Venetian History | Venice: I am not making this up

The Garden of the Forgotten Venetians – Riccardo Selvatico

July 25, 2018 No Comments

The Gardens feel bigger and lusher than they look here, I have to say. But the area must have felt very different indeed when this space was occupied by the church and convent of San Domenico, of San Nicolo di Bari, of the Conception of the Virgin Mary (otherwise known as the Cappuccine), of Sant’ Antonio Abate, and the Old Sailors’ Home. But who needs those when they can have trees?

This arch is the only survivor of all those buildings, recovered from the church of Sant’ Antonio Abate, designed by Michele Sanmicheli (the arch served as the entrance to the Lando chapel). It lay on the ground in pieces for 15 years.

On the less marbley side is a phrase referring to the reconstruction in 1822. I have no information on why this was done or what happened to the rest of the church. Maybe Napoleon wanted something that looked like a triumphal arch. L’Arc de la Devastation.

This sylvan glade was created by Napoleon when he went through Venice like the Destroying Angel, razing and demolishing scores of churches, convents, scuole and other buildings that were inconsiderately sited where he wanted something else to be, or that happened to contain things he wanted such as gold, jewels and works of art.

Nowadays the Giardini Pubblici (Public Gardens) are best-known for accommodating the original pavilions of the art extravaganza known as the Biennale. Also, being a garden, the area is full of trees and flowers and shrubs, plus an attractive little playground. It even offers a useful amount of space to handle thousands of runners at the finish line of the Venice Marathon.

However, this 13-acre piece of Venice is more than a shrine for art lovers or a bosky dell for the relief of exhausted tourists. It is a garden of remembrance(s) of people and/or events of which hardly anybody remembers anything. That’s a wild guess on my part, based on the general nonchalance with which people wander through. Look at the bronze bust of Giorgio Emo Capodilista; it has “And now the weather report from Oblivion” written all over it. Not to mention Carlo de Ghega, another extremely worthy Venetian whose crumbling memorial plaque is only about 45 seconds away.

We get an extra dollop of wit here, considering the title of the exhibition whose banner is concealing half of the too-high-to-read-and-by-now-disintegrating plaque to Carlo de Ghega. It’s one thing not to be able to read it; it’s another not to be able even to see it. But *sic transit*, dude, you had your moment.

So I’ve decided — SEEING THAT THERE ARE NO HELPFUL EXPLANATORY SIGNS ANYWHERE, THE KIND THAT MANY TOWNS WHOSE CITIZENS AND OFFICIALS FEEL SOME CIVIC PRIDE OFTEN PLACE NEAR WORTHY LANDMARKS — to remedy this oversight. I’m limiting myself to the Gardens at the moment, because I intuit that trying to address the skillions of other personages “remembered” around Venice would be a life’s work. Not a reason not to do it, just a reason to evaluate it carefully.

But the Gardens are calling. May I present Riccardo Selvatico, our first example of departed glory:

This bronze herm by sculptor Pietro Canonica bears the most modest inscription possible (and it’s not “The Thinker”): “A Riccardo Selvatico La Sua Citta’ 1903” — “To Riccardo Selvatico, His City 1903.” The date is two years after his death.

Selvatico was born in Venice in 1849 and died in 1901. Trained as a lawyer, he was mayor of Venice from 1890-95. He was also a poet and writer of comedies (I guess politics could help you with that) written in the Venetian dialect. When he wasn’t scribbling he did a number of important things. For one, he established a fund to finance the construction of healthier housing, replacing swathes of dwellings which were worthy of New York’s Lower East Side or Rio’s favelas; he would have lived through several cholera epidemics, so he didn’t need anybody to explain the problems of slums.

And if that doesn’t seem especially herm-worthy, he was also the person who came up with the idea, approved by a city-council vote in 1894, of holding an international art exposition in Venice every two years. In other words, he invented the Biennale, which now runs for at least six months, and sometimes seven, every year. It brings glory to the participants and boatloads of money to the city — I have no way of knowing which aspect inspired him more. Maybe it was a draw. The opposition party, naturally, stigmatized it as yet another example of his administration’s tendency to waste money on projects of barely discernible utility, in order to favor its friends and clients.

So he wrote a little poem called “Metempsicosi” in which he imagines that if it were true that we can be reincarnated as some animal, he’d like to come back as a pigeon in the Piazza San Marco, watch the people, fly around, and poop on the hats of a couple of individuals he isn’t going to name.

