In Praise of a Proper Aperitivo

In Praise of a Proper Aperitivo
Before the music swells, before the fish is grilled, before the first bottle of wine is uncorked — there is the drink that begins it all.

There are many ways to start a summer evening in the Hamptons. You could pour a glass of rosé at home. You could tuck into a seafood tower at some buzzy new spot. You could find yourself lost in a conversation about pool tiles or Provence or the elusive dinner reservation that got away.

But the most elegant way — the most deliciously unhurried, luxuriously intentional way — is this:

You arrive at Calissa before the night has begun.

It is early still. The sun is out, but no longer loud. It skims the gravel in long streaks of light, catching on wine glasses not yet filled, on the breeze lifting the hem of a linen dress. You haven’t ordered dinner. You haven’t even opened a menu. But you already know what’s happening.

Aperitivo has begun.

The Hour Between Worlds

Aperitivo is not a drink. It is not a time. It is not even a ritual, really. It is a mood. A transition. A way of saying: “I’m no longer working, but I’m not quite out. I’m no longer at the beach, but I haven’t washed off the salt.”

It is the soft landing. The velvet rope between day and night. The quiet promise that something is about to unfold.

And at Calissa, it unfolds beautifully.

The bar is aglow. Not with neon or noise, but with a certain calm confidence. Someone is already holding a spritz. A Martini arrives, chilled and unshaken. The bartender moves like a metronome. The music is just a whisper. But it’s there.

You choose your table carefully. Near the edge of the terrace, under the lights. Close enough to watch the staff set the other tables, far enough to feel like you’re part of the secret. You don’t want to rush this. You want it to expand.

The Drink That Opens the Door

What you order doesn’t matter, and yet — it does.

There’s something about the Aegean Spritz that feels inevitable. A whisper of rosé, a splash of grapefruit, a note of basil that feels like it’s just been picked. It’s light but not forgettable. Pretty but not precious. It comes in a tall glass with perfect ice and a slice of citrus that glows like stained glass.

Or perhaps something stronger: the Calissa Negroni, built on Greek vermouth, a touch of fig, a bitterness that clings in just the right way. It arrives in a low glass, cool in your hand, anchoring you to the moment.

Or maybe it’s bubbles — always bubbles. Champagne, sparkling rosé, something dry and mineral from the islands. You sip, slowly. You are not thirsty. You are becoming.

Aperitivo Is the Appetite, Not the Meal

There may be food. There should be food.

But not too much. Not yet.

A bowl of olives. A dish of marcona almonds. Calamari, if you’re feeling bold. Zucchini chips that melt and crunch in the same bite. A dip — whipped feta, hummus, something creamy — scooped on a warm piece of pita. Mezze that makes the table tilt toward you. That makes someone walking by pause and reconsider their own order.

You eat without hunger. That’s the point.

You’re not there to fill yourself. You’re there to open yourself. To the meal, yes. But also to the night. To the table next to yours. To the song that’s starting to play just softly enough to make you wonder who the DJ is tonight.

This Is Not Pre-Game — This Is Prelude

In other cities, in other contexts, a pre-dinner drink is often an afterthought. A warm-up. Something to get through before the main event. But not here. Not at Calissa.

Here, the aperitivo is the first act of the play. It’s where the characters are introduced. Where the lighting is set. Where the rhythm is established.

You’re not waiting for dinner. You’re allowing it to arrive.

You’re not killing time. You’re marinating in it.

This hour — this slender window of stillness — is where the tone of the night is decided. You are choosing, deliberately, not to rush. Not to check your phone. Not to be anywhere else.

And that decision — that pause — is rare. And lovely. And powerful.

The Company You Keep

You do not need a crowd for aperitivo. One is enough. You, alone, with your thoughts, your glass, and your glance toward the door. Or two — perfect symmetry. A friend. A lover. A stranger who has just become something more.

But aperitivo is generous. It stretches for groups. For birthdays. For the post-beach, pre-everything crowd in oversized sunglasses and impossibly good taste. Everyone fits around the table — eventually. Everyone has a glass in hand.

And no one asks for a menu. Not yet.

The Lighting, the Language, the Linger

As the sun begins to slip behind the trees, the table becomes something else. Shadows stretch. Candles are lit. The terrace flickers with a kind of glamour that feels accidental.

You speak more softly now. Or maybe more loudly. You speak with your hands. With your laughter. With the way your glass tilts toward someone else’s.

The language of aperitivo is not in words. It is in gesture.

The slow stir of a straw. The clink of ice. The sudden lift of an eyebrow at a story that has taken a turn. The shared glance when a familiar song threads through the air.

The Wines That Whisper Yes

The wines at Calissa — especially during aperitivo — are not showy. They don’t need to be.

They are chosen with care. Poured with precision. Sipped slowly. Greek whites that taste like limestone and wind. Rosés that arrive the color of peach skin. Reds that hold back until the second sip, then reveal themselves like late-night confessions.

The sommelier is nearby, if you want a story. And every bottle has one. From the hills of Naoussa. From the volcanic slopes of Santorini. From the Peloponnese, the islands, the little villages where someone’s grandfather still stomps grapes and tells no one.

You drink to feel something. Not to forget something.

When the Night Begins, You Are Ready

Eventually, the table changes.

You order a second glass. Or maybe switch. You ask for the menu, but not because you’re in a rush. You’re curious now. Open. The mezze will arrive soon. The music will rise. The space will fill.

But you — you are already in it.

The night hasn’t started. And yet it has.

You’ve seen the light change. You’ve tasted something bitter and bright. You’ve leaned into a conversation you didn’t expect to have. You’ve made a choice to be here, and not somewhere else.

And now, dinner makes sense.

A Ritual Worth Remembering

Aperitivo is not new. It has existed for centuries. In tavernas on mountain roads. In seaside cafés where the waves lap just beyond your table. In tiled courtyards and marble balconies and the faded terraces of old homes with grapevines overhead.

At Calissa, it is reborn — not modernized, not stylized, just given the space to exist in its most beautiful form.

And you, lucky enough to arrive early, are part of it.

Why Aperitivo Matters

In a world that asks us to hurry — to fill every moment, to check every box, to move forward always — the act of sitting with a glass, with intention, with ease, is an act of defiance.

It is also an act of pleasure.

Because before the meal, before the music, before the dancing and the night and the long goodbyes — there is this:

A table,
A drink,
A soft breeze through the trees,
A beginning that doesn’t need an ending.

This is what we raise our glass to.
This is why we come early.
This is why we stay late.

This is aperitivo — as it should be.