Original subtitles

A lot of odd people in Venice.

A lot.

Very eccentric.

Very eccentric.

She's an old tarp.

She's been around a long time.

People, they come, they go, but we'll still be there.

The truth is, we feel ourselves to be a bit superior to everybody else.

But now the time is changing.

You're frightened of the void.

I learn a lot from the street.

Venice is not gonna let you forget that you're in Venice.

I'm Anthony Bourdain.

I write, I travel, I eat, and I'm hungry for more.

Ooh!

You've got them!

Yeah!

No reservations, sir.

She's old.

Very old.

And decaying in the noblest of ways.

Literally sinking into the water that has protected and nourished her for centuries.

The one-time base of her power.

To my mind, Venice is the most extraordinarily beautiful city in the Western world.

Her palazzos, her monuments, public spaces and cathedrals.

Unrivaled expressions of unfettered ambition and near limitless wealth.

As the Venetians ruled the known world, they

built a city-state that let people know it.

Now, they're spectators in their own city.

Absentee landlords witness to millions of tourists and cruise ship passengers a year.

Come to Venice.

See the square.

Feed the pigeons.

Take the picture.

Gondola ride.

Buy a carnival mask.

Every footstep pushing the whole gorgeous

carnival down a little bit more into the murk.

Being popular has other disadvantages.

Venice has a reputation for crap food at high prices.

And there's plenty of that for sure.

But look a little deeper.

Right under the surface, a few steps back or off to

the side from the thundering herd, are Venetians.

The few, the proud.

And they've got to eat somewhere, as they always have.

And for a long time, they've been keeping the good stuff for themselves.

Over 1500 years old, Venice was a city-state built

on 117 small islands in a lagoon of the Adriatic Sea.

It was the center and clearinghouse for everything good from everywhere else.

Built by what became, really, the original super-rich.

Their apartments and their powerful navy kept

them safe from the frequent wars of the time.

Not to mention a confusing maze of canals.

Their spies and statesmen were among the most devious and

effective in the world of treacherous and shifting alliances.

Even their cuisine steadfastly resisted influence from the outside.

Venice is not going to let you forget that you're in Venice.

Today, 61,000 Venetians are left.

Down from 171,000.

Which begs the question, whose Venice is it anyway?

Without Venetians and real Venetian food, would it still be Venice?

Or just a beautiful but crumbling shell, picked over by the passing Huns,

Goths and Vandals?

I see a Venetian future known for the Venetian people.

Now the time is changing.

Gigi Vianello.

He's one of those 61,000 Venetians I'm talking about.

I remember.

When I am little, I come here with my father.

When he was little, he'd watch his grandfather fish for

dinner straight out of the lagoon like many of his neighbors.

Venice was self-sustaining.

Remarkably, it still pretty much is.

Only now, when he needs supplies for his restaurant, Gigi gets up early,

but not too early, and comes here.

Un kilo di sarde, dopo.

Very fresh.

Very fresh, yes.

The Rialto fish market is one of those places hidden absolutely in plain sight.

It's right there as you chug by in your vaporetto or water taxi.

You only have to stop and look.

You ready for a drink?

Yes.

Me too.

Again, a few steps to the left or right and the crowds are gone.

Down the street, and then not one, I think.

Sinistra?

Sinistra?

There you are.

A wonderland of specifically Venetian treats.

Inside, that car?

Oh, here.

Oh, close.

Oh, yeah.

The Spanish have tapas or pinchos.

The Venetian's?

Cicchetto.

Cicchetto.

Or cicchetti, if you're having more than one, which of course, you are.

Is this crab?

Crab.

Yes.

Recommended to eat.

Oh, yeah.

I'm totally all over that.

Back here, a short, short walk from the fish market, a locals-only world of

bacchari, which is what they call the kind of bar that serves these cicchetti things.

And this bacchari?

Cantina di Mori, which Gigi assures me is a good, typical, traditional way to start.

As in Spain, you can make a night of bar hopping and nibbling these small bites,

a bounce from place to place, eating what's particularly good at each,

then moving on.

