I'll try anything once.

OK, so you just know I had to taste the bovoletti. And yes, it turns out this is snail season. These are actually pests – they show up while the carciofi (artichokes) are growing. They must be plucked off the plants. Some brave farmer (much like M.F.K. Fisher’s first oyster-eater) figured out they are sweet and tender when gently cooked. So I guess this was a case of “When Life hands you lemons…”

If you buy bovoletti, remember to keep them in a vented container from which they cannot escape! Otherwise you’ll have snails all over your kitchen: they are slow but determined creatures (and kinda cute, which makes it hard to kill them later). According to my fishmonger, who considers himself something of an authority, this is the way to cook them:

Bring a pot of water to a near-boil. Run cold water over the bovoletti in a colander several times to get rid of all the slime. They will tuck themselves tightly into their shells. When the water almost boils, turn the flame down very low. Absolutely do not put a speck of salt in the water! This will make tough, curled snails that are impossible to remove from the shells. Add the bovoletti. Do not permit the water to boil – it should just simmer. Watch carefully. The bovoletti will float to the top like gnocchi when they’re done. Scoop them out as they pop up. Drain well. Pluck them from their shells and eat them with (what else?!) finely minced garlic and parsley warmed in good olive oil or butter or both, maybe a trace of lemon juice. No salt necessary, but cracked pepper is good.

My verdict? Tasty, yes, but a lot of fiddling around for a small payoff. About seventy bovoletti yielded only a scant half teacupful of snips of snails, and a final slurp of very good broth.

Shopping: the seafood

What a joy it is to plan meals and purchase foods here! I’ve already told you about Rialto, but I thought you should really see some of the beautiful fish sold there. Smaller but still very tempting arrays are available at fish stands in other neighborhoods too. The sea creatures for sale…

By my count there are at least six kinds of octopi and octopus-like things, from tiny, inky moscardini to the piovra with a brown-speckled head the size of a kid’s water balloon. That number doubles if I include squid and all the different squid-like things.

Among shrimp-like things the variety seems endless. The glassy-grey schie are the itty-bittiest, and peachy-pink canoce are almost the largest and the weirdest – all big “eyes” and fat tail with a big, pink bone down the middle. Mazzancolle, scampi, gamberi, and gamberetti fall somewhere in between. And there are still more kinds.

Crabs run the gamut from near-translucent moleche (little softshells) to big, spidery, concrete-shelled granseole, depending on the season. Clams come big, small, teeny, and straight razor- shaped. The latter are really something special. Venetians prefer their small, sweet native, or “true” clam – vongole verace. Sometimes there are cockles or winkles. Often there are live Maine lobsters, too. But oysters of any kind are rare and priced accordingly when they do show up.

And the fish? Please! You name it! The most noble is the sleek silver branzino (sea bass). The cutest is the tiny, glittery alice (anchovy). The ugliest is surely the monkfish, coda di rospo (“tail of toad”), but it could well be the tastiest too. The creepiest thing is any of the eels, whether alive and wriggling in a plastic bucket or stripped of all skin except on the snake-like, mean-eyed head.

Seeking strange things? Lately vendors have offered thousands of bovoletti (tiny land snails), all slowly escaping over the walls of their styrofoam prisons, their little antennae wiggling wildly. Excuse me – snails are not seafood!! Where in the world did these things come from? Is it “snail season” somewhere in Italy? Or are they farmed, like salmon?

Important to remember: no fresh seafood is ever sold in Venetian supermarkets. So if you’ve got a taste for a pretty little oval sogliola (sole) or a bowlful of big black cozze (mussels) for supper tonight, you’d better get yourself over to your local fishmonger before noon. And if it’s a Monday, just forget about it.

Updates, errata, etc

“…and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.”

Here are a few updates and corrections of errata:

Remember Van Gogh at Shanti Daan? I was passing on bad information I had received from an otherwise reputable source when I told you that shop is owned by a lovely woman of the same name. (I should have fact-checked!) She herself contacted me and advised me that her name is Antonia, and her partner is Stefano. She couldn't have been sweeter about it. (The post has been corrected.)

Remember my complaint about the feeding of the pigeon pests in Piazza San Marco? The sale of packets of feed has been suspended amid a feeble protest from the vendors. It remains to be seen if the ban will be permanent. I understand they have tried this before. Meanwhile Venetians and tourists alike continue to tempt the birds with their sandwich crumbs and bits of grissini (breadsticks).

Remember the pretty pink and possibly haunted palazzo on Lido? I guess the movie star’s probate issue has been settled. On my way to the mercato last Tuesday I noticed the gate was unlocked and wide open, but I saw no one on the premises. Yesterday there was a demolition crew inside the house, working furiously. Dust was flying, grubby curtains lay in a heap on the porch. Can’t wait to see what they do with that gorgeous garden, where lots of dark red rosebuds are just about to bloom.

Remember the scented mock orange hedge I showed you? My friend in New York says that is not mock orange, but I’m certain that’s what the Los Angeles nurserymen call this very common shrub. Can anyone provide more information?

Remember those strange but yummy little tomatoes? I sliced a few for an insalata Caprese and – lo and behold! – two of them yielded enough seeds to give me a good shot at growing a small crop of these pomodorini next year… if I’m living someplace where I can’t buy them. (If I am still here, some lucky gardener out there will get them.)

