Venetian-ness

comestible curiosities, and more

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My day got off to a superb start with the discovery of the Boron family. Pace Tom Lehrer, I am now hopefully (note rare correct usage) awaiting the appearance of more relatives from the chemical elements clan. You remember them: fermium, mendelevium, einsteinium, nobelium…. But joking to one side, I think the Boron family should be respected.  I have received no compensation for this mention, they don’t even know I exist.  Also that I do not drink alcohol.  But boron isn’t a name you expect to see around, especially if it’s attached to wine.  I mean, to people.

While we’re on the subject of food — and when are we not? — here are a few worthy character actors on the great Venetian culinary stage who may have been hidden in the swarm of the stereotypical food cluttering every Venetian menu.

Apples: There seemed to be no surprises left in the winter starting lineup.  Here almost all of those seen in Venice come from the great northern valleys of Non and Venosta — Delicious (or Melinda), Royal, Gala, Pink Lady, Fuji. But the other day a newcomer found a place at the end of the bench, so to speak: The annurca/anurka apple, officially known as the Melannurca Campana I.G.P. (Indicazione Geografica Protetta).  Luca on the fruit and vegetable barge told us that it is an autochthonous breed, native to the Campania region.  Its admirers refer to it as “the queen of the Caudine valley.”  I’m sorry to bring up a sensitive subject, but it’s nice to know that that particular area is famous for something other than one of Rome’s most humiliating defeats.  Read up on the Battle of the Caudine Forks (321 B.C.) if you want to re-evaluate some of your life choices.
The annurca (Malus pumila) is one of the symbols of the Campania region, where it has been cultivated for at least two millennia; it is depicted in frescoes in Herculaneum and mentioned by Pliny the Elder. Why haven’t we seen it here before?  (Or more to the point, why are we seeing it now?)  This delectable sweet, firm, slightly acidic little fruit represents a mere five percent of the national apple production, and two-thirds of the crop is absorbed by Campania and Lazio, while another 20 percent reaches Lombardy, Piemonte and Tuscany.  That leaves precious little for the rest of us, but somehow the Veneto is now on their delivery route, and this trusty little veteran is a wonderful discovery.  Or, if it could talk, it might well say “I’ve been around for thousands of years; where have YOU been?”
It really is the most agreeable little apple. I’m glad it’s managed to hang on.
These gnarly little knobs are not ginger. They are a wintry visitor that usually appears so briefly that you could easily overlook them.  This year, for some reason, they have lingered longer. Meet topinambur (toe-pin-am-BOOR), or Helianthus tuberosus.  Jerusalem artichoke, Canadian sunflower, sunchoke, sunroot, and/or German turnip.  It is a South American plant; its curious name here probably derives from the Tupinamba’, an indigenous people of Brazil.  One method of preparing it is to scrape away the surface dirt, saute’ some garlic in extravirgin olive oil, cut the tubers into very thin slices, toss them into the oil and garlic, adding salt and pepper and a little vegetable broth, if needed, to keep them from drying out.  They’re very pleasant, something like a potato, or maybe a water chestnut, with a slight flavor of artichoke.
This is just sad. How could this celestial espresso machine end up in this condition?  Sex?  Drugs? Rock and roll?  And why is it sitting outside the front door of this restaurant?  Isn’t it supposed to be in rehab somewhere?
“All hat, no cattle” is a common, if cutting, judgment given as necessary in the American West.  It comes to mind in the case of this marvelous –judging by appearances — mollusk.  Are you tired of clams?  You should be, they’re the prime, and sometimes only, bivalve on Venetian restaurant menus.  (Stop right there: Of course there are often mussels on offer, but they don’t fall in the “clam” category of this  cadenza.)  If you should happen to see “spaghetti con telline,” which has happened to me exactly once, know that you will have a plate that cries out to be photographed. But as for the telline (tell-EE-neh) themselves, you may not even realize you’ve eaten something.  They are so tiny and so insipid that you will be happier admiring their shells than consuming their contents.  I have never seen them in the fish markets, although they come from the shallow Adriatic shoreline, Lino tells me.  So they are local, in one sense.  They’re out there somewhere.  Bonus points: Skip the first course and just buy a batch of “purple tellin shells” from Etsy.  Not made up.  Look for the ones called “purple coquina shells.”