But Gigi says you might just as soon make a morning of it.

Venetians are non-judgmental in that way.

That has your name on it.

I think it says Gigi, right there.

Eggs in the morning.

It's good.

A little hard-cooked egg with anchovy, some spicy copa, washed down, certo,

with a glass or two of suave.

How do you work after this?

It's impossible to work.

It's impossible to work, yeah.

Next, Pronto Pesce, fast fish.

A place with a more modern take.

That's a meatball of swordfish with artichoke, right?

Yeah.

Oh man, that's good.

Oh, nice.

Sardini.

Si.

Gratinati.

Sardini's gratiné.

That is unbelievably good.

This is truly one of the great things ever.

These are more modern versions of this tradition, yes?

I mean... There's something more traditional, like the coffee.

Baccala Mantecato.

Eh, Baccala Mantecato.

Eh, give a taste, Baccala Mantecato.

What does a Mantecato mean?

Like a mousse with oil about it.

Eh?

Oh, that's fantastic.

This is an old tradition?

A little bite and a glass of wine in the morning?

Yes.

Only in Venice in this area or all over?

Yes, only Venice.

These drinks you have with Cicchetti, these many drinks, are called ombra,

which I'm reliably assured means shade in Italian.

That comes from the days when Venetians would flock

to stands in the shade for an afternoon drink.

You drink many ombra without Cicchetti is a problem.

Yeah, that's how I live.

Here there is no car.

You have to walk.

But you can fall in the canal.

Yeah.

It's not good.

After a considerable number of morning ombra, we decide to avoid canals

altogether and make our slightly wobbly way to a baccaro

with influences from Italy's neighbor to the north.

And what?

Old time.

Always.

Osteria al diavolo la cuasanta.

It's Gigi's personal favorite.

And thanks to the sausage-eating country who brought us such contributions to

modern culture as craft work and 99 Luftballons, we also have this stuff.

Cool.

Tony, c'è la testina di vitello.

Delicious boiled calves head and tripe.

And musetto, which means little animal face.

And who doesn't like that?

Accompanied by good German style mustard.

This is good.

This is really good.

When I am little, I come here with my father.

I remember.

Your father brought you to this place?

Yeah.

How many years ago?

30 years ago.

30 years ago.

Around here, there is many, many places.

But now the time is changing.

There is not too much.

Coming up, Philip of Habsburg, Matisse, Hemingway and other famous guys

dining on risotto so utterly perfect it remains unchanged after five generations.

What if a bunch of really hot girls start showing up and they all want Cosmos?

Who says he thinks he can make them stay even if he keeps offering the same people?

No reservation.

To Romano, a patron of the arts.

They are rare in these days.

From his friend, Ernest Hemingway.

Verano, 11th of November, 1945.

24 bound volumes in the life of a restaurant.

Volumes of guest books from when they first opened.

Signed.

Matisse and Nero.

Maria Callas.

Enrico Fermi.

Artists.

Statesmen.

Authors.

Musicians.

So here's some music.

Somebody read a little ditty.

Scribble drawings.

Expressions of gratitude.

Poetry.

And prose.

Philip of Habsburg came and had the rice and

loved the rice and said, I'll have more place.

And he said, I'm not going to be here anymore.

I want you to come back.

What is it about this place on the fairly remote, isolated outer island of Burano?

Traditionally an island of fishermen, row after row of bright pastel colored

houses so the fishermen could see them back in the day when returning from sea.

The women of the island were once master lace makers.

Today, not so much.

But what is left is well worth a 45 minute boat ride to this tiny island.

Or at least, that's what Lori DeMori says.

She's an American cookbook author and food

writer who's been living in Italy for decades.

There are two principal groups who come to Burano.

Those shopping for the famous lace.

And people like me and Lori who are looking for one thing.

A perfected dish that can be found at this place.

Da Romana.

Local painters had started out with, elected this place.

You know, this was their hangout.

This was the place they came to.

Ah.

And then, you know, the way it goes.

