Venice: Eating on Your Feet

        Venetians stand. Americans sit. We scramble for a seat on the bus, hog a table for hours at Starbucks, hop onto a stool to explore a hot restaurant’s bar menu. But we – me and my guy Steven Richter who took these pictures — are walking, sipping, and snacking now in the footsteps of Venetians.  Perhaps their willingness to stand has to do with living in a walking city. Yes, Venetians have figured it out. It’s faster to walk in a city built on water.  When it pours or grows icy, they may jump on and off the vaporetto (the floating bus) where they often huddle on deck or stand inside –leaving the seats on the prow for the tourists exercising their cameras. Venetians stand up in the tragettos — the shallow skiffs that cross the Grand Canal at strategic points.  When the vaporettos shift into late night mode, waits loom long and everyone walks.  Does that somehow illuminate standup eating?  Is it cause or effect?

         In winter, the grand dames of the bourgeoisie, emerge muffled in fat tiered furs.  Crossing paths with a friend, they punctuate the morning shopping at the food stalls of the Rialto, socializing pelt to pelt. And as they rush home to supervise lunch, joining the streams of pedestrians vying with tourists, shop keepers and workmen for the narrow passages between piazzas, they may stop for a standup glass of wine, more gossip and chicetti. A crisp fried sardine or a cod croquette, or a sliver of proscuitto and shaved artichoke on a crostini or a gooey mayonnaise-and-tuna sandwich on soft white bread.

         It’s our fourth winter in Venice and we find ourselves taking the long way through the maze of alleys and small campos to avoid the carnivale press of foot traffic detouring for a wakeup espresso.  At Caffe del Doge, on a side alley near the Rialto, we find a vertical cluster of affluent Venetians en route to office or shop and a duo of smartly dressed cops – he and she, “no pictures please,” the day’s first wave of Doge habitués. Here you can order the blend you prefer, with or without cream and dark melted chocolate coating the cup (that’s a Giacometti).  Pastries come savory or sweet, and in miniature – tiny crossants and pain au chocolate, small puffs stuffed with apple, cookies sold by the piece. Doge, a brand with global aspirations, only recently expanded from selling coffee and coffee products (coffee flavored cookies, coffee-chocolate bars) and added pasticceria snacks and tables. Mid-morning mothers arrive with strollers. At the counter, gondolier flirts with a pretty young barrrista.  Two short fur-wrapped dowagers stand tall, spooning whip cream from demitasses of hot chocolate. It would never occur to us as voyeurs not to sit – I sip a tall glass of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice.

         Cichetti-fans know deep-fried fish and battered meat fritters are best fresh from the hot oil and hit their neighborhood bacaro (wine bar) before noon.  Construction workers, tradesman, fish mongers and old men who have nothing to do but drink and smoke and talk sports or politics overflow, glass in hand, onto the streets outside the many little wine bars that stud the maze around the Rialto. Just before noon and again at five or six, It’s time for an ombra (a glass of wine).  It can be plonk in a tiny glass or a longer pour from a labeled bottle, or possibly a beer. And in cases of serious need, a grappa or two. 

         The landmark Do Mori should be seen for its historic interior, even though it charges ridiculous prices for lackluster tidbits. I tossed a rubbery square of omelet into the garbage.  Better by far are tramezzini (crustless white bread sandwiches cut on the diagonal with all sorts of fillings –every possible cured meat, tuna, shrimp, and beaten cod (the classic mantecato). Ask for a francobolls (literally: postage stamp), half of a half, so you can taste more. The tourist flow doesn’t seem to discourage die hard locals who know they own the place and don’t mind us subsidizing their discounts.

         Ai Rusteghi, a favorite of ours in the warren behind Campo Bartelemeo, has moved around the corner into a small, secluded campiello, adding outside tables. Regulars troop in for small, crusty panini stuffed with different fillings. Today I count 21.  A rushed youth sips Fanta with his lard and rosemary panini. We claim a table to savor jazz on the sound system and half a dozen rolls: Sicilian tuna salad, chopped sausage and eggplant, roast porchetta (ask for senape if you want mustard), speck with pickle, salsiccia piquante (spicy sausage).