Somebody loves pasta.  Somebody is selling pasta.   This sculpture was in the window of the Pastificio Serenissima some while back.  The can is not leaning on the shelf; it is being held aloft by the column of stuck-together bowties (or what they call butterflies here) and some nubbin I can’t identify.  This photo is here for fun, not for erudition.
Nothing to do with food, but I just can’t keep it to myself.  Wandering around, I came across these clarion phrases.  An anonymous door on the street is talking to YOU.  The first sign in heavy black letters in equally heavy Venetian dialect translates as “And until I come back nobody can come in!”  That clearly wasn’t enough, because a second notice is taped above it, saying “I repeat until I come back nobody is allowed to come in.  And he that can has my number.”  So nobody except somebody is permitted to enter.  From behind the door came loud noises of a chainsaw and the tiny gleam of a lightbulb.  Conclusion: The proprietor is not far away on a cruise to the North Cape, but slaving away at something.  Building a replica of the Kon-Tiki?  Whatever it is, nobody is permitted to see it until he comes back, and only if you know the guy who has his number.  Update:  I went by today, and the two signs have been removed, leaving the bit you can barely see is already taped beneath.  That bit carries one word: “Chiuso.”  Closed.  You can’t quibble with that, it’s final.
This is not a comestible. It is merely a cat so remarkable he/she/it looks as if it were designed.  Even the nose is part of the scheme.  The eyes, though, give me the strange sensation of being weighed in the balance and found wanting.  If a person looks at you like that you can try to do something.  But cats don’t care.

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  1. Wonderful post, Erla! Reminds me of the time, decades ago, that I picked up some delectable jelly doughnuts, hot from the fryer, at a Dorsoduro bakery (which, last time I looked, had become a fancy takeaway shop). I asked the young lady at the counter what they were called. “Krapfen!” she replied with one of those contemptuous why-do-you-even-ask looks. Clearly a contribution to Venetian cuisine from the Austrian occupation. History for breakfast.

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    1. Absolutely an Austrian relic, and not the only one. I wonder if you ever discovered kipferl (pronounced here as KEE-fer. Too freaking many consonants for Italian). It’s a sort of croissant with a marzipan filling, bedecked with toasted sliced almonds and powdered sugar. The spritz, too, I have been told, began in Austria as white wine and sparkling water. Took the Venetians to kick it up a notch with an extra ingredient, they knew a good thing when they saw it. It was the French who left the croissant behind, as we all know, but there are some denizens of deepest Castello who pronounce it “koh-rah-san.” I once saw it actually written on a sign in the window of an extremely neighborhood bar/cafe as KHORASAN.

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      1. Oh, interesting! I just know kipferl as a sort of horn-shaped yeast bread.
        But I’ve certainly eaten the Venetian version, probably under the name of cornetto mandorlato or some such.
        “Koh-rah-san”, huh? Makes me think of Koreshan, a former community of celibates in Southwest Florida who believed that they were living on the inside surface of a huge globe called Earth. As indeed we may be.
        So, back to food in Venice: When does castrauri season begin?

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        1. I have only ever seen kipferl sold as a crescent pastry (I wouldn’t have thought of calling it bread — it’s more like croissant pastry-dough). If anyone here called it a “cornetto mandorlato” that would be a daring departure. The Austrians called them kipferl and Venetians have carried it on.
          The very brief season of castraure depends, of course, on the weather. I have seen them begin to flower in early April, but as you recall, there is only one at the very top and center of each plant. The following artichokes on the same plant are called botoi. For there to be as many true castraure as are purported to be such on sale in the markets here, the fields would need to be reaching Kansas proportions. Back to weather — early spring, anyway. Spinach never happened this year because of too much rain at the wrong time, and the peas are just beginning to come up, although they are fighting a desperate battle for survival against the hungry wild rabbits on Sant’ Erasmo that have been encouraged to attract sport hunters. I don’t know if rabbits like artichokes…..

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  2. That remarkable cat is called a Tuxedo for obvious reasons. The markings are just a little lopsided compared to some. When our Tuxedo closes his eyes, they disappear completely in the black. A very proper cat to find in the City of Masks.

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    1. Thank you for this, I love learning things. I didn’t realize he’s not unique, but the fact that there are more like him makes me feel very good indeed. City of Masks, indeed. I wonder what he’s going to look like next Wednesday when the party’s over!

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  4. How delightful to see “hopefully” used correctly.
    My mother hopefully advised us kids that, if we couldn’t keep our parts of speech sorted out, just substitute the word “merrily.” If it sounds stupid, it is.

    e.g.
    I forgot my key but, when I get home, merrily the door will be unlocked.
    I’m late for work, merrily the boss won’t be angry.
    When guests come, merrily the carta igenica won’t run out.

    It is as good as any parlor game, with our without pours of Boron all ’round.

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  5. Have you seen the sort-of pentacle shape that results if you cut an apple horizontally, instead of vertically? Quite interesting image.
    Thank you again for yet another interesting post – I almost always come away from them with another tasty nugget of information lodged about my person.

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    1. Sincere thanks for your always-generous compliments. But I hope you find that nugget about your person and remove it before it begins to go bad! (smile)

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