Standing and watching water running free was something out of the ordinary, mainly because it wasn’t acqua alta. Also, this water wasn’t coming up through the drainpipe, therefore it could easily flow away. But I admit I felt sorry for whoever’s plumbing was supplied by the rogue pipe. No brushing teeth or flushing till this gets straightened out. And eventually all these gallons will probably appear on lots of people’s water bills. If one such resident was away during this event, I can imagine him/her opening the bill and asking, “Honey, did we float a battleship last month? Did we buy a rice plantation?”
No, we don’t have bikini-clad babes rocking in-line skates zooming up and down via Garibaldi — yet — but one evening a while back we definitely had the beach.
Strolling up the street, we noticed an animated group forming. It was composed of people of various sizes and they were looking at something, and talking to each other about it, and looking some more.
A pool of water was forming at the juncture between two stretches of pavement, stretches which were not on the same plane, hence the pool. And we could see water flowing toward the pool from an undiscernible source.
That’s a fancy way of saying: What? Where?
The “what” is a trick question — it was obviously a burst water pipe. But the “where” was beginning to concern everybody.
And there was also the “who,” as in: Who’s going to come find the lair of this rampaging beast and vanquish it?
There wasn’t any “why?,” though. Considering that most of Venice is held together with flour paste and baling wire, bits of the city breaking, separating, subsiding, or otherwise deteriorating does not, in itself, inspire surprise. So the fact that a pipe had burst appeared to arouse reactions no more urgent than “Gosh, wouldja look at that,” or “It could have been worse.” Why does that thought never comfort me?
So: A city falling to bits and water passing through pipes. So far, so not-worthy-of-wonder. Water would be the easiest thing to imagine issuing from a water pipe.
The man in the fluorescent chartreuse jacket has brought his equipment and is heading upstream to find the source of this little rill. And beach.
What surprised me was the sand. Unlike the Lido, most of Venice isn’t built on sand dunes. It’s built on mud, clay, or other forms of soil not containing a high percentage of silica.
But the silica is here now, because — as a fireman friend explained it to me — as pipes were laid over time, snaking around under those tough trachyte paving stones, the workers noted that the softer the soil, the easier it was to open up the street and work on the pipes, as needed. So over time the soil they replaced when the work was finished was more friable, more granular, just generally softer.
This is the main reason why the paving stones are now so apt to subside, especially near the fondamentas where the pounding of the waves caused by thousands of motorboats a day (not made up) pulls this now more fragile material out from under the stones and out to sea.
Help came in a relatively short time, the break was located, the water ceased to flow, the sand no longer swam out from the underworld into the light — artificial,true, but light just the same. Next day, the traces were hardly noticeable.
But now I know there’s all that sand just under the stones, more than I had suspected. This doesn’t bode well for anybody, except for babes in bikinis. And the maintenance men, naturally, for whose sakes Venice is now even more fragile than before.
I thought the sand was strangely beautiful, once I got over my surprise. They look like rare fossils from an unidentified lost epoch in the world’s history.
While everyone else is carbo-loading with frittelle and galani, Lino has taken our modest domestic feedbin in another direction: the classic-Venetian-fish-dishes direction. If you stay on that road, it won’t be long before you find yourself in the suburbs of heaven.
These specialties have no relation to Carnival — it’s mere happenstance that we’ve eaten them now, in the interval in which everything is famously permitted, including frying in lard. (Not made up; our butcher at the Rialto was selling plastic bags of white, waxy-looking rendered pig fat which makes pastry the food of the freaking gods).
Let’s proceed in non-alphabetical order. First, the schie.
A schia is the gray creature. The pink cousin is some other kind of shrimp. They’re both good, but only one of them is, in fact, a schia. The pink shrimplet was unaccountably lurking amid his grey-hued relations. Possibly a case of a doomed infatuation which impelled him to follow his beloved into the fisherman’s net, then when he found himself buried among a thousand others just like her, he couldn’t find her again. Except maybe — could it be? — on my plate.
Schie (SKEE-eh) (Crangon crangon) are a variety of tiny gray shrimp found in the lagoon and elsewhere. They were once a reliable standby of people who were tending toward poor, such as lagoon fishermen, or large families on small budgets, which is redundant.
Lately, though, its distant relations, or even impostors, have begun to show up in restaurants and bars.