Then, visiting artists find out that that's where all the artists go.

And then suddenly that's where everybody's going.

From the 1800s, five generations of a single family have run this place.

Handing down recipes from parents to children.

Never deviating from simple, good things.

The walls are covered with the work of long-dead admirers.

And their signatures fill the guest book.

But life and cooking go on.

Hemingway and Matisse and Miro are gone.

But Keith Richards comes straight here when in Venice.

Keith Richards, he's right about everything.

Fourth generation proprietor, Luigi Seno.

Tony, you'll like this.

He says, this is heroic cooking.

A lot of people who don't know much about traveling in a certain way.

They want to have spaghetti and meatballs.

And actually, he says to stay steadfast and say, you know what?

This is good enough.

It's not only good enough.

It's perfect.

And we're not changing.

It's heroic.

Does he agree?

Does he feel a compulsion to innovate?

No.

The fifth generation, his son Luca.

He's for simplicity.

And he thinks that this tradition is the right.

What if a bunch of really hot girls start showing up here every night?

It's like sex in the city, but younger and hotter.

And they all want cosmos.

He says he thinks he can make them stay even if he keeps offering the same thing

they've been offering for the last hundred years.

That would include stuff like this assortment from the lagoon.

Cuttlefish roe, sea snails, baby octopus, and mannus shrimp.

All cooked in the only restaurant kitchen in Venice allowed to still use a wood fire.

It's a lot of work.

Wood has to be brought.

Get, bring in the wood.

It's also bloody hot in there.

It's summertime and they've still got this thing raging.

And a lot of people say to them, like, why on earth would you do it?

And these, you know, the flavor is not the same.

Yeah.

Yeah.

And this is something that you're going to probably see.

A piatto molto tipico di... A polenta, grilled polenta.

Grilled polenta.

White.

Polenta is a fundamental staple of Venetian cuisine.

Usually, but not always, white cornmeal.

Usually, but not always, grilled.

And then the sardine is cooked in vinegar.

And so you have this sort of sweetness from

the onion and the vinegar which preserves it.

That's delicious.

One of my favorite fish, by the way.

Sardine?

Yes.

A lot of flavor for your money, no?

But really, if there's one dish worth crossing

the lagoon for, if not half the world, it's this.

It's a dish that all alone makes Venice, and Burano

in particular, a place you just have to visit.

Go risotto.

Fish risotto.

We used to be a bit coddled and cuddled and caressed in order to behave.

In the brilliant film, Big Night, there's a painful moment where an ignorant

customer looks at an authentic, perfectly prepared

order of seafood risotto and complains, it's rice.

And yes, go risotto is rice.

But what rice?

So this is what we're having, which they're really famous for.

So this is a real classic fisherman's recipe of the early 1900s.

Made with this fish called Goh.

Goh is not a prized fish.

It's one of those fish that burrow down ugly little fat fish.

Lot of bones, so it's not a fish you want to eat as

a fish, but it's a fish you want to use for flavor.

So they make this broth out of it.

They have to simmer it really, really gently, because if they break it

up, it lets up this black, bitter, and it really isn't nice.

The way they handle the broth, it's like, don't disturb the little fish.

It's the passion, with love.

Simmer the broth.

In goes the rice.

Mix it.

And that's all that happens, is they keep adding the broth.

An amazing confluence of physical forces of the universe, come together into a

substance that can only be described as otherworldly.

And that just goes slowly, slowly, slowly.

The fats and essences of a fish.

The textural magic of arborio rice.

A miracle of gradual, gradual absorption.

And then to Monte Cate.

They're trying to make it creamy, without adding cream.

A kind of alchemy.

Movement altering texture, texture enhancing flavor.

Sort of hits the pan, and flips the rice, so it's creamy.

There is risotto, and then there is great risotto.

And then, once in a very, very long time, there is truly great risotto.

It's just that go.

It's just the broth that better really be good, or there's nothing else.

This is what they mean when they say, truly great.

And I guess two centuries of artists recognize that too.

