Treviso doesn’t just serve drinks—it stages liquid theatre. As daylight fades, the city transforms into Italy’s most exuberant spritz-slinging spectacle, where marble counters groan under cicchetti towers and Aperol flows like canal water. This is a place where bartenders measure time in popped prosecco corks, and the only thing sharper than the bitter Campari is Gigia’s glare when her high-five quota isn’t met.

At Muscoli’s, she holds surveillance from her stone parapet throne, tracking mussel deliveries like a furry harbour master. Al Kiri’s market-day chaos becomes her adoration buffet, with cured meat purveyors doubling as tribute bearers. And Beltrami’s waiters have perfected the art of spritz-pouring with one hand while offering Gigia the obligatory two-handed scratch with the other.

Note: The real happy hour begins when a certain cat’s shadow darkens the doorway.