A noticeable number of trattorias, keen to entice tourists with traditional dishes, have begun to offer what they call polenta with schie. They correctly promote it as a great Venetian specialty, and if you mention this combination to older Venetians, at least some will respond with an appreciative “Ie, ie, ie, polenta co le schie” (EE-yeh, EE-yeh, poenta co eh skee-eh). This is the kind of phrase that they must have found entertaining when they were children. It’s a tasty combination, and filling, and cheap, or at least it was once. The perfect makings of a classic.
Now that the price of schie can go up to 40 euros per kilo at the Rialto market ($27 per pound), regular people — like us — don’t buy it anymore, and tourists eating out aren’t likely to know that what purports to be polenta and schie is only an approximation of the aforementioned dish.
This is what you would usually get in a restaurant as “polenta and schie,” and it is billed as such even on www.passionegourmet.it. You could eat this every day for a year in Venice and that still wouldn’t make it Venetian. While it’s no surprise by now to see this polentaoid material and the so-called schie, the pool of olive oil is an innovation that I’ve never had to face, thank God.When Lino was a boy, his mother bought olive oil by the ounce; that is to say, it was hardly the fluid we lavish so freely today. And anyway, if you crave fat, polenta goes better with butter (see below).
Nowadays what the cook usually presents as polenta is infant’s gruel, a wide soft expanse of a golden substance I think of as Cream of Polenta. Real Venetian polenta (always yellow, never white — white is what they eat in the islands, or Pellestrina, or Chioggia, or Cape Town or Vladivostok) is firm, almost solid, and is to be eaten in slabs. Or at least in hefty chunks.
As for the schie, the little shrimpy morsels strewn atop the yellow mush in the restaurants are virtually always pink shrimp, perhaps from far away, who almost certainly have broken their journey in a freezer somewhere.
But the other day, on our way home, we passed Nardo, the local fisherman, and he offered us a half-kilo bag of schie for a paltry 10 euros ($13). Lino pounced. And cooked. And then we ate.
Here is the old Venetian way of cooking (and eating) these critters, as performed by Lino, who alone, pretty much, of all his race still has the patience and desire to put in the time and effort to prepare them. Note: The time involved in preparing schie isn’t noticeably great, but the other recipes require practically a solemn vow that you’ll persevere to the end.
SCHIE:
Rinse them.
Put them in a saucepan, fill with cold water, and some salt.
Bring to a boil.
Meanwhile, take something made of metal — we sacrificed an old stainless steel dinner knife — and pass it through the gas flame till it’s red-hot.
When foam covers the surface of the water in the pan, turn off the gas (fire, heat) and plunge the redhot knife into the schie-laden water and swirl it around. I have yet to discover the reason for this, but just do it. It will make you feel like Siegfried wielding the Wotan sword.
Pour the cooked schie into the pasta colander to drain off the boiling water.
In a bowl, pour some extravirgin olive oil, lots of sliced garlic, some pepper, and a tiny bit of salt.
Put the drained schie in the bowl with the oil and garlic, mix thoroughly, and eat.
Aha: Eating them. You can’t be in a hurry. If you have to catch a train, forget eating schie because you have to shell every dratted little one, one by one, and it’s nothing like shelling big brawny Atlantic prawns. It’s like picking bits of white mohair fluff off your navy-blue wool peacoat. Lino seems to regard it more as entertainment than nourishment. I regard it as just another great excuse to eat oil and garlic.
This would be your lunch project. Remove the head, remove the shell, and eat its contents, which are roughly as big as a large kernel of corn. If you chew it twice, you’re probably trying too hard.This is what a plate of real polenta and schie looks like, immortalized by www.venezia.blogolandia.it. My hat is off to them. We didn’t make polenta the other day, otherwise this would have been a picture by me.The process is simple. You grasp the head and the tail. What you want is between them.You pull off the head (on the right of the picture) and suck it to remove whatever tidbit might have remained inside. ((I have spared you an image of this step.) Then, if you are Lino, you squeeze gently from the tail toward the center, pushing the little body of the schia out of its shell, where you can easily pop it into your mouth. I tried this clever maneuver about ten times but it never worked for me. Plan B: Just open the center of the creature’s shell like any other shrimp.And what you have at the end is a plate of little gray shrimp-shells. And a bowl of oil and garlic just waiting for you to take a slice of polenta and dip it in, trying not to let the oil run down your forearm. It’s pretty darn good. Ie, ie, ie, as the saying goes.
GRANSEOLA:
The European spider crab (Maja squinado) is a regular at tables in better restaurants, mainly as a toothsome antipasto, for a fairly toothsome price. Up the street, one menu offers this delicacy for 18 euros ($25) per person.
