I am working on a longer post — several, in fact — but meanwhile nibble these few morsels.
This is the apotheosis of Easter eggs in Venice, everything displayed in the glorious window of Drogheria Mascari at the Rialto Market. Most smaller pastry and chocolate shops offer some variety of eggs, as do all the supermarkets. Size, variety, glamor (cost, too, of course) all come into play when you’re deciding on the essence of Easter delectation. The price also reflects, to a certain extent, the value of the little doodad hidden inside. Did I mention they’re hollow? They are. Busting them open, shards of chocolate flying across the table, livens up the post-lunch torpor.This year our intrepid neighborhood pastry wizard underwent some important experience. A challenge? A request from somebody’s grandchild? A way of telling the public he just isn’t going to be forced to spend his remaining years turning out mere eggs or bells or any other chocolate cliche’? Behold the chocolate rat! I suppose he could have done an ascending dove, or a gamboling lamb, or a hundred little marzipan chicks, if he’d wanted to stretch his skills. But I clearly have underestimated this man, whom I have seen smile exactly once over the past 20 years. Stand by for news from the Melita pastry shop, where something epochal is underway. (Notice the horizontal line dividing the egg into equal halves. That’s the seam by which the egg is closed around the “surprises,” or tiny gifts, inside the oval.)The sheet of chocolate supporting the creature deserves admiration, though I can’t conjure a reason for the little silver nubbins. I honestly thought it was a beaver, at first glance. The Easter Beaver would be an animal that deserves more consideration, in my view. But a rat is also good. For Venice, maybe even better.This is the menu outside the Ristorante Giorgione on via Garibaldi. The prices are toward the high end — not excessive, but not bargains, either. It would appear, though, that no money was allocated in the budget for the display menu. I have never seen a menu in this condition. Unless it was created for the Biennale, thereby qualifying itself as a work of art, I have no idea how something like this could ever have been (A) made and (B) displayed and (C) displayed every single day. If there were any way one could bring to the owner’s attention how exceptionally bizarre this creation is, I might try it. But the owner obviously thinks this is fine.
Nothing to do with food, but this glimpse touches the same nerve as the Giorgione menu, along with everything else that just somehow doesn’t work for me. My brain says, “They needed a window, they made a window, everybody’s happy.” My eye says “Noooooo…”. The new resident above the former Negozio di Legnami (lumber store) didn’t bother removing its lovely frescoed sign. That would have cost money. Just slice out what you don’t need and on we go. Sharp-eyed readers will realize that this isn’t in Venice; we came upon it in Bassano del Grappa, a lovely town a mere hour away that I highly recommend.
Oh look — it’s peaceful coexistence. So it’s not a myth?Me here, you there — sure, we can do this.I like some fashion with my flounder. The passera di mare (Platichthys flesus), or European flounder, used to throng the lagoon. At some point the gilthead bream got the upper hand, and you hardly see this fish anymore. I’m glad the survivors still have style.
A new day, a new sign, and some new decrees. Thanks to the bright sparks who refuse to be controlled, we woke up this morning to even more stringent regulations. First it was wearing masks when going into a store, maintaining one meter of distance between individuals. Then it was masks and gloves (as you recall) when entering a shop, and one meter of personal distance. As of today, masks and gloves are required of anyone/everyone leaving their house, no matter where they’re going or what they want to do when they get there. Personal distancing is now two meters, so only three people at a time instead of four are allowed inside the faithful detergent/cosmetics store. It’s not that any of these requirements is so burdensome, but it’s kind of tedious to have them imposed because some people just can’t be bothered with any of them.
Despite a number of extreme measures imposed by the national government on the verge of the Easter holiday weekend (Saturday, Sunday, Monday), there are still people who just can’t be reined in.
The decree as of Friday was that nobody was permitted to leave their primary residence. Keywords: “Nobody,” “leave,” “primary residence.” These simple words can’t find any space in many brains because those spaces are occupied by “fun,” and “holiday,” and “break the monotony.” Knowing this, the various order-keeping forces of the Veneto (and I assume elsewhere) fielded regiments of supplementary officers, stationing them at checkpoints on the main roads leading from towns toward the mountains and the beaches. Even if you were heading five minutes across town to your extra dwelling/apartment/lair, you would get fined and sent back to your primary residence. And that fine has no connection with what you might get for perhaps not driving with a mask and gloves, or if you were driving more than one passenger, and that one passenger wasn’t sitting, as per the law, in the rear seat on the opposite side from the driver.
