It was difficult to get much of a sense of Venice. It was dark, very dark, with narrow, winding passageways.  Most of the shops were not only closed, but sealed up tight by graffiti-laden heavy metal “garage doors.”  My first impression of Venice was that it was similar to the French Quarter in New Orleans, but without the smell.

My legs ached, feet tingled, and knees burned, so the charm of all of the bridges -- up the steps and down the steps -- was totally wasted on me, and with everything closed it was difficult to find a place for that “authentic Italian meal” that Jim had hoped for.  We wandered well over a mile before locating a restaurant with a menu we both found suitable.  We approached a busy waiter, a look of hopefulness on our faces, and were told, in broken English, “Finished!" We sighed and turned away.

I suggested dining on the water rather than some back alley eatery, so we began to head in what we thought was the right direction.  Following the sounds of cheerful diners, we ended up at the Antico Caffé Ristorante Al Busso at the foot of the Rialto Bridge on the banks of the Grand Canal. We were led to a tiny table for two, tightly sandwiched between two others holding raucous parties of six. It was evident we wouldn’t be able to squeeze our American bodies into the European-sized seats, so requested another table “inland.”  Fortunately at that late hour  (it was now close to eleven) they were able to accommodate us. Had there been daylight, I would have seen that some of the tables were actually situated on the top step of those leading down into the Canal.  One weight shift in the wrong direction would send the diner right into the drink!

We were led to a tiny table for two, tightly sandwiched between two others holding raucous parties of six.

Comfortably seated, we took a look at our menus.  By this time we were both enormously hungry and, despite the initial troubles in getting here, there was a sense of joy, and relief, in having finally arrived. Jim ordered Spaghetti alla Amatriciana, pasta with a light red sauce comprised of onion, bacon, and fresh tomatoes.  He really enjoyed it, and while passing a forkful of it over the table, said that we must find this recipe before we leave.

I ordered lemonade to quench my burning thirst, a small dinner salad, and lasagna. The “lemonade” was the first thing to arrive and turned out to be a can of Fanta lemon soda.   Next came the salad, an interesting and exceptional assortment of greens including arugula (written "rocket" on the menu, from the Italian word ruchetta), endive, and radicchio. Jim, who decided to order a small salad as well, tossed both his and mine separately, utilizing the cruets filled with deep green olive oil and rich burgundy balsamic vinegar placed at center table.  The lasagna, served next, had little meat, but loads of creamy cheese and sliced mushrooms; it was excellent.

Our waiter, a charming, chubby Italian man in his late thirties hustled by to check on us.  We told him we were thoroughly enjoying the food, and he seemed very pleased.  Jim asked how the amatriciana was prepared. The waiter smiled. He was only too happy to oblige with his version of the recipe:

“You take onion.  Chop, chop, chop.”

“Bacon.  Chop, chop, chop.”

“Tomato. Chop, chop, chop.”

“Cook together.”

“Toss with spaghetti and,” he put his hands to his puckered lips and made a loud kissing sound with an equally dramatic gesture. I looked over at Jim, who was smiling. It seemed we had found the "authentic Italian meal" that he had been searching for.

Unlike American restaurants, the proportions were more suitable to our needs which happily meant room for dessert! So, after the advice of our waiter we ordered a Cassata with Cream to split between the two of us.  This food for the Gods consisted of a shortbread crust with a decadently rich chocolate mousse base, topped with a white spumoni-like gelato, and surrounded by huge dollops of whipped cream.  One bite of this and I was sorry I’d ever agreed to share!

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