Loading...As the fog crept in, a different Venice emerged. Massive church spires and seemingly indomitable Palazzo’s ducked behind the thick gray veil like gamblers avoiding a bad debt, poking out their heads periodically to see if the danger has passed. Even the sights that had become familiar- a gondolier on the Grand Canal, campos and calles we had walked through a dozen times, narrow canals curving under the little bridges in our neighborhood, were once more mysterious and new. It was as though the Venice of secret denunciations and masked intrigue had come out of hiding, sneaking up on the Venice of gaudy souvenirs and Chinese tourists with a hidden dagger in it’s sleeve. Of course, it also made flying out of Venice a giant pain in the ass, but we wouldn’t know that for a couple of days, so at the time, it just seemed really cool.
This felt like the perfect night for me to sample one of Venice’s few authentic remaining culinary traditions- the bacaro. Basically, the bacaro is a combination neighborhood wine-bar and tapas joint. Typically, there are no seats or tables- locals stop in and stand at the bar for a glass of wine, a little conversation with the bartender and one of the fishy snacks arranged on plates in glass cases on the bar. It is the kind of institution that could only exist in a pedestrian world where there are no straight lines to take you from point a to point b. The harried freeway commute from work to home is replaced by a winding stroll through back alleys, with occasional stops along the way for refreshment and conversation- the true life blood of the Italian people.
Strangely enough, standing at a loud, crowded bar watching me eat squid on a toothpick didn’t sound like Lauren’s idea of fun, so I set off alone for Da Mori- known as the oldest bacaro in Venice (1462). After the requisite number of wrong turns and backtracks, I found the bar which was located not far from the Pescaria, the open-air fish market by the Rialto. I arrived at a transitional point in the evening. The last of the working Venetians were stopping in on their way home and the tourists, who, like me, followed their guidebooks to this historic establishment were about to descend. Because I represented the first of the evening’s outsiders, I wasn’t exactly greeted with open arms. The older, ascot wearing bartender was deep in conversation with mustachioed men and women in fur coats. The younger, flowy haired bartender was doing his best to pretend I didn’t exist- reading a newspaper, going in to the back room, standing around looking discontented, etc. Eventually, though, after a couple glasses of wine, a baby octopus soaked in olive oil, and salty anchovy and cheese treats, I was able to ingratiate myself a bit. In fact, by the time the loud groups of French tourists and trendy British couples showed up, I was no longer the first outsider, but the last local still hanging around. OK, so maybe that’s an exaggeration- but as I ate my little sandwich of fish bits with freshly squeezed lemon juice, I think I did a better job at fitting in than the whiny girl standing next to me in her fashionable sneakers, sipping prosecco from a champagne glass and complaining to her boyfriend about the food.
The best way to view the pictures (in my opinion) is to click on the first one which opens a larger view, then click Next in that new window. This way you can also read the captions.