Not your ordinary politician, nor even your average man of letters. If there’s one thing that comes through every word, it’s his love for his city and its people and its life. One critic praised his poetry and comedies as being “ennobled by (his) exquisite Venetianness and refined wit.”

His five years as mayor were busy, of course, partly due to an ongoing battle between his highly eclectic and non-religious government and the opposition party marshaled by Giuseppe Sarto, then patriarch of Venice but later Pope Pius X. In 1895 Sarto’s faction won the election and Selvatico was back on the street. Separation of church and state was not an important principle at the time.

His birthplace also rates a plaque (translated by me): “Here was born on April 15 1849 Riccardo Selvatico poet of the vernacular and mayor of Venice who carried the intimate sense of life into his art and in life transfused the dignity and the measure of art. The city places this 1902.” This house stands at the foot of the bridge of Sant’ Antonio between Campo S. Lio and Calle de la Bissa.

He also gets a campiello named after him. Next time you’re voyaging between Campo S. Bartolomio and Campo of the Santi Apostoli, tip your hat. All these memorials are impressive, especially as nobody now remembers who he was. If the city fathers hadn’t made all these efforts, even I might not have heard of him (apart from the fact that Lino has a copy of “I Recini di Festa” and other works of Selvatico from which he reads poetry to me).

Selvatico clearly accomplished more than your usual assortment of Bepis and Tonis (“Bepi”and “Toni” are the immemorial nicknames of the quintessential pair of Venetian friends, up to and including today). I’m glad his efforts were appreciated, though the encomiums came after his death, as usual.

This portrait must have been made toward the end of his life; he was only 52 when he died, and his somewhat wary expression might be one effect of life in City Hall. Or maybe he’s imagining himself as a pigeon.

I Recini da Festa (“The best earrings”) is a comedy in two acts set in Venice, first performed in Venice to great success at the Teatro Goldoni on April 4, 1876 (14 years before he became mayor, so people knew what they were getting into, so to speak, when they elected him). One critic calls this comedy as “light and intricate as a piece of Burano lace,” still a stellar example of the best of the theatre in Venetian dialect of the time. Then as now, everybody spoke Venetian, so it wasn’t necessarily seen as a quaint way of talking, or even typical of a particular social class.

A poverty-stricken young married couple — also, she’s pregnant — is living with her parents because the husband has been rejected by his rich father who was opposed to the wedding. This opposition is based on an old quarrel between the two fathers-in-law dating from their youth, about which the newlyweds know nothing. Her father can’t support them all, so his wife breaks the piggybank in which the money for the crib was being kept.

But the baby MUST have a crib so that the father can at least put up a good appearance, therefore the daughter (soon to be mother) decides to pawn her best earrings. The person who resolves all the twists is the big-hearted and astute midwife, who’s ready to make any sacrifice to settle the matter. In the end the two old enemies make peace, and the rich father himself gives the earrings back to his daughter-in-law. Happy ending for everybody!

One critic calls this little confection “fresh, simple, full of domestic intimacy, which even today one hears willingly.”

Regata Storica, 2013, only a minute to the finish line.

Perhaps even better-known (among Venetians) is his poem “Brindisi” (toast), written in honor of the Regata Storica of 1893, and read by Selvatico at the then-traditional dinner given for all the racers the Thursday evening before the big event on Sunday.

That year the festivities were grand — nine new gondolinos had been constructed, and six bissone were bedecked at a cost of 3000 lire ($15,678 adjusted value). The rockstar pair of rowers, the Zanellato brothers, weren’t competing, and that left three crews which were virtually equal. Emotions were high even before the wine began to flow.

Like most poetry, it’s infinitely better spoken than read in silence, and I can only imagine the exultation that greeted the last few verses. I will translate, knowing that things like this come out in translation as if they’d been soaked in bleach. The original is below.

There are some who tremble/Looking around/And seeing that the world/Keeps going along every day

It seems that Venice/Once so beautiful/A little at a time/She too has changed

Mincioni/Let me say it/Venice doesn’t change/No matter how much people shout (terms in italics explained below)

The calle de l’Oca/has gone to hell/But the Grand Canal/For Lord’s sake, who would touch it?

They’ve gone to hell/parties and gambling houses/Dances, country festivals/

The Forze di Ercole/the puppet shows

So fine– but there is always/our Regata/There is always the festa/That nothing can affect (literally “impact”)

Cape, wig/ hat shaped like a raviolo/They’re dead and buried/But there is still the boatman!

