Friday morning began a little differently than the previous morning. Yes, we were still pooped. After all, we did have to contend with a six-hour time difference and, unfortunately, my body had not yet learned how to tell time. The best part of the morning, however, was that the front desk clerk had practiced his own brand of restraint. Not once did he call our room requesting our presence at breakfast. Truth be told, we probably beat him to the punch when, at 9:30 a.m., Maarten called down to request that breakfast be delivered to our room. Those Venetians knew how we rolled. I felt like such a hotel snob. It was positively exhilarating. Breakfast consisted of rolls,
While eating breakfast, Maarten began flipping through the
“Baby we should go here for lunch.”
“Go where?”
“Harry’s Dolci.”
“Okay.” I didn’t need much prodding. It was food.
“It says here this restaurant is highly recommended.”
“Okay.”
“It also says here that they’re famous for their pastries and gelati.”
“Okay.”
“It recommends here that we make a reservation.”
“Okay.” I was being the most accommodating girlfriend ever. I felt so loving.
Another turn at the shower and I was almost an old pro at it. I only counted a mere seventy drops of water on the floor this time. And I’m proud to say Maarten had become quite accomplished at showering as well.
With map in hand and an abundance of enthusiasm, we bound down the steps at twelve noon and stopped at the front desk to request that the clerk make a two o’clock reservation for us at Harry’s Dolci.. Once the reservation was confirmed, we were on our way. We left the hotel, turned left along the canal, and walked the equivalent of two city blocks to the water bus depot. Having taken the #42 bus back from
Don’t you just hate it when all the best laid plans go completely awry?
It soon became clear that we were on the wrong water bus. Well, not so much the wrong one, but rather we were taking the scenic route—minus ninety-five percent of the scenery. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we had made out like
When the boat finally docked at
Clearly, we had no time to go to the museum unless we planned to run through the halls like Flash Gordon and come out at the other side in two minutes flat. Instead, we decided to go straight to Harry’s Dolci from the Square. If only we had a clue where Harry’s Dolci was. I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Maarten had just slightly better knowledge than I had—he knew it was somewhere nearby, but that was about the size of it.
On the Square, Maarten approached a policeman who, had I seen him out of uniform and wandering the streets, I would have sworn he was no older than twelve years old. It was like coming face to face with Doogie Howser without the medical scrubs. Maarten reached out and quickly tapped the kid on the shoulder once. “Excuse me, can you tell me—”
“Don’t touch!” The stern words flew out of Doogie’s mouth with such force it darn near blew my halter top clean off my chest. And since I was standing there in the same Square that the bosom-worshipping pigeons called home, I knew that would be trouble with a capital “T”. It was as if the innocent act of touching was punishable by the removal of the offending digits by the Italian police force. I wanted to run away, but I stood my ground. My fingers clearly were not the offenders.
“Sorry,” Maarten muttered. “Can you please tell me where this is?” He handed Doogie a slip of paper with the name of the restaurant. To our dismay, he directed us back to the #42 water bus. We were a mere two stops away from Harry’s. My eye began to twitch uncontrollably. I didn't like this development one bit. And I wanted to scold the pompous young cop, pop him on his bottom and send him home to his mother.
Instead, we turned on our heels and headed back in the direction we had just come from. We were off to the Guidecca waterfront to sit on the veranda and have lunch. Obviously Doogie didn’t know half of what he was talking about. We were three stops away from the restaurant, not two. No worries. We finally made it there in time for our 2:00 reservation. There were twenty empty tables surrounding us. So much for planning ahead.
My first clue that something was amiss came when I opened the menu and noticed the other locations of Harry’s Dolci: Two located at very tony
We would not be deterred. We were, after all, hungry, and generally speaking hunger tended to override a litany of predicaments. Then I took a stab at reading the menu. I was agog. The entire menu was in Italian. The last time I checked, reading Italian was not one of my many and varied talents. I looked over at Maarten to see that he too was perplexed, despite his limited knowledge of the written Italian word. Once again, we had to rely heavily on the waiter to translate for us. He didn’t, however, have to bother translating the prices on the menu for me. I can read currency in just about any freakin’ language. I whispered to Maarten out of a tiny slit in my mouth.
“When I give the signal, you create a diversion and I’ll make a break for it.”
The least expensive thing on the menu was priced at eighteen euros. And that was the soup. Maybe for some people—the Rockefellers, Bill Gates, Oprah—that price wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow. However, I didn’t have large sums of money stashed away in a Swiss bank account, that whole plan of winning the lottery didn’t quite pan out, and as much as I enjoy my job, they don’t pay me nearly enough to throw money around willy-nilly on tiny cups of soup that would barely put a dent in my stomach.