Remember my "warm, charming, handsome" coffee vendor? It turns out he was only the latter – and not so much the other two things. Not at all.

By all means, let me know if I've goofed up anything else...

Spritz! (Yuk!)

No matter how long I live here, and no matter what I do, there is one great obstacle that prevents me from ever becoming a true Venetian. And that is this pretty cocktail, affectionately known as a spritz. By twenty-to-one, it’s the preferred drink here at the giro hour, or any other time of day for that matter. I see Venetians knocking these things back like cold water all day long. But a nastier concoction you have never tasted. If they locked me in the dreaded pozze (the “wells” – the darkest, dankest cells of Venice’s old prison) and would not let me out until I downed a spritz, I might well be stuck there for days.

The spritz tradition began early in the nineteenth century, when Austrian occupying troops found Venice’s wines too strong for their taste, so they cut them with water or seltzer. How the jump was made to adding another spirit to the mix is a mystery that no one has yet been able to explain to me. (I think it was probably the influence of an aggressive advertising campaign from the folks at Campari. Remember the gigantic, red neon “CAMPARI” sign that once dominated Lido’s waterfront?)

Today the correct recipe is one part dark red Campari (which tastes like the bitterest, nostril-fuming, miserable cough syrup ever made), one part prosecco (a sparkling wine, very like champagne), and one part seltzer, plus a sour green olive on a skewer and perhaps a lemon twist. (Real Venetians promptly eat the olive and drop the skewer on the ground.) Ice is optional, but if included, it’s minimal. This version is referred to as “bitter,” pronounced “bitta.” “Bitter,” indeed! For those seeking something a little sweeter, there’s also a gentler version called “Aperol,” which features the neon-orange liqueur of that name. Same recipe, but garnished with a slice of blood orange. In some grittier watering holes, the barman skips the prosecco and just fizzes up the hideous alcoholic syrup with a double squirt of seltzer, thus erasing the last trace of the original tradition of cutting wine with water.

As a rule I see older Venetians ordering “bitter,” and students and young people “Aperol.” But I can promise you, either version of this innocent-looking drink is an upchuck waiting to happen. And didn’t we all learn in high school about the disastrous hangover effect of mixing different forms of alcohol? As we say back in Michigan, “Ish!”

There is only one Venetian drink that’s worse than a spritz, and that is the sgroppino, a weird mix of melted lemon sherbet, prosecco, and vodka. Many an old-school restaurateur will proudly present you with a complimentary pony glass of this hateful yellow foam after dinner. Smile and pretend to enjoy a sip, but trust me, do not swallow anymore of it than you absolutely must.

His & hers

Dear me! The things one sees when peering into Venetian shop windows!


























Here we have a pair of matching his and hers… um… well… I’m sure you can figure it out. (“His” looks particularly uncomfortable, don’t you think?)

Right now!!

I adore risotto. I love it so much that I’m tempted to bathe in it sometimes. And what’s not to love? Rice, a classic carbohydrate, slow-cooked and intensely flavored with specially matched, often luxurious ingredients, and sometimes butter or cheese (or both!), all blended into a silky, comforting nursery food for grown-ups. Spoon it up! Risotto is sustenance that works on many levels. The trouble is, it’s not so easy to find in restaurants and it’s a bit of a nuisance to make at home (although my Italian friends swear by their pressure cookers for this task).

But risotto fanatics can show up for lunch at ProntoPescePronto across from the fish market and get their fill. Created by the fellows who gave us Osteria alle Testiere (many would say the city’s best restaurant), this small, sleek food boutique specializes in tasty little dishes that showcase the market’s best fresh seafood. (There are also a few fancy groceries and some good bottles of wine.) It’s a chic and refreshing change from the city’s usual midday panino or tramezzino. Here you can mix and match, pick and choose, then take your selections away, perfectly packed, or stick around and enjoy them subito (immediately) with a nice glass of wine.

And now there’s risotto every market day! I like it when Bruno posts his handwritten sign to announce that it’s ready to be dished up (at 12:15, to be exact).

Just my humble opinion...

These strange, ridged Sicilian tomatoes (their name sign reads Costaluta di Marsala) began showing up at Venice’s produce stands about a month or so ago. Usually they were hard and sickly yellow-green, sometimes with a tinge of copper. Many were puny, smaller than an egg, like these. I paid them no attention whatsoever… until I noticed the Venetians greedily snapping them up by the sackful. Live and learn!

They don’t look so special but they are, without question, the most delicious tomatoes I have ever eaten. I consider myself something of an expert, having grown up biting into big, red, juicy Michigan “beefsteaks” right from the field and still hot from the sun. But these babies have a flavor so intense, it almost made me weep. They remind me in a sweet-tart way that a tomato really is a fruit. The only problem with them is that it’s tough to be patient while they sit on the windowsill and get ripe and rusty-red.

How best to enjoy them? That’s easy! Room temp, sliced, served alongside a split-open burratina (a soft little ball of mozzarella that was hollowed out and stuffed with uncooked curds, which continued to ferment in there and become creamy and runny), a few small leaves of fresh basil, a twist of black pepper, and the best olive oil one can afford. Taste before you salt! And don’t forget a thick, crusty slice of fresh ciabatta to mop up the juices and curds left in the bowl. Perfect!

Gardeners reading this, I know just what you’re thinking. But alas, they have no seeds to be stashed away for next year.