And as long as this breed/Of arms and lungs/Of men who are tressi/sbragioni but good

As long as this breed/I repeat, is like this/Venice doesn’t change/Venice is beautiful!

————————————————————-

Mincioni: Refers to the male member; I’ve tried and can’t confidently give an English equivalent in the sense intended here, which summarizes all the great qualities of men’s men, in a good sense, even while using a word which usually implies the opposite.

Forze di Ercole: These “strengths of Hercules” were complicated human pyramids, spectacular exhibitions of endurance and equilibrium put on during festive occasions such as Carnival.

The men appear to be supported by barrels, but don’t be impressed. Sometimes they would construct their tower with the two outer men standing on boats. The group shown above was seen in Salizzada San Pantalon in 1769.

Hat like a raviolo: Tricorn

Tressi: A person who is a “tresso” (here he is using the plural to characterize boatmen in general) is big, strong, burly, muscular. I can imagine this inspiring an enormous burst of laughter, table- and friend-pounding, general uproar. What’s even better is that “tresso” is also the piece of wood which strengthens and unites two things that without it would collapse — for example, the legs of a chair (technically known in English as the “stretcher”). Calling somebody a tresso suddenly seems like a great thing.

Sbragioni: People called “sbragioni” are those who tend to yell when talking, especially with the belief that yelling will make the shouter win the argument. More laughter.

So far we have literary, bronze, geographic, and economic memorials to Selvatico. But his earthly remains? They can be found in the extreme southeast corner of the cemetery on the island of San Michele. But first you have to circumnavigate an enormous raised tomb in the center of the walkway.

The three arches are facing the water and are currently blocked by a chain-link fence. Which is so easy to get around it might as well not be there. Selvatico’s is the plaque on the right.

He has been joined by the famous actor Cesco Baseggio, who died in 1971. Baseggio, born up the road in Treviso, was famous for his performances in Venetian dialect.

The epitaph is the same phrase incised on the plaque at his birthplace. When you’ve perfected something, just leave it alone, though accenting the letters with gold leaf seems appropriate.

This is only the first personage to be rediscovered in the Garden of the Forgotten Venetians. Next chapter coming soon.

“Brindisi” for the Regata Storica by Riccardo Selvatico 1893

Gh’è certi che trema
Vardandose a torno,
E visto ch’el mondo
Camina ogni zorno,

Ghe par che Venezia
Un dì cussì bela,
Un poco a la volta
Se cambia anca ela.

Mincioni, mincioni,
Lassè che lo diga;
Venezia no cambia
Per quanto che i ziga.

Xe andada in malora
La cale de l’Oca;
Ma el so Canalazzo,
Perdio, chi lo toca?

Xe andai in so malora
Festini e ridoti,
I salti, le sagre,
Le forze, i casoti:

Va ben, ma gh’è sempre
La nostra Regata,
Gh’è sempre la festa
Che gnente ghe impata.

Velada, paruca,
Capelo a rafiol
Xe morti e sepolti;
Ma gh’è el barcariol!

E fin che sta razza
De brazzi e polmoni,
De omeni tressi,
Sbragioni ma boni,

In fin che sta razza,
Ripeto, xe quela,
Venezia no cambia,
Venezia xe bela!

Venetian History

The fontegheto also has changed its look

April 26, 2017 7 Comments

While my mind is still loitering around the Giardini Reali, soon to be refurbished, titivated, and otherwise brought back to life (the Giardini, not my mind), I thought I’d show a glimpse of how the immediate area looked before Napoleon moved in and there went the neighborhood.

The little building on the right is the charmingly domed Palazzina Selva, bordering the west side of the Giardini Reali. The Vallaresso vaporetto stop is visible on the left. The ecru-colored building in the center of the picture is the headquarters of the Coast Guard and Harbormaster, but it was once the Fontegheto de la Farina, or flour warehouse.

Between the early 1800’s and the 1930’s, the white stone bridge so gracefully arching over the canal didn’t exist, for the simple reason that Napoleon and those who followed wanted the Gardens (royal, remember?) to be appropriately separated from the rest of the city on that side.

In this images from the 1930’s, the canal flows in regal isolation. But take a closer look at the building to the left, the former Fontegheto. Notice the two large arched window/doors at the corner of the building. The archway on the canal side is obviously blocked off, but it wasn’t always so…

Slightly further back in history, there once was a perfectly serviceable bridge, and without parapets or steps, which was more the norm than not. It led to that now-closed archway, which then was a perfectly serviceable passageway (sotoportego) that went through the Fontegheto de la Farina.