It looks so plain, it's just white.

Right.

And then you taste it, it's like the distilled essence of the Adriatic.

It's absolutely full of flavor.

Oh man, that's beautiful.

This is absolutely fantastic, by the way.

The flavor is superb.

And look at how these are like little pearls.

They're definitely all keeping their own personality.

I absolutely agree to heroic cooking.

A la cucina eroica.

Coming up...

Always slowly, slowly, slowly.

There's more to Venice than humping gondolas up and

down the canals, like moving huge tankers around.

That line breaks, it'll whip your head clean off.

And as always, I find myself pitching in.

Which means that if we stay here, we'll be crushed like a proverbial pancake.

No reservation.

The truth is, we feel ourselves to be a bit superior to everybody else.

Because we have an ancient culture.

Most people who come here, they don't have that.

What is a Venetian?

What are Venetians like?

And what do they do?

To the casual visitor, it's the guy who pilots the gondola around town.

Or some wealthy mummy from an old and impeccably despotic

family, still living in a corner of one of the grand palazzos.

But there are other Venetians.

And in fact, another Venice.

This is Lori's friend Stefano Benedettelli.

Born and bred Venetian.

And this is Venice 2.

Stefano is a mooring man.

And he makes his money, as does much of Venice, from the vitally important

commercial industrial complex of Porto Marghera.

A place they don't show you in the tourism films.

But as vital to Venice's everyday life and survival is the Grand Canal.

We wouldn't live just selling postcards.

Chemicals here, energy, oil and coal over here, and cargo that way.

85% of the economy of Venice passes through this port.

Looks like New Jersey, which is where I grew up.

And so far, it smells a lot better.

Hey!

Stefano's job, to get big freaking ships, like this one, tied up and safely docked.

Always snowy, snowy, snowy.

How many ships this size come in a day?

About 55.

First, the tugs do their job.

The tug sort of receives the boat from the sea.

Right.

And I saw it turn around.

Helped turn around.

It's like being a big bull in a small china shop.

So this is like really delicate work.

Yeah.

Then it's kind of like glassuing the world's largest bull, only lots bigger and

filled with highly flammable toxic chemicals and slower moving and like floating.

Okay, bad metaphor.

The ship's mates drop their mooring lines to Stefano and his crew, who dart around

threading the needle, as it were, again and again.

Gulliver and the Lilliputians come to mind.

Now you just hitch up the mule train and pull them in, right?

Which means that if we stay here, we'll be crushed like a proverbial pancake.

That line breaks, it'll whip your head clean off.

It'll be a little pink mist and a nubbin left where your head used to be.

Bet you when that happens.

Oh, they're really good.

I mean, you know, there's some real choreography going on here.

Sort of like ballet or a Japanese bondage film.

Not that I've seen any of those.

I hooked this up myself, by the way.

He's doing my bit to help the economy.

Come on, little fella, come on in aboard.

Bring her on in, boys.

Good job.

I think it's Miller time.

So, like good Italians, pasta is fundamental.

Is lunch the big meal of the day or is dinner?

Lunch, lunch.

Lunch time.

In this case, when our planned scene falls

through, a last-minute choice at any old place.

Stefano picks Trattoria Borghi in historic Venice.

And naturally, it turns out to be perfect.

Ordinarily, most of the time in the cafeteria.

Often they go on the board of the boat.

How are the cooks?

Benissimo.

Really?

Benissimo.

Basically, those guys are on the boat for months.

And if the food is no good, the cook is thrown overboard.

So, ciao!

We're joined by some of Stefano's colleagues just as the food arrives.

Oh, bello!

Which works out just fine for everybody because there's lots of it.

Sardines and onions, typical, ubiquitous, gotta have the bacala montecato,

and some seafood, maybe some grilled vegetables.

What is the common personality type?

Is there a common personality type?

Slightly diffident, not quick to hand out the friendship.

If you earn it, it's for life and the sure thing.

Everybody seems to know each other here.

You know everybody at least by sight, and if

not by, you know, you actually really know them.

