I’m afraid that our last meal in Venice was not something transcendent. That’s one of the problems with making such a fuss about food. That and getting fat. Writing about food, as I found out with all my food books, makes each meal a challenge. When something isn’t great, it’s like a waste of time. And calories.
It was a glorious night weather-wise. We sat outside along a canal that turned out to be on a gondola route. The gondoliers’ heads were just at our table height. That’s sorta cute but then it became apparent that the place was a tourist spot. And when that happens the restaurant becomes something else. The waiters are just turning out food and want you to get along so the next people can sit down. It wasn’t terrible, in fact, it was fine just not, as I said, transcendent. It looked like it might be, but when the menu is in 5 languages you know something’s off.
I had pasta fagioli, bean soup. It was really good. Ashish had a salad and then mediocre gnocchi. I had roasted chicken that was brightened by the delightful and unexpected presence of french fries.
The bean soup was the bright spot, I was going to say note. There were plenty of bright notes later. I think b flat.