You see? This is how we got from the Ten Commandments to the entire books of Numbers, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy — a simple concept has to become endlessly complicated because people just don’t want to hear it.
Either the Coop was completely denuded by closing time Saturday night, or they’re expecting extreme demand this morning. In any case, the bulwark of boxes containing supplies is a little unnerving. And as you see, it’s not over yet.I think I’ll just break somebody’s heart showing this block of toilet paper: Each package contains four mega-rolls.
Anyway, back to the creative cheaters. A few days ago (every day ago seems like a week ago), a man was stopped by the police in Mestre, inquiring as to his reason for being out walking around the streets.
“I’m going to work,” he replied. This is good, because it’s one of the few reasons you’re allowed to be out. And what work is that? was the natural response from the police.
“I deal drugs,” he replied.
Over the three-day holiday weekend, the scofflaws had a ball. In and around Venice the majority of residents stayed inside, or close by; only 323 people were fined for infractions such as walking on the beach. But elsewhere in Italy, things were humming along to the tune of 13,756 citizens or commercial activities being fined for illegally doing something. Or anything.
On Monday (“Pasquetta”), a member of Parliament was stopped on the road going from Rome to Ostia (a/k/a the beach). When asked where she was going, and why, she replied, “I’m a member of Parliament and I’m working.” Because the police couldn’t establish a rational connection between Parliament and Beach on a holiday, she went home with a fine. Which of course she is going to contest, because something. Injustice, oppression, experts guilty of conflicts of interest, the destruction of the national economy under the excuse of the epidemic, and the danger of vaccines (none of this is made up).
A policeman in Torino stopped a man driving somewhere to inquire where he was going, and the man replied, “I’m going to make love to a friend.” The driver got a 533-euro fine, but the policeman is now under disciplinary action for having put the video (probably via bodycam) on social media. The friend is still waiting.
Yes, there were parties — the by-now usual rooftop barbecues with loud music, easy to detect by the patrolling police helicopters. (In one city, one reveler actually shot at the helicopter.) In Lodi, a young man who knew he was positive for the virus invited five friends over to his house. Naturally they’ve all been fined; I’m still mulling over their concept of “friend.”
Then we move to the grassy embankment of the little river Piovego, near Padova. On Easter Sunday afternoon, a young man was sitting on one of the steps leading down to the water. Alone. Therefore sad. It’s wrong to be outside but he has an excellent reason, which he explained to the policemen (Guardia di Finanza, for the record).
It was on these steps that he had met his girlfriend; where they shared their first kiss; where they had spent such lovely times together. But the separation imposed by the quarantine had somehow led her to break up with him. And so, eyes filled with tears (I am not being sarcastic, I am reporting from the newspaper), he decided to return there to seek inspiration for a poem, a poem that would somehow win her back.
The officers recognized his predicament and were — as far as possible for someone in uniform — completely in sympathy with his plight. They felt for him, even as they were writing out the ticket. And so the young man was sent home, without his girlfriend, without his poem, and also without some 300 euros.
They’re only hints, mind you, but they brighten my outlook considerably.
You might not notice them if you weren’t looking for them, but I was. Violets are one of the earliest, rashest signs of spring. They ask no questions about long-term commitment from the first rays of warmth, they just bloom.Leaves on the trees at Sant’ Elena are equally irrepressible, thank heaven.At this fleeting stage they seem more like flowers than leaves, though of course I know that’s totally wrong, botanically speaking. But they aren’t going to be outdone by any mere blossoms.Peach blossoms. They’re not from around here, but they are just as dependable a sign of primavera as some of the fish in the nearby market.Ditto the pussy willows (Salix cinerea). The silvery sheath on each bud is at least as beautiful as sterling. When they bloom, these flowers — which don’t even look like flowers — are rock-star providers of nectar. And to think I always treated them as a curiosity that was just fun to play with.An old German card shows the pussy-willow tradition at Easter and/or Palm Sunday in northern and eastern Europe, as well as Ukraine, Russia, and among the Ruthenian and Kashubian Catholics (I just threw that in.) Here in the sunny Mediterranean the pussy willows are long gone by Easter, but it’s a lovely thought.This year the ever-faithful and -predictable forsythia has just been replaced in my pantheon by this bewitching shrub at the entrance to the Morosini Naval School. Its perfume captured me before I had even noticed its flowers.If any reader can identify this marvel, I’d be grateful. Otherwise I’m just going to have to invent a name for it myself, and it will probably be a long one, like a champion dog. (The pink buds are just on their way to opening into cream-colored flowers, a magical moment which will undoubtedly occur tonight when nobody’s looking.)I imagine it happening not long after sunset, which shades into night much too quickly. Tomorrow will almost certainly reveal some new wonder.