Next up, pasta.

Because without pasta, the meal is a sin against God

and everything that is good and decent in the world.

In this case, some clams and mussels from the lagoon, and not too much garlic,

and some good olive oil.

Spectacular in its simplicity, and it's being unspectacular.

Who are the worst f***ing tourists there are?

It's not a nationality, it's a sort of tourist, it's the day-tripper.

Ah, so they come in on the cruise ship?

Or just on the train.

Non hai la possibilità di accelerare.

It's a kind of this difficulty, because

rushing does not exist in the Venetian culture.

And the tourists need to rush.

And so, it's one thing that creates this instant divide.

Go rush, run if you want.

You know, there is no rushing.

The truth is, we feel ourselves to be a bit superior to everybody else.

Oh, that's okay.

Because we have an ancient culture, and most

people who come here, they don't have that.

I think that's a completely reasonable attitude.

I mean, you know, look around.

So the world has to learn to adjust to Venetian time.

Yes.

Pasta and time, ordinary things, birthrights.

Another day in Venice.

What the hell are you trying to do?

There isn't anything that's like a real Irish fish and chip shop.

You needed some place that would make food for, well, you.

That's it.

It's a real thing.

This is my answer to the Arkansas.

It's a chip sandwich.

I'm already a Lipitor, I should point out.

This is wrong.

That's a sandwich.

That's great.

Anthony Bourdain, No Reservations.

Washington, D.C.

Next Monday at 10, only on the Travel Channel.

No Reservation.

Time.

Venice's seeming timelessness.

The assumption that, well, she's been here, she surely always will be,

is a central irony.

Tourists and short-time visitors can never fully grab Venice.

Staying is difficult and increasingly pricey.

Costs rise, the number of natives shrinks, the buildings themselves slowly crumble.

A living museum of millennium-old masterworks, inexorably dying.

Artists and poets from elsewhere have always been transfixed by her noble ride.

You must remember, looking out of the window

is probably the biggest place of time in life.

But what else can one do if one has to do nothing with it whatsoever?

Following in the footsteps of fellow Englishmen besotted with Venice like Lord

Byron, artist Geoffrey Humphreys came to Venice 40 years ago.

Coming, for instance, for what one sees from his window.

I found myself in a different dimension and couldn't get out of it.

There was an artistic community here and a feeling.

Maybe I was going back in time, but I wanted to always go back in time.

Don't we all?

All that and the natural light makes painting, like the city itself,

a slowly passing thing.

Geoffrey lives on the Giudecca, the large island saddling Venice proper.

Nobody would touch the Giudecca.

It was Israel in his area.

Once a kind of low-rent refuge for the broke and bohemian classes.

Now, as with so many other formerly industrial districts, all the tits.

Posh hotels, the scourge of hipness spreading like chlamydia.

Geoffrey, unsurprisingly, is not too happy about the change.

Geoffrey paints portraits, often casting

contemporary Venetians as figures from the past.

Today, he arrests time by capturing his wife and daughter.

Even while the late afternoon daylight, his favorite source of illumination,

fades and slowly dies.

With a few strokes, he freezes this moment in time.

Woman with child.

Late afternoon.

Venice.

Never to happen precisely like this again.

There it is.

There it was.

Well, we came here one lunch time and ate in the garden.

It was totally empty.

Wooden chairs and benches.

Geoffrey leads me back in time to a favorite restaurant of his younger,

hungrier days.

The atmosphere was so rickety.

It was wonderful.

A meal cost a thousand lire.

Geoffrey's Venice can never be the same as the Venice of those born to it.

He knows it.

Yet he's part of a grand tradition.

A world of misfits for whom Venice is a stage.

And that too has nostalgia, rites of passage,

and special entree for certain professions.

One of yours.

Yes, absolutely.

There was always a table here for artists, a table of artists.

And all these wonderful artists, they used to come in and sit.

This is a place with a payment plan not unique to these parts.

Enlightened view of extending credit.

A lot of these paintings are extending credit.

