A work outing to Venice. Sweetpea (yes, her real name) has captained my ship, run my life, steered me from countless disasters for 15 years and she deserved a decent break. Luckily two of my oldest friends have an apartment in the city. Our first supper at Corte Sconta in the authentic Castello district was sensational. Mixed grilled fish of the day, gleaming artichokes. No showiness, just exquisite food. We scored again for lunch next day outside in the sunshine on Campo Santo Stefano. Trust me to break the magic by booking us a Saturday night table at Harry’s Bar. We had to settle for 7 p.m. and then in an inner room, no view. It went from bad to worse. The bread was stale; the waiter, irritated each time we questioned the menu, unashamedly hostile. He and another waiter were looking at us and openly laughing. We began to feel like a quartet from Wisconsin on our first trip to Europe. The main course – we all had fish – was overcooked and swimming in a tasteless sauce, and on my plate was a single frizzled artichoke. Dishes of disintegrating vegetables followed. Enough! I called for the bill. The maître d’ came to check on us. ‘It’s been shockingly disappointing,’ I said. He removed the tab and apologised. Maybe it was a bad night in the kitchen. We left a little nonplussed and opted for Caffè Florian for pudding, where there’s a choice of nearly a hundred patisseries. I grabbed the bill. It was less than €50: a bargain. But not as cheap as Harry’s Bar.
It’s nearly 70 years since The Spectator lost a libel action after describing three prominent Labour politicians as having shocked the Italians with their consumption of alcohol during a socialist conference in Venice.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in