Venetian-ness | Venice: I am not making this up

Venetian fish-feed

October 22, 2010 4 Comments

For much of the year, you will almost certainly see people fishing right under the lee of the most beautiful city in the world. From Sant’ Elena to San Marco, plus other assorted spots along or in the lagoon, they’re out with a couple of poles and a whole batch of free time. Just now there are more than usual because we are in the period of the fraima [frah-EE-ma], when most of the fish are heading out to sea.

Depending on the time of year — obviously — these tenacious anglers might be hoping for seppie, or gilthead or sea bass or even grey mullet. Or whatever The Supreme Fish Deity decides to send swimming past their hooks, old boots and lost gloves excluded.

You can also expect to see people out in their boats, anchored where the tide is going to give them the biggest assist. Sometimes this perfect fishing spot will be just about in the center of the trajectory of cruise ships or large ferries heading to or from Greece. The captains blow their klaxons in a huffy sort of way. The fishermen are all deaf.

The subject of fish and the lagoon is one that I’m going to expand on some other time — probably many times. Meanwhile, though, I just want to alert you to the fact that there is a dedicated chunk of the male population — they’re always men, though sometimes the guys in the boats bring their wives, if the weather’s nice — who see the lagoon as a place where they might find something delectable to eat, or at least find some of their friends.

By “friends” I mean people they know. Fishermen have no friends; even if a person they’ve known since childhood, maybe even a relative, asks how’s the fishing, they’ll never say it’s good. They get all vague and crafty. Or if he’s obviously lugging home a miraculous catch, he’ll never say where he was. This is true everywhere on earth, and no less so here.

Two of my best moments so far involving fishing (as opposed to fish itself) relate to how Lino sees it. Briefly put, he doesn’t believe that anyone born after about 1960 — my ballpark date — knows anything about the lagoon or its inhabitants. I’m thinking he’s probably right.

I'm staying where the tide is best for me, and the cruise ships can just work around me. Or stay home. Or sink. — I'm staying where the tide is best for me, and the big ships can just work around me. Or stay home. Or sink.

An example: We passed a young man one late summer night on the Lido — it was dark, but not terribly late — standing with his pole on the vaporetto dock, staring into the water, waiting. “He’s never going to catch anything,” Lino stated without even pausing. Why is that? “Because he’s trying to catch seppie, and that’s the wrong kind of gear. Also, the tide is going out. And they’re not in season right now.”

Second example: We have secretly adopted a man who spends a noticeable portion of his day at the vaporetto dock by the Giardini. The first time I noticed him, I was getting off the boat, and Lino was standing there a few discreet steps behind him, watching. They were both, in their own ways, engrossed.

“What’s he catching?” I asked in a whisper.

“Nothing,” Lino replied as we walked away. “He’s giving donations (opera di beneficienza, or charity).” Excuse me?

“He’s been there for hours, rolling little balls of a grated cheese/breadcrumb mash, putting them on his hook and then waiting for his pole to twitch. After a little while he pulls it up, and the hook is empty. Even in an aquarium, fish don’t get fed this much.”

So what’s going wrong? Well, first of all, the guy is attaching the bait in such a way that it comes loose a few seconds after it goes under. The foodball just floats away, probably into the mouth of a big smiling fish. The man is up there imagining his hook as an enormous fatal concealed weapon, and the fish are seeing it as a fabulous food delivery system which requires no effort whatsoever on their part. They’re just down there floating around with their jaws open, saying “God, I haven’t eaten this much since Vernon’s bar mitzvah.”

The second thing that’s going wrong is that the guy hasn’t figured out any of this. He just keeps doing it. Lino can’t believe anybody over the age of two could be so persistent — so hopeful, so convinced — at something so futile. But the evidence is before us.

I look at it this way: The man is happy. The wife is happy because he’s out there and not sitting around the house or the bar. And of course the fish are happy. Happy fish, that’s what we want. Happy and bloated.