Locanda Montin, an old, very old-school trattoria.

Simple classics made well.

A place about which Venetians and particularly

long-time expats tend to be sentimental.

Very likely because of their one-time view that art was acceptable as legal tender.

The world was very different.

There were no credit cards, but there was credit.

In a funny way, my bill got so heavy, so he picked up my paintings from an exhibition.

And I told him to select one for himself to cover my bill.

When I got back, I said, where's the picture?

And he said, he'd sold it.

And I said, how much for?

He said, eight, eight, eight.

This is a mantis shrimp.

I'm afraid you have to eat this by hand.

Buon appetito.

Oh, boy.

They've gone overboard.

Pasta in red sauce.

Very happy with us.

So what do you call this?

La escapada.

Just a blast of tomato, garlic, and pasta.

Mm-hmm.

As we settled into Armillo, I asked Jeffrey what he

remembers most about coming to Venice as a young artist.

When I came here, everybody, even the

vegetables sales or whatever, they all know art.

It's their life.

Michelangelo, the big names.

Well, you kind of can't help it.

You walk down the street.

It's in their churches and stuff.

I learn a lot from the street.

People look in my way and say, ah, I don't agree.

And he said, sir, you're just following the sun.

You know, meaning I keep moving the shadow, which is right.

And then they say, ah, and then you're frightened of the void.

Ah.

Why don't you just give us some passers-by from Venetians?

I picked up a lot of education for this tree.

Really?

In a city where art is a birthright everywhere you look, the streets a gallery

and everybody an art critic, this artist has found a Venice of his own.

Up next... Okay, this is a forbidden one.

Why?

Lithium.

Ah, cool.

And if you get drunk with that, probably you have some problems.

Yeah, like going blind.

But when was the last time I let petty health concerns get in the way of a good buzz?

The Venetians, they lasted more than the Roman Empire's thousand years.

What constantly surprises about Venice is what lies beneath.

That all along she's been self-sufficient in

seafood and still produces just like the old days.

that some things other than the buildings have decidedly not yet disappeared.

The same wonderfully dysfunctional system which allows

her to crumble also keeps her gloriously unchanged.

And one thing that hasn't changed is the fact that the island of St. Erasmo remains

to a great extent Venice's private green market.

Ciao, Tony.

Good to meet you.

Ciao.

Nice meeting you.

Nice meeting you.

So where are we going?

We're going to St. Erasmo to see the islands and the gardens

and this friend of mine, we taste some forbidden wines.

Forbidden?

Yeah.

Oh, I like it.

And St. Erasmo, that's the garden of Venice.

It's a proper garden.

Which boat's yours?

Nice.

All right.

Sixties.

That was my era.

Also mine.

Taking me to St. Erasmo, Cesare Benelli.

Chef, restaurateur, and a true Venetian.

It's always been sort of the vegetable basket of Venice.

It's been the garden since the 15th century.

But I mean, I'm surprised even now that so much of the food still is sourced here.

Yeah, that's right.

That's exactly it.

I'm surprised myself.

I'm famously not exactly thrilled by fruits or vegetables,

but perhaps that's because I wasn't born Venetian.

St. Erasmo is an isolated ecosystem unique in the world.

A metaphysical mix of soil and salinity which famously

produces some of the best fruits and vegetables found anywhere.

We take a short trip around the island with Cesare's friend, Massimo.

Trees bursting with ripe figs.

Mmm.

Man.

That's one of life's great treats.

It reminds me of opium poppies.

You know, they drip like that too, now that I know.

Ethereal grapes.

A perfection of eggplant.

This is very fresh.

Oh, that's great.

That's a professional basil slicing job there.

Tomatoes which convince you you've never actually had a tomato before.

Fizzle with a little olive oil.

It's nice to be reminded of how good a tomato could be.

I picked, you know, ten minutes before.

Yeah.

It's a near religious experience.

Of course, there's the Holy Trinity.

Some nice sliced salami, some good cheese, and fresh country bread.

And don't forget, the local beverage.

A wine known as Fragolino.

