raffi shook his head. \u201cI told you, brother, it was a tulip, and this morning a rosette, and this,\u201d he said, setting a cup down in front of Billy, \u201cis a heart.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus,\u201d said Billy, staring down at his cappuccino. \u201cYou\u2019re a sick son-of-a-bitch. I mean a skull is one thing, but that looks like \u2026 like a bloody heart inside a rib cage.\u201d<\/p>\n Tony leaned over the drink and said, \u201cIt\u2019s just a heart, like Valentine\u2019s day. It\u2019s sweet.\u201d He made a heart with his hands as he backed away toward the door.<\/p>\n Billy looked at Raffi, squinted, then started to chuckle. \u201cIt\u2019s some sort of joke. I get it. It\u2019s clever. What color is the dress, right? I don\u2019t know how you\u2019re doing it. I don\u2019t care actually. Whatever. It\u2019s over now, enough with the pictures, and stop calling me brother.\u201d<\/p>\n In the years after Brother Fossombrone was beat to death, the people of Montefiascone grew to believe all their misfortune was due to a curse, the curse of the Capuchin monk. The earthquake of 1697, a mysterious epidemic in 1791, cholera in 1837 and 1855, meningitis in 1916, bombing by the allies in 1944, a deadly blizzard in 1956, all these things were said to be a consequence of the curse. Ironically, the first to help during all these tragic events were the Capuchin monks; and though the townspeople accepted the help gratefully, it was said to be bad luck to look a monk in the eye, \u201clest our shame be made manifest and bring on the next calamity that much sooner.\u201d So strong was this superstition, that when their Moscato wine fell out of favor, when it \u201clost its charm,\u201d they blamed the curse.<\/em><\/p>\n Billy did not come into the coffeehouse the next day, but the day after that he waited quietly in line, frowning at his phone. He didn\u2019t look at Raffi. Even as he stood at the service counter waiting for his drink, he kept his eyes on his phone and didn\u2019t look up. Raffi set the cappuccino down in front of him and he blinked, moving his eyes from his phone to his drink. His expression, drooping eyelids and a deep, pouty frown, did not change.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a pile of bones with skulls on top,\u201d he said, as if it was exactly what he expected to see on his cappuccino.<\/p>\n “What you are now, they once were; what they are now, you shall be.”<\/p>\n Billy looked up at Raffi but then let his gaze drift from his eyes to his shoulder. \u201cWhat the hell does that mean? What are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said, we call it a bellflower,\u201d said Raffi. \u201cIt\u2019s only a bellflower, nothing more.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBellflower,\u201d said Billy, nodding as if this made perfect sense. \u201cSure. It\u2019s a bellflower.\u201d<\/p>\n The custom among Capuchin monks at Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins until the 19th century\u2014the results of which can still be seen today\u2014was to disinter bodies that had been buried for many years and use the bones to decorate the interior of the church. However, when Brother Raffaele Fossombrone was unburied, decades after his death, they found his body mummified. The withered, leathery skin was dark and shrunk to the bone, but largely intact, as was his Franciscan robe. Having no idea why such a thing would occur, they left the body the way they found it and placed it in the chapel, sitting on the ledge of a small alcove, surrounded by the bones of his brethren.<\/em><\/p>\n Billy stood outside the coffeehouse the next day for half an hour, starting for the door and then stopping, pacing, staring through the window. He didn\u2019t look at Raffi. He seemed to stare at the spot where he usually stood waiting for his drink. When he finally came inside he didn\u2019t stop to order a drink, he just dropped ten dollars on the counter and took his place in front of Raffi, looking down.<\/p>\n After a moment, Raffi pushed a cappuccino forward. Billy stared at it for several seconds, then started nodding.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s me, isn\u2019t it, the skull under that hood? That\u2019s me and I\u2019m dead. You\u2019re going to say it\u2019s a flower or a sunrise or a turtle, but it\u2019s me, a dead man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI did not pour a design in your cappuccino today, brother,\u201d said Raffi. \u201cIt\u2019s just a white circle.\u201d<\/p>\n Billy looked up but still avoided Raffi\u2019s eyes and growled, \u201cI told you, I\u2019m not your fucking brother,\u201d and then lunged at the barista, reaching over the counter for his neck, only his arms didn\u2019t move. His body didn\u2019t move. Nothing moved.<\/p>\n Though rare, the mummified body of Brother Fossombrone has been known to change its position. The church\u2019s official statement on this has always been that it is the result of pranksters, but it\u2019s been happening for hundreds of years and no one has ever been caught nor confessed and no amount of security keeps it from happening. No one has ever seen the body move, but it is said that a change in the body\u2019s position is always proceeded by a voice whispering the words found on a plaque near the entrance of the crypt: “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”<\/em><\/p>\n He watches people enter the chapel, their eyes wide as they look at all of the bones. The chapel is filled with bones, stacks and stacks of bones, rows and rows of skulls. He notices that when their eyes fall on him, their expressions change from fascination with the horrid, to apprehension, revulsion, and a touch of confusion. He isn\u2019t bones, exactly. He is something more than a skeleton, but something far less than a body. When the people get close, he tries to speak, tries to move, tries to show them that he is alive\u2026 or if not alive, then something. But he doesn\u2019t speak. He doesn\u2019t move. In his mind he is shouting at them, begging for help, but the chapel remains silent beyond the soft murmuring of his visitors. The people wrinkle their noses and the children stay carefully behind the adults who take pictures reluctantly and then leave without looking back. Eventually, when the chapel has been empty for a long time and grown dark, Billy stops screaming.<\/p>\n Mike Ferguson (@aboutferguson<\/a>) is an American coffee professional and writer based in Atlanta and currently part of the marketing team at\u00a0Olam Specialty Coffee<\/a>. Read more\u00a0Mike Ferguson on Sprudge<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n The post The Haunted Cappuccino<\/a> appeared first on Sprudge<\/a>.<\/p>\n Source: Coffee News<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" A German bishop named Johanne Fugger, traveling to Rome for an audience with the Pope in the year 1113, sent his servant ahead to discover all the best wine along…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[26],"tags":[63,27,65,33,61,32,59,31,30],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1411"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1411"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1411\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1411"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1411"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecurbkaimuki.com\/rest\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1411"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}