I went to Venice for three days to see my sister Bianca and her family, who live in Tokyo and were in Italy for a wedding. I also wanted to eat my head off.
For years, my favorite part of going anywhere has been deciding where to eat. My IG is basically a food account with the odd fashion show (Chanel). A comped dinner? Lovely. A 9:45 p.m. table by the toilets on my own dime? Also lovely. Either way, I’ll have read the menu by breakfast. By dinner, I’ll be asking my boyfriend Will what he’s having so I can order something else and eat his anyway. Somehow, this is the first time I’ve written about it.
Day 1: 40 yolks and boat
We stayed at the JW Marriott Venice on Isola delle Rose, the hotel’s private island. We had a heated plunge pool, which I admired in the abstract given the November weather. Taking a boat to dinner was terribly chic. Less chic was doing the arithmetic on whether a slice of cheesecake was worth another hour on land.
Lunch at Sagra, up on the hotel roof, started with octopus that was a little tough. The sweet pumpkin did a good job of taking the edge off the ’nduja. Will loved the pop of pomegranate on his raw prawn carpaccio. I let him have the lot. My recent history with raw seafood (don’t) has made me a very generous dining companion!
The marrow agnolotti were properly beefy, with saffron and aged Grana Padano. Then came the 40-yolk tagliolini. The fine strands went slack in the mountain butter, and the smell of freshly shaven black truffle reached me before the fork did. The Orto di Venezia, a white from Sant’Erasmo, had enough body for the butter and a salty finish that made me want another sip. Ughhhh bellissima.
For dinner at Hostaria Osottoosopra we ordered carbonara. Yes, I know it’s Roman. The sauce was creamy but under seasoned, which became especially apparent after I ate all the guanciale off the top. I assumed there’d be more underneath. Babe, there was none. The 8-hour beef cheek came in three collapsing chunks on three dollops of mash. I wanted a single heap so I could ration the gravy myself. The cheesecake tasted like something from a Tesco meal deal. Our waiter also bullied us into a bottle of red instead of the white we wanted. Pass.
Day 2: I refuse to eat outside (eats outside)
By lunch the next day, we were six. Bianca, her husband Hidé, and their kids, Aira and Tai, came straight from Tuscany to meet us at Regina Sconta, a chic little spot on Calle de la Regina. The baby octopus came crisp, the steak was gloriously rare, and the potatoes could’ve done with longer in the oven. The lobster paccheri looked promising, with great big pieces of meat, but the flavor was fishier than I wanted (sorry). The vongole tasted of the sea in the way I’d wanted the lobster to. Unfortunately, the five-year-old and the two-year-old also have taste—I had to share. I blame their time in Bangkok and Tokyo for their annoyingly good palates. As for the truffle spaghetti, by then I’d eaten enough truffle to know that what I really wanted was yesterday’s butter. We queued for gelato at Suso. Ridiculously creamy, absolutely worth the wait.
That evening we walked out of REDACTED after the maître d’ tried to seat us outside, even though we’d booked indoors. Fucker. Then we went to Ristorante Al Giardinetto da Severino and ended up eating outside in the cold anyway. Gorj! My duck ragu busiate was hard and cold, and the sea bass was a little overdone under an avalanche of capers and olives. Will’s carbonara was fine. The penne carbonara we ordered to the room later was genuinely delicious. I could’ve been in pajamas the whole time.
Day 3: The prawn can keep its coat on
By day three we’d developed a worrying confidence about walking out of restaurants. All it took this time was a table in what looked like a storeroom. That’s how the six of us ended up at Osteria da Pampo in Sant’Elena, where it was noon and the tables around us were already on Aperol spritzes. Twist my arm!
The kids loved the beer-marinated pork neck, which came with sautéed chicory and a broad bean purée. I loved the fritto misto, particularly the prawn whose shell was so crisp I ate it whole. The courgettes were worth fishing for, too. The best thing I ate in Venice was the spaghetti alla busara. The tomato sauce had enough chili to keep the sweetness of the prawns in check, and the spaghetti still had bite. I kept taking another forkful under the pretense of tidying the serving dish. The cuttlefish spaghetti was gorgeous, too. The gnocchi with white ragù and Asiago was so rich that we couldn’t finish it.
We took a detour for a decent ricotta, pistachio, and chocolate cannoli at Pasticceria Tonolo and somehow came away with three pairs of matching furlane Mary Janes from Piedàterre. Aira already understands that if the fab shoe fits, you buy it. Once we’d said our goodbyes, Will and I went for cocktails under the painted ceiling at Nolinski Venezia’s Library Bar. So beautiful, but €100 for four drinks was a little steep. Afterwards, we went straight to the American Snack Bar for a sad-looking but actually terrific hot dog, just to feel something.
For our last dinner we’d booked Ai Mercanti, a little courtyard restaurant in the Michelin Guide. The beef tongue was tender and a little gamey. The porchetta was delicious fridge ham at restaurant prices. Will’s lamb was too fatty for me. My aglio, olio, e peperoncino was fabulous in exactly the way it is when I make it drunk. I perked up for the cheese plate and our favorite bottle, a 2018 Le Piane Boca. Three figures. I’d do it again and again.
Back at the hotel, I ordered aglio e olio once more (lol), this time with penne. I suppose I wanted to see if the kitchen had anything else to say on the subject of garlic. And it did!
Day 4: Is it real or is it nugget?
At the airport on the way home, I insisted on one last meal. Easily the worst of the trip. Wet spaghetti al pomodoro sitting in a little puddle, a heap of fries (?), and a chicken cutlet with the texture of memory foam and the unmistakable taste and silhouette of a giant nugget (????). After three days of finding reasons to stay at the table, I’d finally found a meal that made me want to board. Ciao!
Is Venice a food city? I’m afraid I’ll have to go back for lunch. And dinner. And breakfast. Maybe an aperitivo, or five? Anyway…
Doge’s Palace. Go for the ceiling. Stay because you’ve walked into someone while looking at the ceiling.
The Biennale. Aira and Tai gave In Minor Keys the highest praise available from toddlers. They wanted to keep looking.
Buy some Murano glass cigarettes. Already ashed, with little orange filters. Why did I not get these?!
Fortuny on the Giudecca. Incredible. I need to take some back to redecorate my Palazzo in Streatham…
Ca’ Rezzonico. Tiepolo frescoes and an 18th-century pharmacy. I want to know what was in the little jars.
Who got the Aman link? Next time I want a Tiepolo ceiling I can look at from bed. With a carbonara, or something actually Venetian lmao, ofc.
Sono un profondo conoscitore di Venezia, dove hai mangiato tu è tutto buonissimo, ma sono tipi di cucina più internazionale più per i turisti ma poco autentica. Per aperitivi dovresti spostarti nelle zone dell’armeria dai Bacari tipici di Venezia con spritz a 5€ il suo prezzo giusto… Per chi non è italiano c’è un concetto da capire: non sempre costoso significa buono. Ci sono posti meravigliosi con prezzi ottimi. La prossima volta dovresti spostarti da Venezia ed andare a burano per avere un esperienza più autentica e pranzare lì.
This made me hungry - I need to go again!