By Leigh O’Connor.
Spritz hour has a way of turning the clock into something softer. Not quite afternoon, not yet evening - just that golden hinge where you’re done with the day but not ready for dinner, when the light slants low and everything feels possible.
A drink appears - bubbly, bitter, bright - and suddenly you’re not hungry exactly, but you want something. Something salty. Something sharp. Something that makes the first sip taste like a tiny holiday.
Enter the perfect Spritz hour snacks. Not a meal. Not even close. These are the nibbles you don’t plan, yet somehow they shape the whole night. The kind of things that live in little bowls and on small plates, that you eat standing up with one hip leaned against the kitchen counter, laughing at nothing, teasing the appetite awake.
Start with a Gilda skewer. It’s basically a mic drop on a toothpick: a plump olive, a silky anchovy, a green pepper with a bit of bite, all stacked like a salty little totem. One mouthful and you get the whole story - brine, heat, depth, a quick flick of tang. Gildas are the snack equivalent of that first great line in a song. You’re in now. You’re staying.
Then there are marinated white anchovies, pale as moonlight and twice as luxurious. They’re not the punchy, dark anchovies that shout from pizza; these are the ones that murmur. Bathed in olive oil, lemon, garlic, maybe a whisper of parsley and chilli, they taste like the sea took a deep breath and exhaled something clean.
Lay them on a cool plate, let them shine, then scoop them up with a corner of bread as if you’re doing something mildly wicked. They’re gentle, but they’re persuasive.
Olives - always olives. If you’ve got a good bowl of them, you’ve basically got Spritz hour on lock. Big, meaty green ones that squeak a little, or tiny black ones that are almost sweet, or those wrinkled purple gems that taste like old vines and sun. Warm them with a strip of orange peel and a bay leaf if you’re feeling fancy; leave them as they are if you’re feeling lazy. Either way, they’re pure permission to linger.
Next: almonds. Not just any almonds - ones that are toasted until they blush, slicked with olive oil, dusted with sea salt, maybe smoked paprika or rosemary. They’re the quiet heroes in the background, the thing you keep reaching for without noticing. Crunchy, cosy, a little addictive. Almonds set the pace. They keep your hands busy between sips. They make conversation feel effortless.
Then, paper-thin salumi, draped like silk. Prosciutto that melts, finocchiona with its sweet fennel hush, a peppery coppa with a slow, warm finish. If it’s cut right, you don’t chew so much as let it dissolve. Fold a slice, let the fat meet the fizz of your drink and suddenly you get why people built entire cultures around aperitivo. It’s not about eating. It’s about noticing. About letting a little luxury happen on an ordinary day.
This is the magic of Spritz hour snacks: they don’t demand anything of you. They’re not asking for a knife-and-fork commitment. They’re just offering tiny, perfect bites that make the world feel slightly more generous. They’re the prelude, not the performance - yet somehow they’re the part you remember most.
Before dinner, there’s this. The laughter that rises easier. The appetite that wakes up slowly, stretching like a cat in late sun. The clink of ice. The bright, bitter sip. The scatter of olives and almonds on the table. The skewers, the anchovies, the salumi. A little salty chorus that says: you made it to the good part of the day. Stay here awhile.