Finally, the fun part.

Okay, this is a forbidden wine.

Why?

It's done with, we call it American grape.

I guess it's Concord grape.

During the fermentation produces Methyl Haku.

Right.

In very small percentages.

But it's above the percentage admitted.

Right.

For years, people loved this humble, local

wine for its delightful taste of strawberries.

The problem, though, is that too much allegedly makes one go blind.

And if you get drunk with that every day for 30 years,

40 years, probably have some problems with the Methyl.

Yeah, right.

I don't think it's more harmful than a martini or a straight vodka.

Salud.

Cheers.

Salud.

And I love rough, local wines, a taste of the earth you drink them on.

So, the whole possible blindness thing, not really a concern.

Love it.

Perfect with this.

I think it goes very well with this.

Do you ever take this for granted?

I don't, I haven't met anyone in Italy who takes their food for granted.

I'm just amazed by that and envious, frankly.

This is a mark of a great food culture.

Right.

Despite an afternoon of much wine, Cesare and I survived to dine at his

well-known and much-loved restaurant, Alcovo in Venice's Arsenal neighborhood.

Between lunch and dinner, he scoured the lagoon, hopping from island to island,

looking for these.

The first moeque of the season.

Tiny, tender, baby soft-shell crabs.

I'm a huge fan of soft-shells.

You know, when they're tiny and are relatively small and soft.

Those big leather backs, not for me.

You cut in the middle of the ice because when you fry

them, otherwise they explode and they absorb the oil.

It's a popular kitchen accident, the exploding soft-shell crab trick.

They explode in the oil and splatter your eyes.

With more oars and sizzling soft-shell crab jizz in your face.

Oh man, that hurts, let me tell you.

But then again, soft-shell crab jizz went deep-fried.

Oh baby, it hurts so good.

So, how long have you been open here?

Since 86.

Did Venetians accept this place immediately or did it take some time?

No.

In the beginning, it was more creative than it is now.

And then, knowing the products, I realized that it was not worth it to

create on top of this clear flavor and beautiful fish.

And then, at least they start accepting it.

I'm speaking to more and more chefs in my travels who have

come to this crossroads in their life that you seem to have.

Where they say, you know, this is good enough.

Simplicity.

The pure ambition to take great ingredients and

try very, very hard to just not screw them up.

It's illustrative here to compare and contrast with the French.

In France, the chef is the star.

Here, it's all about the ingredients.

Really great.

So delicate.

Our first dish is a carpaccio of wild sea bass

with pink peppercorn, chives, and basil oil.

This is, this is really, really good.

Next dish, spider crab served with its own row.

This is very elegant food.

Our third dish, fried zucchini and soft shell crabs with

wild fennel, lying on a bed of crispy fried potatoes.

Oh, they're so cute.

Fantastic.

Oh, man.

These are very nice.

You see the menu?

It's written, no salt and without lemon.

In order to invite the customer now to ask for

lemon, because lemon here ruins everything to me.

Tony, do you really need lemon here?

No.

No.

And as is always the case in Italy, it seems they know when to say when.

Well, if you want to eat something?

I... I... You're... Well, okay, maybe not.

Do you still have room?

Because I know, because I stand up a little bit of a piccolo.

Yeah, so...

Yeah, I think we're just about done.

Okay, we're not eating all of this.

Oh, man.

Look at that.

Oh, man.

Oh, ma, enough.

Up next.

Oh, man.

Wow.

That looks hot.

That's the creature from the Black Lagoon.

Yes.

Inky Teeth Blackening Sea Creature Goodness.

Any time you find the Italians and the Chinese doing the

same thing, it's probably because it's a really good idea.

No reservation.

Lido Island.

An 11-mile-long sandbar probably most famous is the setting for Thomas Mann's

classic novel of homoerotic longing and terminal illness, Death in Venice.

Real upbeat film, too.

Lots of yucks in that one, I can tell you.

The grand seaside resorts of another age still

attract a who's who of international douchedom.