In my last communique, Easter was tapping on the windows asking to be let in.
Now it has passed, leaving the usual signs — peace, joy, and crumbs. I have the feeling that the crumbs are going to last the longest.
The dove traditionally represents the Holy Spirit. Its edible version contains candied peel but no raisins, for which I find no Biblical explanation, but it works just fine. Naturally it would be best if it were all crust.
There are crumbs of a colomba, the Easter dove, the traditional spring stand-in for the Christmas panettone, in the general form of a bird and covered with almonds and bits of pearl sugar. Crumbs of the hollow chocolate Easter egg strewn among shards of its busted hulk, crumbs of a small chocolate-covered cake in the form of a bunny, with a fragment of an ear. There is still a small bin of chocolate eggs, and another whole colomba in the form of a flower frosted in pink. But you know what? I’m sugared out.
The best thing I’ve eaten since last Sunday’s feast of roast lamb and assorted sugar-bombs was set on the table last night — bought, transported, and prepared by the indefatigable Lino.
First, we had seppie in their ink, which we’d bought just-caught from the fisherman that morning, and which had passed the afternoon simmering in their black essence. We sploshed around in it with chunks of polenta, the old-fashioned kind Lino likes to make in his mother’s copper cauldron — it requires 40 minutes of almost constant stirring. These two items alone would have satisfied most mortals.
Mr. Finotello senior working in the artichoke bed. Some of his plants have just begun to evince their very first flower, a "castraura." You did know that artichokes are flowers, yes?There it is, just one per plant.
But best of all, we had something I had always heard of but never tasted: castraure (kahs-tra-OOR-eh). These are tiny artichokes, in this case being of the violetto di Sant’ Erasmo breed, but they are more than that: They are the very first artichoke, cut from the plant in order to allow its fellow ‘chokes to prosper.
You’d be right in guessing that “castraura” has something to do with castration. Linguistically, it does. Physiologically, it makes no sense, but let us not dwell on the details.
My impression is that they have become something of a minor culinary myth, in the sense of being apotheosized to the point where to meet the demand (or to justify the price), there are more castraure offered in the Rialto Market than the last reported total number of pieces of the True Cross. For there to be that many castraure, even assuming most of them come from hothouses all over Italy and not simply from local fields, there could scarcely be enough land left to grow a bouquet of begonias.
This is a sight that trumpets "spring" more melodiously than even the currently rampant wisteria. Which may also be good to eat, but I prefer these.
Castraure are small, as you might expect, but so are its subsequent siblings, which are called botoli (BAW-toh-lee). As far as I can tell, there’s no way to tell them apart, just by looking at them. If you have the chance, then, go buy them from the farmer, like Lino did. He saw the little morsels cut from the plant just for him, so no debates about their provenance.
You can eat them grilled, or saute’d in garlic and oil, or raw, sliced paper-thin with oil and salt and vinegar. Or raw, whole. Just make sure there isn’t any wildlife running around among the leaves. Trivia alert: Technically, they’re not leaves, and they’re not petals, either. They’re bracts. It’s a word which won’t get you very far in the kitchen, but at least now you know.
Or you can eat them breaded and fried, which is what Lino did. I’m not a huge fan of frying, since there seem to be more than 8,000 ways to do it wrong and only one way to do it right. Also, frying seems to blunt or distort the flavor of the object fried. But there was no bluntage last night.
Our little castraure were tender enough to eat whole, stem included, and best of all, they were bitter. It’s a purposeful flavor, stronger and more complex than the everyday artichokes I already love. Certainly stronger than the later-blooming botoli. If you don’t like bitter flavors, whether simple or complex, you should abandon your dream of the castraure because they will not compromise or ingratiate themselves, not even for you.
I admire that in a plant.
A few castraure. There was a crowd of confused ants concealed in the blossoms, running around saying "So this is Venice? Gosh, we thought it would be more Gothic or something."
