Something is wrong. We’re sitting on the broad Via Garibaldi
at Trattoria Giorgione. It’s my first meal in Italy – Polenta e Schie – and it is all wrong. Tiny gray lagoon
shrimp, about the size of the tip of my pinkie, are nestled on a bed of what
looks like cream of wheat. This is not my grandmother’s polenta.
Oh, Venice is beautiful. Imagine 117 islands laced with
arching bridges, churches and grand homes adorned with frescoes and mosaics,
and the burgundy and gold flag of the Most Serene Republic fluttering from iron
balconies centuries old. One of the first photos I snap from the vaporetto
(water taxi) on the Grand Canal is of the Hotel Marconi. Marcon was my
grandmother’s maiden name. And one of the last photos is of the Hotel
Bellini—the peachy-rose color of one of my favorite drinks—Bellini, made
of prosecco and white peach puree. The ancient walls of Venice come in shades
of ochre, cream, rose, mustard, and cinnamon draped in climbing roses, brighten
with window boxes of geraniums, or festooned with lines of laundry. Gilt and
gargoyles, tile roofs and marble floors, arches and archangels, light and
shadow playing on the waterways and alleyways. Pale pink Murano streetlamps and
ornate chandeliers sparkle with quiet elegance. We listen as dueling
orchestras rally the crowds on the Piazza San Marco. On one street, not far from
the Rialto Market, we find a touch of Kutztown in Venice—a sandwich shop
decorated in the style of Keith Haring. We watch the ebony gondolas traverse
the canal. The bold striped shirts of the gondoliers prompt Richard to
remark, “Where’s Waldo?”
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| A touch of Keith Haring |
As we eat our way through Venice, Richard, Marina and I
order antipasto, primo piatto and secondo piatto–and then trade bites,
multiplying our tastes threefold: pasta dressed in squid ink, prosciutto-topped
pizza, risotto with mushrooms and Asiago, prosciutto with melon, grilled
cuttlefish, fried sardines, Insalata Caprese (salad of ripe tomatoes, basil,
and fresh buffalo mozzarella drizzled with a fine olive oil). Almost every dish
has the same salty, white polenta on the plate. I begin to doubt my
culinary heritage.
I’ve read that the
secret to Venetian cooking is simplicity, or, as a Venetian would say, “Non pio
di cinque,” Never use more ingredients than you have fingers on your hand. But
why was their polenta white and runny, not the rich yellow mounds of cornmeal from my childhood?
We drink our way through Venice with variety, not quantity,
the rule. I want to drink a Bellini made in the city that created it, sample
the local Valpolicella wine, sip the sweetness of a Sgropino (vodka, prosecco
and lemon gelato), and compare the many variations of Spritz (our favorite
being prosecco with Aperol, a bitter made from rhubarb, oranges, and medicinal
herbs. Is there an Italian saying: A shot of Aperol a day keeps the doctor
away?
Good fortune via venere.com leads us to Al Tramonto Dorato
(The Golden Sunset), a B&B near the Arsenale immortalized by Dante. By
staying near the residential section of Venice we are visitors rather than
tourists. Our innkeeper, Nicola, takes one look at Richard (all 6-foot-7 of him)
and invites him to play basketball with his Venetian team for that night's game. He also
apologizes that the docking of the Italian Navy’s Amerigo Vespucci is blocking our view of San Giorgio Island. Quite the
contrary, we enjoy the up-close and personal view of the tall ship and
watch in amusement as the boatswain blows his whistle and the crew of 450
midshipmen line up for shore leave.
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| Marina, Nicola and Richard |
When it is time for us to say good-bye to Venice, we tote
our bags to the Arsenale vaporetto stop, ride up the canal and then take a bus to
Treviso and our rental car. The journey to experience our Italian roots has
just begun. I have more questions than answers, and still haven’t solved the
mystery of polenta bianca. Laurie Lynch
Written on Slate:
“If I were not the king of France, I would choose to be a citizen of Venice.” –
Henry III of France
Elderberry Envy:
As we traveled around Belgium, I kept seeing elderberry shrubs and hedgerows in
full bloom. Then, on my bike ride into work, I saw an enormous specimen in a
Lemont yard. One day while passing, I noticed the homeowner trimming his yews.
I braked my bike to a stop and started talking about his elderberry shrub,
finally asking if I could come back to pick some flowers for elderblossom
cordial. “Very Scandinavian,” he said,
“of course.”
Over the weekend I decided to take a leisurely ride and stop
for coffee at Café Lemont. I sat on the curving Victorian porch sipping my
Peruvian Norte and watching a hummingbird sip nectar from the flowers in a
hanging basket. On the way home, I stopped and picked a bag of elderblossoms
for a fresh batch of homemade cordial. Perfect mornings don’t only exist in
Venice.