I like crab well enough, though I can’t say that my wildest dreams are dominated by crustaceans of the class Malacostrara. Then again, I’d never turn one down.
When we discovered some bouncing bonny crabs at the Rialto for 4 euros per kilo ($2.50 per pound), it seemed ridiculous to forego a few — even more ridiculous than paying 18 euros to eat one. Especially as Lino, as noted above, regards dismantling dwellers of the abyss as one of the few genuinely amusing activities around.
It takes about an hour to tease all the edible bits out of this animal; I think it’s something like meditation for him. We’ve never gotten around to acquiring fancy tools for this work. He uses a small screwdriver. I use a pocket-size dental pick. We sit there at the table together, surrounded by chips and splinters of crabshell, peering through glasses on noses, going pickpick scrapescrape and discussing subjects more disjointed than our little spiny victims.
We divided the spoils into two parts. We ate one half of the pulp arranged artfully in its shell just as they do in the restaurants, with a little pepper, olive oil and lemon.
The other half was transformed into an exceptional pasta sauce, composed of some saute’d onion, one tiny chili pepper, some tomato sauce, and half a glass of white wine.
A matched pair, one male, one female. I picked the one with the monster claws because it would be easier to get the meat out — I’d never seen one with arms like Popeye.This was most of the meat from the female. The red pieces are called “corallo,” for fairly obvious reasons, and are the roe. They have a pleasant texture and virtually no flavor. I sometimes feel bad about eating not only the mother, but all her offspring, but I usually manage to shut my mind to what I’m doing.
FRITTELLE DI BACCALA‘:
I have never seen this on any restaurant menu but it is often sold in bars as bacala’ impana’, or breaded fried baccala’. In the old days this substantial snack used to be baccala’, but considering that as the price and effort involved in preparing baccala’ is inversely proportional to the number of customers who would know what breaded baccala’ actually tastes like, the fish is often something else. Plaice is a common substitute. Hey: It’s white, it’s fish, it’s fried — what’s not to like? Nothing, unless you’re the type of person — such as your correspondent — who is also irked by men who row sandolos and offer their services by calling out “Gondola gondola,” or selling botoli and calling them castraure.
How would you know if it’s baccala’? Well, because the odds are almost 100% that it won’t be. But for the record, my experience is that the giveaway isn’t the taste, because by the time it reaches the being-fried stage, the sharpest edges of its particular flavor have been worn away, as explained below.
But you can’t fake the texture. Plaice is tender and ingratiating, a mere whiff of white fish flesh. Baccala’, no matter how much you may soak or boil it, will always retain its sturdy Arctic character: chewy, slightly resistent, giving your teeth a little work to do, even though you will swallow it knowing you couldn’t completely soften it before sending it to its fate. It’s like certain cuts of inexpensive meat: You just decide when you’ve chewed enough and down it goes.
To make any dish involving baccala’, you start with a dried, shrink-wrapped carcass. You can buy it already soaked and ready to cook, but it costs more, obviously.
Although it’s stiff as a board, there is still skin and bone to deal with. Between them is the flesh, which you need to return to its native element (salted water) to cause it to expand. It’s not unlike those weird compressed sponges, except that it tastes better. And is more nutritious.
I warn you that baccala’ soaking emits an alarming smell. You may be appalled, which is understandable the first time. I just don’t want you to be surprised. You can cover the pan and put it in the oven, as we do, or otherwise enclose and conceal it. Don’t worry that the fish you finally eat will smell like that; when you pour off the water, the odor disappears.
HOW TO PREPARE A DRIED BACCALA’ FOR COOKING:
Ingredients: Baccala’, water, salt, a capacious pan, and at least three days.
Put baccala’ in capacious pan, cover with water.
Change water every 6 hours for 3 days.
Day #3:
Change water. add a little salt, and bring to a boil. Boil for 40 minutes.
Remove from water and set it out to cool.
When it reaches room temperature, cut it open like a book.
Remove all the bones and the skin, pull off the pulp into pieces however they come off.
HOW TO PREPARE THE FRITTELLE:
Batter:
Put flour in bowl.
Place 10 grams of yeast in a glass with tepid water, mix gently.
Pour the water with yeast into the flour, mix.
Add some salt and pepper.
Form frittelle:
Put the pieces of baccala in the batter.
Cover with dishtowel and leave in a tepid environment for one hour.
Fry:
Pour enough olive oil in pan for deep frying.
