Read Online Eating With the Angels by Sarah-Kate Lynch - Free Book Online Page B

food here is as good if not better than anywhere else in Italy but you have to know where to find it. Any Venetian worth his salt will bring you straight to La Vedova in the Canareggio or here toDo’ Mori for cichetti. It’s a favourite tradition of ours, you won’t find many other Italians eating like this. It’s like tapas, you know, but Venetian-style.’
    Marco leaned over the bar and grabbed a couple of round white side plates.
    ‘
Questi
?’ he asked Signora Marinello, pointing to a round brown croquette the size of a small orange. She nodded and smiled, putting the croquette on the plate and passing it over to him. ‘
Tonno
,’ said Marco. ‘You’re going to like it. Trust me.’
    He held it up and I opened my mouth, taking a healthy bite out of the soft flesh. It was tuna, light, sweet, mixed with breadcrumbs, parsley and lemon, and gently fried. There was no way it should have tasted so delicate but it did — it made me want to sing. I closed my eyes and groaned, and Marco fed me the rest of it. With every mouthful I salivated at the thought of the next. It was delightful. Signora Marinello clutched her fat hands together in glee in front of her substantial bosom, her rosy cheeks shining.
    ‘
Polpette
,’ Marco said next and she plucked a meatball off a tray on the counter, plopped it ever so gently on the tasting plate and Marco again held it to my mouth. It was spicy and dense, pink and fleshy in the middle, crackling with pepper and obscenely moist. In other words, delectable. Before I knew it I had eaten the whole thing and my taste buds were crying out for more.
    ‘Ah,’ Marco said, moving closer to me and peering at the plates of vegetables sitting not far from me. ‘
Peperoni
,’ he told Signora Marinello, ‘and
melanzane
.’ She spooned grilled red peppers and long thin slices of eggplant onto a plate then passed it reverently to Marco who fed me, bit by bit, with a fork. The vegetables were lightly salted and bathed in a nutty olive oil that danced at the back of my throat. I was in heaven.
    ‘She look nice, don’t you think?’ Signora Marinello asked Marco in a loud voice. ‘Like a nice girl.’ It should have felt odd, Marco feeding me like that in front of her — I mean it was an extremelypersonal experience — but it seemed quite natural for her to be there, watching every movement, clocking every groan of pleasure or murmur of delight. Seems creepy when I say it like that but it wasn’t. We are just talking about eating, after all, about food.
    Next on the menu were thin slices of delectably fresh bread loaded with fried zucchini and fresh shrimp, adorned with nothing but a bit of chopped parsley, a squeeze of lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. I’m a bread freak — the mere thought of the Atkins diet turns my stomach — and that stuff was good. Not ciabatta, closer to a baguette but denser and according to Marco made on the premises every morning by Signora Marinello herself. In my opinion, there is no bread that tastes better than one made just yards and minutes away from where you are sitting. I’m a firm believer in this.
    Anyway, while he was feeding me these Venetian treats, Signora Marinello shuffled away only to return shortly afterwards with a plate of squid, tentacles gleaming, flash-fried in garlic, the hot smell still scorching the air. I devoured it. Marco then picked out a bite-sized mouthful of swordfish grilled to perfection; he folded carpaccio, ribbons of rare marinated beef, onto my tongue; and did not take his eyes off me for a second as I savoured
sarde in saor,
plump succulent sardines cooked with wine and a delicate vinegar in such perfect balance that it was simply stunning.
    ‘You are a woman who likes to eat,’ Marco said matter-of-factly, wiping a lick of oil from my chin with his thumb. It was true, I was, I knew that about myself. Some restaurant critics loved to cook, others to write, but me, I loved to eat. I didn’t care if no one went