But me, I'd sooner be seen at a crackhead rodeo

than set foot on a beach here in Cabana Land.

But this being Venice, just a couple of blocks back from the inferno, lives our

friend Stefano, the mooring man and his family.

A decidedly different, more low-key setting.

A house.

A backyard.

Kids running around.

Grandma in the kitchen.

You know this is going to be good, right?

Hey, la mama.

She's the head chef in this house.

Does everybody's mother make this dish the best?

Si.

And should we see?

Pire, the family matriarch.

Still apparently happy to stand for hours on end

painstakingly making family meals from heirloom recipes.

She says she wouldn't have it any other way.

Venice's great restaurants, to a great extent Italy's, succeed or fail to the

degree that they evoke this kind of cooking.

To my mind, certainly, Italian cooking is home cooking.

And today, I'm really happy, it's Stefano's home.

What had been a heavy, suffocating, late summer heat, lifts with a nice,

sustained breeze off the Adriatic.

Through the curtains of this tiny family kitchen.

Onions start to cook.

Family members help out.

A little of this, a little of that.

Ingredients measured out in practiced increments by hand.

Do you know that rule?

Yeah.

Bad manners to let the pasta get cold.

All right.

That's so pretty.

We start with bigoli, a thick, tubular, long-cut pasta, like a hollow

spaghetti, in a sauce of slow-melted, salt-cured anchovies.

As with nearly everything on the menu, it's labor-intensive.

So you have to start when you know that you want to

have the pasta, you have to start three days ahead.

Three days ahead.

So she said, you have to kill the onions, the onions have to die.

And their death is that they just dissolve.

Oh, you mean during the cooking process?

So you melt them.

You say melt, and she says kill.

Lots of pepper and white wine.

Does everybody's mother make this dish the best?

You know what I mean?

Si.

Si.

It's indescribably flavorful, and it's just the right balance of sauce to starch.

Sauce more condiment than main event, as my friend Mario might say.

Oh, man, that's fantastic.

Oh, wow.

Wow.

That's the creature from the Black Lagoon.

Yes.

Exciting.

Cuttlefish from the lagoon, cooked in its own ink, and served with fresh,

slow-cooked polenta.

The polenta, still steaming, is cut at the table with a thin thread.

And then all that goodness luxuriates in an inky bath on your plate.

Does anything else that turns your teeth black taste as good?

Any time you find the Italians and the Chinese doing the

same thing, it's probably because it's a really good idea.

Oh, yeah.

We're having pretty much all of the greatest hits this afternoon.

Pretty much the best.

And the most famous of Venetian dishes, the

classic liver and onions, fegato veneziana.

Sweat the onions, sear the liver, deglaze with wine, cook through, and serve.

It's just a wonderful, wonderful flavor.

Onions are a miraculous thing.

You can make an onion taste so many different ways, depending on how you treat it.

No mystery here, only a delightfully sweet, sour, savory symphony of awful.

I'd like to ask both moms here, when you go out to a restaurant,

what makes them angry?

If there's no passion, it's... Passion, and then another P word, which is patience.

Patience.

Which, it abounds.

She likes to eat her own food.

If she's home by herself, she makes herself a lovely meal all by herself.

I don't think she's going out very often.

And quite simply, it's easy to see why.

This is one that's lucky to be alive.

I like my job moments.

Hmm.

A perfect afternoon, the kind of afternoon I wait for, hope for, and live for.

An Italian family at a backyard picnic table, grandma cooking, a scene from a

past not my own, from a movie I never lived, but always wanted to be in.

All things must pass.

Day turns to night.

Art is long, life is short, as the saying goes.

But in the end, even art grows old, crumbles into nothingness.

Nothing lasts forever, however hard we try and hold it close.

Maybe that's what's held our gaze year after year since the Venetian Empire ended.

It's the slow decline, the long and glorious death, the rising damp,

the sinking walls.

Beautiful, truly beautiful things in peril.

And yet, look now, one thinks in Venice.

A city millions of tourists have yet been unable to ruin.

Look.

Now.