I think the length of the trip is catching up to us, or at least the amount of traveling we are doing is taking its toll on our bones. The weather here is the hottest we’ve experienced and the surrounding canals makes it extremely humid. We both feel asleep for a few hours, leaving the pigeons to the hot sun and tourists.
For anyone who has not asked my opinion of Italy, I never mince words about the food in Venice. Yes, it’s Italian, but if you have traveled to anywhere else in this country, you‘ll see how low on the scale everything in this city compares to it. Not only are the prices almost double of what we‘ve encountered, their gelato should be called ice cream - but I‘ll get to that later.
Since I didn’t know where to go for dinner and wandering the alleys was daunting to me - given the time difference between here and San Francisco, I sent a text message to my friend Wayne to see if he had any suggestions. He and his amore, Michael came here in April and I know them well enough to know what to expect in their choice of dinner establishments. They both enjoyed Il Ridotto, located behind Piazza San Marco and tucked away in a corner of a small piazza. I opted to give it a try.
We found the restaurant without a problem, which is amazing since it’s almost impossible to follow a map in this gorgeous city. (See, there, I gave Venice a compliment.) We looked at the menu and I immediately was worried about what my mother would eat. Here, fish is the name of the game. Sure, there are the normal pastas and other delicacies that you expect, but if you aren’t into seafood, you’ll have a hard time finding something to eat for dinner.
With less then ten tables, the restaurant is quiet, quaint and has the most soft spoken hostess we have encountered yet. Any questions on the menu are directed to the chef who personally comes out of the kitchen to take your order.
As most of you who followed our trip to Paris know, whenever I’m in a different country, I like to try at least one new menu item and since I’ve been on a veal kick, I thought, let’s try something called Nerve of Veal. (It sounded much more appetizing in Italian.)
We started with an amuse bouche - ground up bread, tomatoes and basil all topped with anchovies that were soaked in lemon juice. The expression on my mom’s face was not only hilarious, it was frightening. The fish, surprisingly, was quite tasty and I ate the two that topped her antipasto. And then the veal arrived and I instantly worried about what else lied ahead.
My mom had joked that the veal would probably be long and stringy and she had one part correct. They were round, almost scallop looking and when it was placed on the table between us, we stared it for a full five minutes.
“There is no way Bobby would eat this,” I said referring to my brother. In fact, there was nothing on the menu that would entice his taste buds at all.
One bite into the dish and it was, without a doubt, a nerve. The small fava beans mixed in with the lettuce, however, were quite delicious. It took some time to cut through the nerve and I had to give up as I started to worry about what was ahead for us, since my mom is not a fan of fish and she ordered the only meat on the menu: beef cheeks. Yes, you read that correctly. Beef Cheeks.
As I moved the nerves of the veal around to make it look as if I’d devoured most of the dish, I took another swig of my Chianti and got another bottle of water for my mom. Something told me she may need it. But really, the next course was pasta, how could it go wrong? Well, remember, this is Venice, not Rome and certainly not Florence or Milan. I believe I have become quite the Italian elitist.
Next up, our first course - risotta in a pesto sauce for Rosemarie and ravoli stuffed with ricotta and spinach for me. Simple, yes? Ah, Venice, you beautiful food fool. The dish arrived and there they were mixed into the dish like the little fungi that they are - the mushrooms. Pushing them aside, the first course was, in fact, delicious. The rice was cooked perfectly and the pesto had a tangy, yet salty taste to it. However, it was impossible to avoid the black slimy spots that were everywhere.
“You can have some of my ravioli,” I said, confident that although my first course had not arrived at the same time, it would be delicious. On the edge of my plate sat what I think were clams surrounding the three large macaroni pillows.
“If we fry these, aren’t these what we used to eat with the bellies?” I asked as I put my fork into the pasta, which unlike its Tuscan relations was not al dente. It seemed the master chef had forgotten to take them out of the water. The filling, however, was scrumptious, lightly salted and creamy. I left the clams alone as alas, they were a bit too…ripe for my taste and lacking tartar sauce or bellies, I feared they would not agree with me.
I took another sip of wine, my stomach churning as the anticipation of the next course took hold. Now, my mother would never say she didn’t like something, I can tell exactly what she is thinking by her body language and the way she moves her fork around her plate. Remember, this is the woman who has gobbled up everything on her plate since we arrived.
What gave dinner extra bonus points was Rosemarie’s fascination with the Italian couple in front of her.
“Just listen at how he’s chewing his food,” she said as the sound of the man’s chomping was indeed coming through loud and clear. “She’s gobbling up everything on the plate. Why does he have to eat like that?”
Good, I thought. This will keep her entertained and I decided to make a guessing game of what the next course would look like. Would the beef cheeks be round and placed side by side on the plate? I had ordered the sea bass - would it come with the head still attached and dead eyes staring up at me? The attentive wait staff cleared our plates, brought us new silverware and then, the shy hostess rounded the corner with two large plates and placed them before us.
“This looks like brigole that Grandma used to make for me,” my mother said, making me instantly happy that what was on her plate brought back such a wonderful memory. My father’s mother was my world and her cooking was just one of the many things that still resonate with me today. Tender and juicy, the shredded beef melted in her mouth and I breathed a sigh of relief, although the gelatinous side dish left me pause and she left it untouched.
My sea bass was perfection. Flaky and fork tender, it fell apart at the touch of the utensil and was accompanied by some serious Dijon mustard. Either because of my earlier worry or the fact that I am fighting a small head cold, I was feeling extremely warm and we opted to skip dessert and sit in the square with some gelato. Before I left, I used the WC and thought how a restaurant bathroom could not be more perfect. It was very “M” indeed. (For the uninitiated, anything that is to the liking or surpasses the expectations of Wayne’s other half, Michael is described as “Very M.”
We strolled through the Piazza San Marco, now thankfully devoid of its flying rats but now over run with vendors selling twirly florescent toys that would better serve circuit boys on the dance floor. We continually put our hands up to shoo them away as we took a stroll along the bank of the canal.
The gondoliers were still out in front of their boats, trying to drum up late night business and I was surprised there were not more people in them as without the afternoon sun, a trip along the grand canal would be so much more pleasant. The rides are frightfully expensive and I recommend them only if it’s something that you feel that you simply cannot leave Venice without doing.
Stopping into a gelato shop, we got two scoops and sat on a bench overlooking the water. Alas, as I remembered, the Venetians can’t make gelato that comes close in any class to their Florence rivals. More like ice cream, the treat did, however, soothe our pallets for something cold.
Despite all my reservations about this city, there is no mistaking it’s beauty and majesty. As you look at the boats, the bridges and the gorgeous moon over Piazza San Marco, the sights of the city take your breath away. This is the Italy of the storybooks and sharing it with someone special is very special indeed. I looked up at the moon and mentioned how funny it was that what we were looking at was the same sight seen back home. It’s silly, really, but it makes you realize how small the world really is.
Simply exhausted and hardly able to pick ourselves up from the bench we were on, my mom and I decided to call it a night. That is, if we could not only walk to our hotel, but also make it over the bridges and up the winding staircase to our room.
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