By Eleni Phufas
When Domenikos Theotokopoulos arrived in Venice during the High Renaissance in the mid 1500s he persistently retained his Greekness visibly – one way in which we know that is how he signed his artwork – Δομήνικος Θεοτοκόπουλος as a mark of identity. Italians nicknamed him Il Greco (“the Greek” later on Spain El Greco), acknowledging and exoticizing his origin. On the other hand, when Nicola (Nikolaos) Magdalinós arrived in Rome two centuries later, his name was Italianized into Nicola della Maddalena. His Greekness was obscured in parish records, though remembered by community memory. El Greco’s Greekness was spotlighted; clerks papered over Magdalinós’ Greekness.
When Nicola della Maddalena appears in the parish records of San Lorenzo in Lucina in 1760, he is described simply as a “caffettiere, levantino.” That brief note tells us more than it may seem at first glance. It identifies him not only as a coffee-maker, but as a man of the Levant—a Greek whose origins lay in the Eastern Mediterranean, a world of merchants, sailors, slaves, and intellectuals seeking freedom from the oppression of Ottoman Turks. But his name? Certainly sounds Italian, but many readers would guess at its origins.
Here’s a bit more background before delving into the Caffee El Greco.
A Greek in Rome
By the mid-18th century, a modest but unmistakable Greek community had carved out its place in the heart of Rome. Their landmarks—the church of Sant’Atanasio dei Greci, the Greek College, a web of confraternities—were more than institutions; they were outposts of a fallen empire. Some were Greek Catholics who had bent toward Rome, others remained defiantly Orthodox, yet all bore the weight of Byzantium’s lost glory and the raw memories of Ottoman oppression. To the Romans, they were simply “Levantines,” a convenient word that blurred Greeks with Armenians and Syrians, collapsing centuries of culture and suffering into a single label. But behind that name pulsed a restless diaspora—exiles and heirs of Byzantium—bringing with them the drama of the East into the Baroque heart of Catholic Europe.
Greeks in Rome made their living through commerce and craftsmanship—trading in oils, fabrics, and spices, working as artisans, and, crucially, bringing with them the coffee trade. In Venice, Naples, Livorno, and eventually Rome, it was often Levantine Greeks who introduced and popularized the café.
Nicola’s Creation: Caffè Greco
Nicola della Maddalena moved within this world of exiles and merchants. In 1760, on Via dei Condotti—the glittering artery between the Corso and the Spanish Steps—he opened a café and named it “Greco,” a bold salute to his heritage. Inside its doors, Romans and travelers discovered more than rich coffee: they tasted the very atmosphere of the Levant. For all the terror, domination, and inequality imposed by Ottoman rule, the region remained a crossroads of tongues and trades, a place both exotic and irresistible, where commerce triumphed over oppression. That paradox—oppression outside, cosmopolitanism within—was distilled into the rooms of the Antico Caffè Greco.
From the start, the café was more than a shop. It was a meeting place, a salon where language, ideas, and artistry crossed borders. In time, it would host Goethe, Byron, Stendhal, Gogol, Twain, and countless others. Nicola’s Levantine Greek origins—bridging East and West—were written into the very identity of the place.
Between Rome and the Levant
Nicola’s personal details—his exact birthplace, family background, and later life—remain obscure. But his presence in Rome reflects the larger Greek diaspora of the 18th century: men and women who moved westward, carrying with them both practical trades and cultural traditions. They adapted names, intermarried, and became Romans, while still marking their identity in institutions, churches, and in Nicola’s case, a café that proudly called itself “Greek.” Though little else is recorded about Nicola della Maddalena himself, his creation has achieved a form of immortality. The Antico Caffè Greco became Rome’s oldest café, an intellectual landmark, and a gallery of memory. Nicola stands as a symbol of how the Greek presence in Rome—small in number but rich in influence—helped shape the cultural and social life of the Eternal City.
Lasting legacy or about to end? The Ospedale Israelitico di Roma, the Rent Controversy, and Cultural Protection
If it were up to The Israelite Hospital (Ospedale Israelitico di Roma), the Caffè Greco would be shut down. The Hospital traces its roots to a Jewish charitable institution founded around 1600 to serve Rome’s Jewish ghetto population. It was formally recognized by royal decree in 1911 and today operates as part of Italy’s National Health Service.
Property Owner and Rent Dispute
At No. 86 Via dei Condotti, just steps from the Spanish Steps, stands the Antico Caffè Greco—the oldest café in Rome and a shrine to centuries of artists, poets, and revolutionaries. But behind its velvet-lined walls, a battle has been raging. The building belongs to the Jewish Hospital of Rome, and when the café’s lease expired in 2017, the Hospital dropped a thunderbolt: the monthly rent would leap from €17,000 to a jaw-dropping €80,000.
The café’s managers fought back, dragging the dispute through years of tribunals and appeals. What might have seemed a landlord-tenant quarrel turned into a saga of heritage versus property, culture versus commerce. Finally, in July 2024, the Corte di Cassazione—Italy’s highest court—delivered its verdict: the Hospital could repossess the legendary premises.
SUMMER 2025
Eviction was set for summer 2025, the axe raised high—yet delays and frantic negotiations kept the doors of Caffè Greco open, at least for now. But another storm brews inside: the fate of its velvet salons and 300 artworks. Since the 1950s, the café, its furnishings, and even its license have been bound together as an inseparable cultural treasure, protected by the strict rule of inamovibilità—nothing can be removed. When reports surfaced in 2025 that some pieces had been spirited away, authorities swooped in, ordering their return. The café still stands, but under the weight of courts, landlords, and inspectors, its survival feels like the last.
The Present Balance
On paper, the verdict is simple: the Hospital owns the building and can take it back. But heritage law throws a wrench into property rights—every chair, painting, and gilded wall of the Antico Caffè Greco is bound by decree to remain exactly where it is. The Ministry of Culture now stands as arbiter in a duel between landlord and legend, forced to decide whether cold ownership can outweigh the cultural soul of Rome.
HELLENISCOPE WILL KEEP YOU UPDATED ON THE CAFE’S FATE.