You can catch a mormora (striped sea bream) in the lagoon, but it's not likely you'd get this many. I just throw this in to give you an idea of the kind of things the men might be dreaming of as they stare at their poles. — You can catch a mormora (striped sea bream) in the lagoon, but it's not likely you'd get all these. I just throw this in to give you an idea of the sort of thing the men might be dreaming of as they stare at the water.

Boatworld, Problems, Venetian-ness, Water

Racing’s wrong turn

October 20, 2010 3 Comments

I’m willing to believe that not everyone may be as mesmerized by the problems swamping the world of Venetian rowing racing as I seem to be. So, barring some sensational or truly revolutionary turn of events in the aftermath of the recent unpleasantness in the last two races, this might be my last post on the matter for a while. I said “might.”

But before I leave this theme in my wake as I sail on to other strange (or not strange) yet wonderful aspects of life here, I’d like to add one more element to the “1812 Overture” which the subject here has become. And that is the provocative analysis of the Big Picture recently given by veteran Venetian journalist Silvio Testa.

An exciting finish to the young men's race at Sant' Erasmo. One hopes that if they can be acclimated to the reality of rules early enough, later extreme behavior can be avoided. This is more likely to be where they start practicing being furbo. — An exciting finish to the young men's race at Sant' Erasmo. One hopes that if they can be accustomed to the reality of rules early enough, later extreme behavior might be avoided. This is more likely to be where they start practicing being furbo. The same is true for the women, by the way.

Testa’s viewpoint on racing could be summarized as “May the best man win.” Or perhaps, “Every man for himself.” In any case, this radical philosophy of racing does not, for once, involve judges, panels, appeals, fines, and all the other juridical paraphernalia which has wrapped itself around the neck of this activity and is threatening to drag it to the bottom. Au contraire.

In his opinion, in the process of imposing (and imperfectly enforcing) more and more rules, the more acrimonious, bitter, and vicious the races have become — almost as if the rules had fostered the very situations they were meant to prevent. In fact, he thinks that the whole effort to turn Venetian racing into a sport has taken it far down the wrong path. Therefore, as Giuseppe Verdi once remarked, “Let us return to the old way; it would be progress.”

Testa puts it this way:

“In 1981 I was reporting on the race at Murano. Bruno ‘Strigheta’ was in the lead, closely followed by Franco ‘Crea,” so closely that the prow of Crea’s gondola was almost running over Strigheta’s oar. Finally Crea passed him and pulled ahead, and Strigheta finished second.

“‘Now’ — I thought — ‘there’s going to be a huge quarrel.’ But Bruno didn’t even open his mouth. When I asked him why, his answer couldn’t have been clearer: ‘He was more furbo than I was.'” (“FOOR-bo” is a mix of sneaky, clever, slick, and cagey.)

“When I asked Crea about it, he replied, ‘I did what my uncle Italo taught me: Don’t ever take the lead at Murano; instead, hang onto a tight second place until you’ve worn him out.” (Literally, “cut his legs out from under him.”)

“The race was beautiful, the spectators applauded, and at the end the rowers all shook each other’s hands.”

If this had happened in the past few years (and memory reveals that it or something like it has), the anger pervading the world of racers and their fans would probably have forced Bruno and/or Franco to change his name and enter the Witness Protection Program.

The poppieri (men who row astern) gather round to draw lots for their position at the starting line. This could be one of the few moments overseen by judges which has never been criticized. Ten numbered billiard balls in a bag -- it's pretty hard to see how a judge could mess that up.

Testa continues: “All this [recent conflict] is the fruit of a 30-year effort on the part of the city to turn the races into a ‘sport,’ which it isn’t. Venetian racing has its roots in the Middle Ages, and [all these rules] are similar to what it would be like if the Palio of Siena, where the jockeys are all whipping each other, were to be conducted according to the rules of Ascot.

“For centuries the races have been carried forward only by their participants; today there are 45 articles in the regulations. But Venetian racing isn’t like crew, or English-style racing, where the boats are kept in lanes. Here it’s an open ‘field’ and contact is — or could be — part of the game.