The waterfront at San Marco used to see a lot of working boats and cargo which were not gondolas and tourists. The Fontegheto de la Farina (the building front and center, with the bridge attached) has stood here since 1492 (this painting by Canaletto is from c.1730), a smaller flour warehouse than the Fontego de la Farina at the Rialto. Smaller merchants were allowed to sell flour in the covered passageway. But man does not live on flour alone. On December 14, 1724, the Venetian Senate ordered that a few rooms on the second floor be given to the Academy of Painters and Sculptors. This academy provided instruction and working space for foreign artists passing through Venice on their way to Rome, Florence, and Bologna. It was funded by contributions from Venetian noblemen, ordinary citizens, the artists and their students.

Venetian History

Fire, water, brimstone?

December 16, 2015 4 Comments

"Fire in the Oil Warehouse," by Francesco Guardi, 1789. Not made up, the fire or the painting. — “Fire in the Oil Warehouse,” by Francesco Guardi, 1789. Not made up, the fire or the painting.

The last thing on this mortal earth that the Venice firemen ever want to deal with is a fire.

If you leaf through a thousand years of Venetian history, you can see that fire has been about a skillion times more damaging to the city than water ever has been, or ever could be, not that I’m promoting acqua alta. But you can accommodate water, one way or another — besides, you get fair warning when it’s coming, and you know that after a few hours it will go away all by itself. But you cannot accommodate a fire. There have been conflagrations in Venice that can match some of the worst you’ve ever heard of, at least in places not named Chicago or London.

In 1514 the entire Rialto market area was leveled by fire, leaving only the church of San Giacometto untouched. The Doge’s Palace was carbonized, as they say here, to various degrees three times, in 1483, 1574 and 1577, the last one leaving so little that there was serious discussion of demolishing the walls and just building the whole thing over. (Plan rejected, happily for us.)

And there was the olive oil warehouse behind San Marcuola that caught fire from a lantern in 1789. I don’t think there’s any way to put out an oil fire, at least of that magnitude. Four hundred families were left to pick through the smoking ruins. Not to forget the lumber warehouse that caught fire at Barbarie de le Tole in 1686, which incinerated the neighborhood leaving only one house standing.

And my all-time non-favorite, the fire that started in San Severo in 1105 and took a tour of something like half of the city. Get out your maps: It started in the house of the Zancani family at San Severo, burned the neighborhood, then the flames moved on to San Lorenzo, San Provolo, Santa Maria Formosa, onward to San Giovanni Nuovo, San Zulian and San Basso and around the Piazza San Marco up to the church of San Geminiano, and proceeded to San Moise’ and Santa Maria Zobenigo. There the strong wind blew sparks across the Grand Canal. San Gregorio caught fire, Sant’ Agnese, San Trovaso, San Barnaba, San Basilio, then on to Angelo Raffaelle and San Nicolo dei Mendicoli; the fire on the San Marco side, not done yet, marched to San Maurizio, S. Paternian (now Campo Manin), San Luca, San Vidal, and San Samuele. Bring me an acqua alta that can hurt like that.

Today the firemen probably spend more time in the water than they do around those banal but occasionally really bad fires caused by short circuits, flaming food and arson. The lagoon is their beat: Pilings gone adrift, boats that have capsized or sunk, and other nautical mishaps are what the firemen usually deal with, and yesterday morning we came across such an event in the rio di San Giovanni Nuovo as we were walking from Santa Maria Formosa toward San Zaccaria.

The tube is still in the sunken boat, and the backwash is roiling, so they are still hoping at this point to raise her enough to begin pumping the water out.

First we heard the roar of the fireboat’s engine, all set to pump like crazy. Then we saw it, next to its waterlogged victim; by the look of the work already in progress, we’d come in toward the end of the second act of this drama, which means we had no idea of what had happened in the first act, nor who the dramatis personae were. But we could recognize a logistical problem which for some reason was more difficult than usual. I can say that because, as Lino explained it to me, if they had executed two little steps at the beginning, they’d have been home for lunch in no time. (I will try to describe his solution later.) As it was, in the absence of a team leader, everybody got into the act, and you don’t need to be a fireman, or a boat, to know that when too many people are trying to come up with a solution to a problem, the problem wins.

