I was hot and thirsty one late afternoon in the ancient city of Benevento, in the middle of the ankle of the Italian boot. So I walked up to the shaded terrace of a café for something cold. “Some San Pellegrino,” I called out in Italian to the barman standing in the doorway.

“Bianco o rosso?” he asked. He apparently thought I wanted wine, possibly confusing my request for water with the famous Marsala-based Sicilian producer Pellegrino. No, I responded, San Pellegrino, the fizzy water. With ice cubes and a slice of lime.