“If the racers expected that, they’d be watching out and would be prepared to defend themselves, without appealing to judges who are apt to make mistakes because the line between cunning and error is so slight that it practically doesn’t exist.

“The great racers of the past were like this and the winner wasn’t only the strongest, but the more astute, the more heartless, the best. There were no recriminations, except maybe to yourself.

“The future commissioner the racers have requested to calm the world of racing would do well to keep that in mind.”

I certainly hope that the future commissioner, if such a person should materialize, will be able to do something useful. Meanwhile, winter is coming on, the season is over, the racers have reclaimed for personal enjoyment at least a few of the endless hours they spend training, and I am anticipating that, as so often happens after an exhilarating crisis of any sort here, oblivion will tiptoe into the room and pull the covers gently up under the collective chin and tiptoe out again, leaving only the soft sound of communal snoring broken by the occasional muttered oath.

“

Boatworld, Events, Venetian-ness, Water

Regata Storica, update du jour

October 11, 2010 No Comments

When last seen, Venetian rowing champions Giampaolo D’Este and his partner, Ivo Redolfi Tezzat, had delivered a document, at the start of the Regata di Burano on September 19, to the mayor and other appropriate officials.

The document protested their having been disqualified halfway through the Regata Storica for infractions of the regulations — including the ephemeral rules of “sportsmanship” — and called for the immediate removal of all the judges and the various committees who administer the realm of racing here.

Goodbye, cruel world. D'Este and Tezzat at Burano prepare to deliver their lightning bolt.

According to the offended parties, and their frenzied fans, something has clearly become so rotten in the entire organization of the races that the only solution is to tear out all the weeds, along with whatever healthy plants (they see none) may also happen to be in the garden, and start over. Presumably replanting the entire garden (to continue the metaphor) with people who are entirely, consistently, unassailably objective. The theory seems to be that anyone answering to this description will be sure to uphold justice, fair play, honesty, rectitude, and to act in their favor. If you know any such people, send their names along.

Their fans have also helped to keep the fire stoked under this cauldron of rage, and the latest contribution, by a so-far anonymous partisan, is the publication on YouTube of parts of some 11 minutes from the first half of the race on the official video of the race, complete with the sound track of the judges’ voices and caustic play-by-play comments printed (in Italian) by someone who makes it clear he is part of the D’Este-Tezzat column.

This video is made from the first judges’ boat during the race, and considering that it’s the property of the city, those who made it are more than a little irritated that it is now out on the web even if technically city property is also public property. In any case, things like this don’t help the general situation.

I do not contribute any comments on anything that was done or not done in the race. I may already have written that I am not taking sides; I don’t care who won. And yes, I am certainly on the side of justice and fair play. I am merely trying to give as complete a picture of the situation as I can.

The latest developments from the turmoil following the aforementioned dramatic denunciation have been two-fold.

First: Not only have D’Este and Tezzat not received any redress for past judicial misdeeds, they now have been formally disqualified from the next two races (the Regata di Mestre and the Regata de la Sensa), which obviously are in next year’s season. Of the seven races open to men of their caliber, this leaves them only five. This is a heavy sentence indeed; usually the Commission has to forbid only one race to make its point.

Naturally this decision has only shown, yet again, the treachery and incompetence of the entire system in the eyes of the plaintiffs. No more documents have been issued so far from the samizdat of the affronted duo.

The Commission has also disallowed the payment to them of the usual “indemnity for training”; in the Burano race it was 198.50 euros ($276.84). Admittedly it is a token sort of payment, a small addition to the equally modest purse allotted to each racer according to his order of finish. But this payment is contingent on the rowers participating in the race, so giving them the indemnity would make no sense at all.

Second: Two of the six men comprising the Technical Commission have resigned. For the record, they are Umberto Sichero and Osvaldo Zucchetta. If a third member, most likely a former champion named Bepi Fongher, follows suit (it is always unclear how his statements and actions are going to match up, though they often don’t come close to each other), the committee will terminate and the Comune will be able to start over (the Comune appoints four members, and the Racers’ Association chooses the other two). So losing half the committee would provide enough of an opening in what appears to be a severely bombarded and weakened wall of credibility and competence to allow some heretofore unfeasible innovations to enter the system.