Despite my radiant brown complexion, tanned more golden than usual under the beautiful Venetian sun, my skin turned pasty white. For a brief moment, I envisioned myself feigning illness to escape that restaurant with its fancy words and exorbitantly priced menu.
Just as I was about to make my great escape, the waiter returned with a basket full of bread. Great. Once they put the bread on the table, you’re pretty much married to the idea of having a meal there. Creating yet another inconspicuous crack in the side of my mouth, I whispered again to Maarten.
“Fill up on the bread and breadsticks!” And there was plenty of bread to spare between the two of us. You can almost see the brilliant idea forming in my head, can’t you? Bread and water. If we ate a lot of bread and then drank a lot of water behind it, that would inflate the bread in our stomachs. We would get so full that there wouldn’t be any room for real food. And the bread is complimentary, right? I began devouring bread sticks like I was a giant bird. Maarten looked at me and shook his head.
“Baby, don’t worry about the price.” Was he kidding? He was talking to the woman who flips over a candy bar in the store to see how much it costs before I commit to buying it. “It’s okay,” he continued. “I didn’t check to see how expensive this place was, so it’s my fault. We’re here so we may as well eat.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll have half a cup of soup, a glass of water and breadsticks, please.”
Maarten grimaced just as the waiter reappeared. I’m not sure if he was blending into the décor, but I swear I never saw the guy coming. He just appeared from out of nowhere. It’s just what waiters do.
“May I take your order?” I so wanted to ask for a pat of butter, a couple of slices of cheese, a little lettuce and a tomato so I could make my own sandwich. Instead, I opted for the baked chicken that was adorned with a side of spinach, while Maarten ordered the club sandwich. Both plates were twenty-six euros a piece.
We waited for our dishes. Admittedly, we had a really nice view from the veranda and I decided to snap a few pictures for posterity’s sake. The longer we waited, the more nervous I became, and the more bread I ate. I could feel the bread expanding in my tummy like a wet sponge soaking up water. I wondered if it was too late to cancel my order. I really was not expecting to be satisfied with the meal. Instead of an adult portion of chicken, I was sure the waiter was going to bring out the miniscule wing of a Cornish hen sitting on top of a silver dollar-sized bed of spinach. You cannot totally begin to imagine my surprise when our plates finally arrived.
The chicken was a larger-than-expected breast that was broiled to a perfect golden brown. And there was even enough spinach on the plate to share. However, when I looked at Maarten’s plate, I simply had to ask.
“Baby, didn’t you order a club sandwich?” That thing didn’t look like any club sandwich I’d ever had.
“Yeah. This is it.”
“That’s a club sandwich? It looks like a round Hot Pocket.”
I felt sorry for him. He wanted a club and they give him a tortilla with meat. As it turned out, my thoughts of sorrow and empathy were misplaced. Maarten cut into his sandwich, watched the meat spill out, took one bite and his eyes promptly rolled back in his head. At first I thought he was having a delayed reaction to the twenty-six euros deli sandwich and was suffering a mild seizure. Then he smiled and all was right with the world.
“This is good baby. You wanna try?”
You do not (I repeat, do not) have to ask me twice. I tried it. By George, it was good. But would my roasted chicken fare as well? Slowly, with the precision of a learned surgeon, I cut into the chicken. The skin was crispy, but not the KFC-style crunchy that threatened to crack a tooth. That was a very good sign. I closed my eyes and placed the fork to my mouth. Slowly, hesitantly, I slid the fork into my mouth and bit into the chicken. My eyes began to water and my bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. I would be lying through my cosmetically enhanced teeth if I did not admit that it was by far one of the best pieces of chicken I had ever had the pleasure to eat. No wonder I was paying twenty-six euros for it. (Okay, technically Maarten paid for it, but same difference).
For the second time that day, I wanted to cry. However, these would be tears of joy and jubilation. My mind told me to eat the chicken slowly, savor every bite, and to bask in the flavorful juices as they glide down my throat. My stomach said the hell with culinary delights—just eat the damn chicken and be happy. And I did. Right along with the spinach, which was equally scrumptious. I offered to let Maarten try a bit of the spinach, but alas I have a confession to make. I didn’t want him to put his fork anywhere near my plate. I wanted that food all to myself—every bit of it. Yes, it was a selfish thought, but at that moment I just did not care one iota. All I wanted was that chicken and spinach. I bit my lip as he tasted the spinach and chicken and prayed that the tiny taste that he had would suffice.
“Wow, that’s really nice!” He said it with far too much enthusiasm. I inched my plate out of his reach in case he got any bright ideas. I love the man, but love can only take you so far. A body needs food, sustenance, nourishment. Man (and woman) cannot live by bread alone.
When the bill came, I instinctively flinched. I couldn’t help it; twenty-six euros each for a piece of chicken and a club sandwich for lunch. But at least we both agreed it was a delicious meal.