Short version: They evidently tried to lift the entire boat, which, considering the weight of the water, was discovered to be impossible. They couldn’t raise the boat even two inches above the surface of the canal to be able to pump out the water in the boat (we walked by when they were at the point of renouncing the effort), so they ended up deciding to tow it away. By the look of it, this procedure would have been more or less like towing a dead blue whale which had swallowed five Zamzama guns, with cannonballs.

Lino, who has also dealt with his fair share of submerged boats, told me that the boat was (briefly) on a modest slant. Blocking the upper side, they only needed to raise the lower side enough to start pumping. He made it sound easy, and considering how many times he and I have undertaken maneuvers with extremely heavy boats all by ourselves, he gets Olympic-level credit for understanding physics. Still, I give the firemen the benefit of the doubt because firemen are my heroes, and nothing I say should be taken as denigrating or belittling them in any way, much less to imply that I could have done it better. But still, it wasn’t going well — even I could see that.

The haven't given up on their rigging yet. And by the way, firemen are totally my heroes, so none of this is to be taken as denigrating or belittling them in any way. — They haven’t given up on their rigging yet, as we see by the men leaning over the side of the boat, grappling.

Motor turned off, the focus now shifts to the small brown motorboat which has been tapped to tow. I never knew what the relationship was between the brown and the white boats but evidently there was some link, otherwise I suppose the man in the brown boat wouldn’t have gotten so involved.

And heave-ho. The usual small crowd of spectators has formed -- nothing can happen here without passersby watching. — And heave-ho, pulling the boat into some kind of position. I didn’t understand the design of Plan B, but no matter. The usual small crowd of spectators has formed — nothing can happen here without a little audience forming.

Looks like everything is in position, or almost. The brown boat has some work to do to get in position and tied to the white one, but progress hass definitely been made. I’d have stayed to watch it all (for instance, how long the small motor on the brown boat was going to hold out), but we had to get back to the program.

Speaking of cannons, and lifting, a Venetian patrician named Giovanni Zusto once devised a way to lift an entire ship to the surface — a ship carrying cannon, which is what brought this feat to my mind — after it had sat in the mud for three years.

You should know about this, to have something astonishing to think about whenever you get tired of marveling at Venetian engineering skill ashore. On April 1, 1783, the “Fenice,” complete with 74 cannon, sank in the Canal Spignon, which is just inside the inlet at Malamocco. That location means mud and currents.

So the aforementioned Zusto — once again, amateurs save the day — designed a system of enormous rafts which provided the basis for this gigantic hauling-up. On July 30, 1786, the Fenice rose again. The designs are on the second floor of the Naval Museum, which is closed for renovation. Here they are; have a look, and rethink how hard your day has been.

I cannot interpret any of this for you; all I understand is big boats, anchors, platforms, counterweights and/or pulleys, and that's it. — I cannot interpret any of this for you; all I understand is big boats, anchors, platforms, capstans, counterweights and/or pulleys, and that’s it.

And up she came, eventually. Then, of course, they too had to deal with the necessity of towing her to the city. — And up she came, eventually.

Venetian History

Saint Lucy and whipped cream

December 14, 2015 6 Comments

Yesterday was December 13, as you know, and it was also the feast day of Santa Lucia, as you know now.

Not-so-trivia alert: The inescapable but ever-beautiful Neapolitan song, “Santa Lucia,” which is known everywhere as far as the Tadpole Galaxy, does not refer to the lovely Sicilian martyr. It refers to Borgo Santa Lucia, a waterfront neighborhood of Naples which is named for the lovely Sicilian martyr. Words such as “ship,” “sea,” and “Naples” spangling the song kind of give it away, at least if you understand Italian or Neapolitan.

Words may come and go, but someone hit on a melody which is impossible to forget. It even works in Thai. The Italian founder of Silpakorn University in Bangkok, Prof. Corrado Feroci, loved it so much that he used the tune as the setting for the official song of the university.

What does all this have to do with Venice? St. Lucy’s mortal remains lie in state above the high altar of the church of S. Geremia, having been moved from her very own church in 1861 when it was demolished to make room for the railway station. (Which is why the Venice station is subtitled “Santa Lucia.”)