Heat the oil– take a toothpick and put it in the oil, and if tiny bubbles form around it, the oil is ready.
With a spoon, remove pieces of baccala from the batter (however they come; they don’t have to come out one by one).
Put in hot oil, fry till golden.
Place on paper towels to drain.
Best eaten hot, but they’re not bad the next day if you leave them out at room temperature.
This is what you’ve been working to achieve: lumpy, misshapen gobbets of hot fried fish. Not much like the polite, well-bred squares they sell in bars, either to look at or to taste. Only about a squillion times better.
If you have been farseeing and clever, you will have put aside at least some of that soaked baccala’ pulp, so now you can make another gastronomic wonder known in Venetian as bacala’ in tecia (bahk-ah-LA in TEH-cha). A tecia is a saucepan (“pentola” in Italian).
And if, for some reason, you didn’t see fit to make polenta to eat with the schie, this would be an excellent moment to stir up a cauldron. There is an instant version, but please don’t tell Lino if you decide to use it. He makes the time-honored version that requires 40 minutes of frequent stirring.
BACALA’ IN TECIA:
Take 3 sardines that have been kept in salt, rinse and bone them.
Take 10 capers that have been kept in salt, rinse.
Take the pieces of fish, in whatever size or form they may be.
In saucepan, saute’ some chopped onions in extravirgin olive oil.
Add the baccala’ to the oil and onions.
Add the boned, rinsed sardines.
Add the rinsed capers.
Add tomato sauce and water.
Slowly simmer till done. If necessary, add more water to continue simmering.
Bacala’ in tecia with a fragment of polenta. The fragment is the survivor of an onslaught some minutes earlier; see below.
BONUS DELICACY:
To me, this is the apotheosis of polenta, what it looks like when it reaches the empyrean. Fresh polenta (hot), a chunk of butter in a little crater, and grated fresh parmesan cheese. Lino has always eaten this, so to me that qualifies it as a classic, though you’d never see this in public. You cut off a piece of polenta, dab it in the expanding pool of melted butter, dab it into the pile of grated cheese, and eat. Three shades of yellow, a million shades of good.Not meaning to brag, but one reason the above constellation of flavors is so delectable is because we have butter from an Alpine dairy brought to us by a friend. It doesn’t make you sing “Edelweiss,” though it’s a very nice design all the same.
Carnival has become one of my least favorite things about Venice, because each year its negative aspects increasingly outweigh the positive.
I am referring to the Mega-Commercial-Highly-Promoted Carnival whose vortex is the Piazza San Marco. But Carnival in its small, neighborhood version continues to charm me, mainly because it almost exclusively involves children (the smaller, the better) and their doting relatives. Random frolicking. Dressing up for no reason (by which I mean, not the reason of being photographed to, for, by, or with anyone, particularly tourists). Throwing fistfuls of confetti anywhere.
I don’t need to look at the calendar to know that Carnival has, as of today, officially begun. For the past few days the signs have been unmistakable.
Here are a few:
This pastry shop/cafe produces wonderful Carnival sweets (galani and frittelle, in case you’re wondering), even though they are overpriced. But I do like the way the words are composed, as if someone was more accustomed to composing anonymous ransom notes using cutout newspaper letters.There have been indiscriminate explosions of confetti, increasing in quantity and range, for a few days now. The perpetrators are invisible.Climbing the stairs to visit a friend two days ago, I discovered this mysterious harbinger of Carnival: The princess costume. Just add princess and throw confetti.
The newspaper hasn’t reported anything further about when Mahtab Ahad Savoji’s remains will be released so that her aunt can take her home. Evidently she’s still in the morgue.
It has reported, however, that the “atypical strangulation” was caused by a forearm; the most likely scenario for this type of injury, according to the coroner, was that she would have been seized from behind and the assailant’s forearm squeezed against her neck.
Alcohol was found in her blood, though not at the extreme level described by her roommates. Her blood alcohol level was reported at “twice the legal limit,” which here would mean it was 0.10%. This level could result from her having drunk a bottle of wine, or five shots of whiskey, over the course of four hours, though if she was killed at 2:00 PM it’s unlikely she began drinking at 10:00 AM. Even though this is Italy, where some people start their engines before dawn, it doesn’t match the personality described by her family and friends.
Still, if I were living with Rajeshwar and Gagandeep, a couple of shots might have been just what I needed.
I can’t think about this anymore, so I will close withتسلیت می گویم یا تسلیت مرا بپذیرید. My condolences.