What next? D’Este-Tezzat have announced that they are giving up racing. Only time will show whether they’re serious, or whether this is just another of those fervent vows racers tend to make under stress, like seamen in a typhoon.

One of many ex-votos promised by sailors in danger. Being saved is nice â€“ fulfilling your vow to publicly thank the Virgin Mary for intervening for you is even nicer. (Museo Storico Navale)

Food, History, Venetian-ness

Farewell to the soul of summer

October 1, 2010 4 Comments

Today I woke up to October, and while you can’t say we’re in the depths of autumn, I’m struggling to accept that summer is no more.

It’s not that fall is so bad — in fact, it has many excellent qualities — but there is one thing about it which I object to. No, it’s not the darkness creeping ever more deeply into the edges of the day, nor the descending temperatures, nor the having to dress with all those layers of clothing that make me feel like some mongrel foot-soldier preparing for battle — brigandine, puttees, Sherden helmet, gauntlets.

No, what I object to is the annual farewell to ice cream.

I know, it doesn’t actually die, it just sort of goes into hibernation. What dies is its natural habitat, which consists of heat, sun, and fatigue. Of course I could eat ice cream at Christmas, but much as I love it, I don’t see the point.

Little-known fact: Summer was actually invented by Italian gelato-makers. Until you’ve eaten gelato in the sweltering depths of an endless July afternoon here in the cradle of the Renaissance, you haven’t tasted it in all its extraordinary glory, its divine combination of flavor, texture, and temperature. It’s the coldness that takes it over the top, far beyond fudge, and I’m convinced that people who live with air conditioning eventually lose their capacity to completely perceive the exquisiteness of the sensation of that frigidity on the tongue. You have to have reached some tertiary level of heat prostration to really appreciate it. Sorry: No suffering, no redemption. No sprinkles.

Cones seem to have been invented by any number of enterprising people since the early 19th century. The division between cone people and cup people is deep and wide.

The great thing about ice cream here is that people regard it as food. More than food, something your body requires for survival in the summer the same way it requires, say, water. It’s not entertainment, it’s nutrition. Articles will appear (I love them) in which doctors and studies are cited praising its benefits to the human body. To hear them talk, you’d think you’d have to eat it even if you hated it.

“Eat gelato,” they say. “The summer weather demands it. Your body requires it. Have as much as you like, it can’t hurt you, it’s the only thing that can help. It’s crucial for everyone — babies, the bedridden, the new litter of puppies. It’s better for you than Omega-3 fish oil.” Well, they don’t say that, but if they did, I’d believe it.

Here’s an example: Somebody asked on a web forum how many calories are in a gelato that’s served in a cup. Note the clever way of putting the question so that it’s impossible to answer. But an intrepid reader didn’t hesitate: “Last week I heard a report on Tg2 [television station],” he replied, “that said that gelato has very few calories. I think they said 50 calories per cone.” No mention of how many scoops the cone contains, or even the dimensions of said cone. But 50 calories sounds about right to me.

Ice cream is a health food. You have to come to Italy to discover that fact.

One reason, among many, is its lower fat content compared with American ice cream. Another is the lavish use of fresh fruit in season. Either of those beneficial aspects can be annulled by adding whipped cream, of course. Not to mention that you can also get simple slabs of frozen cream. But your average gelato will not be the fat bomb that goes for premium prices back in the US and A.

The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) in the US stipulates that to be called “ice cream,” the product must contain no less than 10 percent butterfat. The average is 12 percent. Premium ice creams in the US can contain as much as 20 percent butterfat.

Italian gelato, on the other hand, contains 7-8 percent butterfat. Funny, I don’t miss that other four to 12 percent fat at all. It only means I can eat more of it.