The church of Santa Lucia in Venice, as seen by Canaletto in the mid 1700's. (c) National Galleries of Scotland; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation — The church of Santa Lucia in Venice, as seen by Canaletto in the mid 1700’s. Hint: It’s the one on the left — a few doors down is the fancy facade of the church of the Scalzi, which looks the same today. (c) National Galleries of Scotland; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

The church of Santa Lucia in 1861, shortly before it was demolished to make room for the train station. (photo by Bonaldi)

Saint Lucy is the saint responsible for addressing eye problems. The only time I ever went to services at San Geremia on her feast day I was struck by the huge floral arrangement offered by the Ophthalmologists’ Association of the Veneto, which was extremely gracious, though odd. Wouldn’t she be the one to put them out of business?

In the old days in Venice, people used to link St. Lucy’s day to freezing cold: “Da Santa Lussia, el fredo crussia” (St. Lucy’s Day, the cold is excruciating). Global warming has sent that saying off to follow the dodo. Anyone who utters this phrase nowadays — me, for instance — is indulging in nostalgia.

But St. Lucy maintains her place in another common exchange. Let’s say you run across someone you know, whom you compliment. Example: “Hey, you’re looking good.” Rejoinder: “Thank St. Lucy who’s given you good eyes.” Depending on the tone of voice, the remark allows for plenty of deprecation, implying anything from “Thank St. Lucy, but you should go get your eyes checked” to “Thank St. Lucy, but are you going blind?” Evidently she can control your eyesight at will.

She was blinded before being killed, hence the eyeballs on the plate. In case we were to forget this point.

She was a native of Siracusa, and her body was brought here in 1280. The specific reason was probably the general reason for such events (Venice possessed some A-list relics, such as the remains of St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr, and Saint Zachary, father of John the Baptist), to wit, money! Sorry, I meant offerings and gifts from religious pilgrims. Religious tourism was a very big deal in the old days, and everybody wanted to make the most of their saints. Naturally, the people of Siracusa want to have her back. She’s like the Elgin Marbles. But Venice has determined to keep her, though the patriarch did allow her to return home for a while a few years ago. I can’t remember why. Maybe it was her birthday.

Yesterday Lino gave me a startling new bit of Lucy lore. He was geezing about how it used to be one of the biggest feast days celebrated in Venice and now nobody pays the slightest bit of attention to her (except for annual flowers and recurrent badinage). And then he said “And everybody used to eat storti with whipped cream.”

Whipped cream I know, but storti? Literally, it means “crooked,” and I’ve heard an elderly person refer to somebody crafty or cunning as a “storto dal Dolo.” This is a jest, because while “storto” is clearly not high praise (calling someone “crooked” isn’t pretty in English, either), saying that the sneaky person came from Dolo actually refers to a well-known sort of waffle cone made in Dolo, a town on the Brenta river which used to be famous for producing this crunchy little item. Every March Dolo puts on the “Carnival of the Storti.”

Cones and cream, in whatever form, are evidently destined for each other, the Ilsa and Rick of fattening snacks. I didn’t know St. Lucy encouraged people to eat them, but I say any saint’s feast day ought to call for whipped cream.

So I immediately started nagging Lino to take me to somewhere I could eat storti with whipped cream, and although he said you used to be able to get them anywhere in Venice, he remembered a place not far from the church of San Geremia. We went in and asked if they had storti with whipped cream. “Of course,” said the woman behind the bar, in a way that implied that we might have asked if they had electricity.

For any traveler who wants to chance his arm, or palate, I will reveal that this confection was consumed at the Bar Gelateria Da Nini in the Strada Nova a few steps from the Ponte delle Guglie at number 1306. I am not responsible for your arteries, I’m just fulfilling my journalistic responsibilities.

The whipped cream was slobbed out of a large bucket kept in the fridge under the bar. It's an astonishing amount for a comestible I'd always thought of as garnish. — The whipped cream was slobbed out of a large bucket kept in the fridge under the bar. It’s an astonishing amount for a comestible I’d always thought of as garnish.

The "storto" cleverly acts as a sort of shovel for the cream. Now I understood the spoons, because there was no way to eat all the cream in just three little cones. Undaunted, I finished almost all of it. — The “storto” cleverly acts as a sort of shovel for the cream. The spoons are because there was no way to eat all the cream in just three little cones and they thought Lino might give me a hand, which he did not. Undaunted, I finished almost all of it, although that’s a heck of a lot of cream. Or maybe you’re supposed to spend 45 minutes savoring it, and not just snarfing it down like I did because you’ve got to be somewhere in ten minutes. Bad planning on my part.

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