Almost exactly one year ago, I was having a very bad day. That morning, I accidentally saw myself on the overhead security monitor of a Walgreen’s pharmacy. The camera had caught me at an angle so unflattering that by the time I sat down for my scheduled flu and COVID booster shots, I no longer saw the point of protecting myself from potentially fatal diseases.
I did the only thing a middle aged man with a shattered ego and a double dose of strong prophylaxis could do: I went home, removed my shoes and pants, and took to my bed.
Later that afternoon, my friend Jay called. He was also having a bad day. We shared our irritations and minor devastations with each other and quickly moved on to more entertaining topics. At some point in the conversation, Venice was mentioned. Both of us had visited, but only briefly. I was dragged there thirty-two years ago on a 5am train from Verona by my bucket-list-ticking father. It was late in October, and high winds whipped through the Grand Canal, causing near-freezing droplets of rain to hit my face like buckshot. Piazza San Marco was flooded, the Heironymus Bosch exhibit I wanted to see was sold out, and my family was quickly tiring of togetherness.
And I loved every second of it, because I was in Venice.
I confessed that a ridiculous dream of mine was to rent a beautiful palazzo there for a month or so and have friends pop in and out as I spent my days and nights strolling, getting lost, and stuffing my face with species of shellfish I’d never encountered before. Apparently, Jay had harbored a similar fantasy (minus the shellfish), and by the end of our conversation, we had somehow managed to not only find the palazzo of our dreams (or close enough to it), but to book it as well. For two weeks, which is still a wonderful chunk of time.
And, before you ask, we were both completely sober when we did it.
I’ve had a year to daydream/fret/wonder about how I would use my time in The Floating City. For example: Can a trip to Venice be considered a success without an eye infection-causing, Hepburn-esque fall into a canal? Is my emergency contact list up to date, in case I have my throat slit by a tiny serial killer wielding a meat cleaver like Donald Sutherland? Would it be in poor taste to dye my hair in the Giuliani style and fake my own choleric end on the Lido? Should I worry that so few films about Venice end without death or heartbreak?
Many of these questions will be answered soon, since I’m leaving on Monday. My hope is to peek under the algae-hemmed skirts of this Queen of the Adriatic, explore as many of her secret crannies as I can, and share the more interesting ones with you.
I’m terrible at remembering to take photos of food—especially when traveling with people outside of the Food Substack community, who tend to roll their eyes at such things. But when I come across something that holds my attention, you’ll probably see it in my feed via photographs, a couple of essays, and maybe a video or two, if I can figure out how to do that properly.
There’s still so much to do before I go, so I will leave you with a simple recipe inspired by the patron saint of Venice himself: Mark the Evangelist.
Angeli a cavallo (Angels on Horseback)
Is it silly making a dish called “Angels on Horseback” to celebrate a place where horses are strictly prohibited and isn’t even vaguely Italian? Perhaps, but I’m doing it anyway because Venice is famous for both its shellfish and its devotion Mark the Evangelist, whose presence in the city is due almost entirely to a bit of strategically placed pork.
At some point in the late 9th century, a small fleet of Venetian trading ships was blown into the port of Alexandria, Egypt during a storm. Two of the traders, believing to have found themselves there “by the will of God,” linked up with a local priest and monk to liberate Saint Mark’s remains from his tomb, which was located conveniently close to the docks. In order to prevent Muslim customs officials from examining their cargo too closely, they covered the vessel containing what was left of the Evangelist’s body with pork, and sailed away home, protected from harm by Mark’s own spirit.
Upon their return to Venice, they presented the remains to the Bishop of Olivolo, who then offered it to the Doge, who was so thrilled that he immediately kicked the city’s current but far less famous patron saint, Theodore, to the watery curb, then died, but not before asking his wife to built an enormous church dedicated to Mark, which would guarantee waves of tourist cash for centuries to come.
Oysters and pork may not be a match made in Venice, but it is a match made in heaven, where Mark’s spirit presumably resides.
If you believe in that sort of thing.
Makes: As many as your oyster-shucking wrists can manage. In my case: 12.
Ingredients:
• 12 small to medium sized fresh oysters, flesh neatly liberated from their shells. I’ve heard it said that already-shucked oysters from a jar are equally suitable, but have never encountered them in the real world.
• 6 slices of thin-cut bacon.
• Wedges of lemon, for squeezing.
Preparation:
Cook the slices of bacon as you normally would, but only halfway. Each piece should remain flaccid and easily manipulated. Drain on paper towels, blot to remove excess grease, and let cool.
Turn your oven on to broil. There are rumors that a more rugged type of individual would toss these on a grill, but I live in a small apartment in an old building made of wood.
Cut the 6 bacon slices in half so that you have a full dozen at your disposal.
Wrap each oyster in these shorter lengths of bacon firmly but not too tightly. The bacon should slightly overlap (about one inch). Keep everything in place with a toothpick by piercing it through the bacon and oyster until it peeks through the other side. Using two toothpicks per horse-riding angel makes rotating them during the cooking process easier, but isn’t an attractive look for serving. Arrange them on the heatproof baking vessel of your choice (cast iron pan, foil-lined baking sheet, etc.) reasonably close together but not touching, then place them in your very hot oven.
Check in on your sizzling friends after about 4 minutes. Are they bubbling and browning? Excellent. Now safely take them from the oven, turn them over, and return to the same oven for another couple of minutes. Remove after the bacon is crispy on all sides but before the toothpicks have a chance to catch fire. I do not put them directly under the broiler to prevent this very thing from happening.
Squeeze a lemon wedge or two over your hot and aggressively un-kosher snacks. Serve immediately and eat while the treats are hot and your brain is alert because the last thing you want to do is swallow a toothpick. St. Blaise, the patron saint of throat problems and choking victims, may not want to intercede, since he knows you’re way more into Mark than you are into him.
P.S. AUDIO VERSIONS of Spatchcock essays will be on hiatus until November, when I (and my sound guy) return from our adventures.
How GLORIOUS!
AMAZING!! How lucky we are to have these experiences bar the security camera one of course