There are a few gelaterie around Venice which in my opinion are worth re-routing your wanderings to visit. The one in the middle of via Galuppi on Burano, the one at the foot of the iron bridge on Murano. (They don’t have names, or I’d give them to you.) The gelateria San Giorgio right here on via Garibaldi.

Who could resist the image of rolling hills of ice cream stretching to the horizon?

I realize that opinions vary. I also realize that there are cultures in which red-bean flavor is more appealing than chocolate/orange fondente. But anyone knows great gelato when they taste it.

Here’s something you may not have known: March 24 is the European Day of Ice Cream. Surely this hasn’t been instituted to jolt people into thinking of ice cream. It must have been to jolt people, such as European Parliament members, into thinking about what new laws and special ordinances they can devise to help ice cream propagate more profusely everywhere.

So who is the patron saint of ice cream makers and/or eaters? There doesn’t seem to be one, but we could construct him or her out of the following pieces: Saint Lawrence (patron saint of candy makers), St. Martha (dieticians), Saint Honorius (bakers and sweets), and St. Brigid (dairy products). Also Saint Dolley Madison.

Thinking, thinking...Maybe it would be easier if there were a doctor behind them whispering how good for you it is.

But great ice cream seems not to depend on geography — in Italy, I mean. Not trying to award medals, but I’ve had great gelato all over the map. There was that little storefront in Torino, and Vivoli in Florence, not to mention San Crispino in Rome. One of the most dazzling frozen treats I’ve ever eaten was served at lunch at a club in Naples. It was a watermelon sorbetto, deep red and with a rich fruity flavor, studded with small chips of bittersweet dark chocolate masquerading as the seeds. Technically not gelato, but unforgettable. And cold.

I suppose the very best ever — why try to categorize? It’s ridiculous — was in a small shop run by an old man in a hillside village up behind Trapani, in Sicily. There were only a few flavors; I tried the “cassata,” but it was only a million times better than normal cassata. The flavor, the texture, the exceptionally perfect level of cold, it all came together into something I am convinced that they eat in heaven.

Somewhere in Venice is a stone cone with four scoops of stone ice cream made just for him. He's been ready for about 400 years.

I’ve had celestial gelato in the usual flavors (strange, in the homeland of espresso I have yet to find a coffee ice cream that means it). And I’ve also had some of the unusual flavors: honey, rose, pomegranate, walnut and fig, pumpkin, carrot and celery (surprisingly good — think carrot cake). Also apple and ginger. Ice-cream makers, like artists anywhere, are on some kind of continual quest.

A few years ago, an Italian legislator got his name in the paper because of his complaint about the deplorable quality of the ice cream served in the Parliament cafeteria. Does this tell us more about the quality of the ice cream, or of the public servant to whom it was served? Yet complaining about inferior gelato, at least in the summer, doesn’t seem totally crazy. And you can’t expect him to be complaining about funding for public schools in August. Nobody would care.

Where in the USA do they eat the most ice cream? It isn’t Mesa, Arizona. It’s Alaska. I don’t understand that. It must be the alimentary equivalent of Stockholm syndrome. That, or each Alaskan eats 200 gallons of it between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

More minutiae: In 2007, the USA led the world in ice cream production, yet New Zealand was the country that led the world in ice cream consumption. Italy is merely sixth. More ice cream is eaten in Sweden and Finland than in Italy. There it is again: The colder the country, the colder the food? Bizarre. Unless they’re eating aquavit-flavored gelato. That could work.

So where do gelato makers go in the winter? The jungles of Costa Rica, or perhaps the Okavango Delta of Botswana? I can see them there, up in the trees, sitting on tiny eggs soon to hatch new gelato makers. Don’t laugh, there are more here every year.

I’m going to miss it, though. Prometheus brought fire to humans, but I want to meet the person who brought gelato.

She's either musing on how transitory are earth's pleasures and how little time we're given to enjoy them, or she's still wondering if she should have gotten the rum raisin instead. — She's either musing on how fleeting are earth's pleasures and how little time we mortals are given to enjoy them, or she's still wondering if she should have gotten the rum raisin instead.