         Regulars from the neighborhood hang out at Cantione-Gia Schiavi in Dorsoduro, a minute away from the Accademia bridge. There the walls are paved with bottles for sale and the glass vitrine displays platters of snacks and a vast range of delicious crostini at one euro each.  Sitting is not an option. Our friends travel from the opposite end of Venice to join us on Friday, ex-pat night, for a red from Fruili, richly mayo’d tuna under leek strings and exceptional mantecato (cod puree) on slices of crusty baguette. Visitors from New York, leaning on the bar, happily put away 30 crostini one day at lunch. I arrive late to eat everything they recommend, creamy tuna with slivered onions. pistachio on pistachio cream, tuna mash sandwiched between red and yellow bell pepper, raddichio with tellegio cheese, and sliced fig with parmigiana.  Mom and a trio of sons names count the toothpicks to calculate the toll.

         Early one evening the two of us join Michaela Scibilia on a bacari-crawl.  Michaela, a tall, vibrant brunette with a thick veil of dark hair, was updating her Guide to the Eateries of Venice (due in Italian and English this fall) We meet under the porticos of the 16th century Fabbriche Veechie near San Giacometto church at Naranzaria, a stylish, newish wine bar with wine maker Brandy Brandolino as a partner (guaranteeing an emphasis on wine), fabulous Brazilian music tapes and sushi snacks. Proof, Michela noted, of a new adventurousness among Venetians though I notice that giggling young Japanese women on tall stools outnumber the locals. “No. no,”I cry but too late. A server has painted my sushi rolls with teriaki sauce. When Michaela explains, the offending plate is snatched away and a slightly too cold, naked second batch appears with slivers of pickled ginger. The sweetness of fresh raw shrimp make up for the unremarkable tuna.

         It is a bitter night and all of us are layered against the cold. Winter bluster does not discourage the youngish crowd standing in front of Marco, our next stop  — a bar in what adds up to an armoire with two stools and a small park bench.  Lawyers from the courts come by day; youngish Venetians on their way home or out to dinner, in the early evening. They sip wine or spritz, the Venetian aperitif of white wine with Amaro — bitter, Select or Aperol — and soda. I like mine bitter. A slice of warm strudel — leek or artichoke and raddichio – is easily shared, better than a mealy tuna croquettes.

         Michaela has mapped out favorite cichetti bars and osterie in Cannareggio on another evening. Three old men with dogs stood at the bar of Da Luca e Fred where we have a glass of ordinary red and a delicious slice of eggplant rolled round ham and cheese from Micaela’s cichetti selection — warmed up, but not sufficiently.  Sitting at a table doubles the price but I want to sample the nervetti — boiled veal cartilage  with onion, parsley oil and vinegar.  Not bad at all if you have a weakness for cartilage. Dark bread tramazzinni and kindly service win us over at Do Colonne just past the Palazzo Ducale where we discover that a little bit of the very greasy but luscious musetto – a soft sausage like cotechino made mostly from the pig’s snout — goes a long way.  Alas, we made a special detour for a dark bread sandwich encore a week later. There are no traminzzini of any color left and the service is infinitely less kindly. (Still, it doesn’t hurt to check inside if you’re passing by).

         The most varied and reliable strandup eating is piled into and balanced atop the glass showcase at Ca d’Oro, mostly known as Alle Vedova. We start with fried  meatballs served on a napkin — soft and delicious, and seconds when a hot batch comes out.. Then a small plate of stewed moscardino (baby octopus) tender as can be. How do the Venetians do this? I wonder, trying to juggle a saucer of glazed onions and a teeny glass of cheap but drinkable wine  — red or white poured from ceramic pitchers. Four of us claim a counter corner for a dish of mussels with tomato, crumbed and baked, and fabulous grilled cuttlefish. We vote to stay for pasta at a table when the waiter forecasts a twenty minute wait, but then a crowd shuffled in, people with reservations and we are exiled into the night.

         Michaela warned us: Only tourists sit for dinner at Aciugheta –a standout standup for good wine and first rate pizzette.  I sip a fine chianti in a real wine glass and lose control when I taste the sensational chicken liver mousse  – a giveaway in a bowl on the counter that I can’t stop eating. Then hot out of the oven come pizzettes as advertised, the best in Venice, crunchy-thin, with a fine tomato sauce wearing an anchovy like a necktie.

        Except for New York City where over-scheduled workaholics and laborers line up for gyros, hot dogs, pulled pork and a few boutique snacks from curbside carts, I don’t see standup eating as a trend. Not for couch plants or commuters.  But it’s a lark to play the game in Venice.  

This article originally appeared in Food Arts October 2005 as "Eating on Their Feet (Venice)"