I was five years old when my father promised to take me Venice. In scuffed black school shoes and lively humor I greeted him at days end with a vivant Ciao Bonjourno, one of my only learnings from Italian class. To my infantile ears, Venice sounded like a wonderland, gondolas instead of cars, masquerade parties…I wanted to get lost there!
It was 16 years later, at the still naïve age of 19 that I finally did get lost there. Mum and Dad in toe, we spent days cruising around in gondolas, eating gelato and trying to find what I had imagined all those years earlier. Day 3, we had conceded defeat. Venice was nothing more than an overrun museum, albeit a stunning one. I was now convinced that everything hidden in Venice had been found, that all gondola charioteers were in fact complete sleazes and gelato didn’t taste good in the presence of a pack of garish Americans.
But then it happened! Just moments after yet another family dispute concerning something completely forgettable. Tucked in a narrow lane, was a non-descript eatery, so understated in its authenticity that we had to enter. There was a traditional Italian bar, what seamed to be a few Venecians (finally, we spotted a local) and a buzz that epitomized la dolce vita. Behind the bar were about twelve sets of beautiful antipasti. Simple, bite size toast topped with quality ingredients and made with love. It was in this bar that Venice held me captive with a canapé!
