Italian treats?

With twenty minutes to kill between lunch in a Lebanese fast food joint on the Edgeware Road and a press conference near Marble Arch, I decided to have a coffee. Instead of resorting to a coffee-chain such as I could patronise any day, it seemed like a nice idea to go to a little independent café on New Quebec St.
It seemed promising that the waitress greeted the customer ahead of me familiarly, in Italian. They discussed what should go in his sandwich - he wanted prosciutto and formaggio, but couldn’t decide what cheese, so he was offered tasters of the different options. He insisted that the most important thing was that it be made with love; she assured him it would be made with love. It was all delightfully Italianate, even though I think he was actually English.
I suddenly realised the downside of this authentic Italian jollity. By Italian standards, it was far too late to ask for a cappucino. Although it wouldn’t be my normal choice, I had already drunk much too much black coffee this morning to be able to contemplate yet more unadulterated dark stuff. I cravenly asked for a machiato, which they served without blinking.
This emboldened me to explore the possibilities of the pastries that were obviously the specialities of the place. Unfortunately I was not sufficiently emboldened to ask what exactly an Aragostina was - trusting that it was more interesting than the deep-fried croissant it looked like, I ordered one without enquiring.
Well, it was definitely more to my taste than the crumbly dry biscuity things (including but not limited to biscotti) that were the alternatives, but I was deeply disappointed to discover that it was simply a crispy pastry filled with Nuttella. A sort of overweight, hazelnut-free Ferrero Rocher. Back to square one in my quest to appreciate Italian cuisine.