I'm not supposed to be drinking. I have moaned about this over and over again but the truth is I do enjoy the odd jar or two and I miss it greatly. If you know me you'll know that I have recently returned from six days in Venice; the city was everything my dreams hoped for and more, the trick is to avoid the tourist traps, sadly there are many, overwhelmed by loud Hawaiian shirted Americans a few of which I quietly fell-out with but that's a different story.
We were staying near St. Marks Square (our first mistake) and I subsequently attempted to escape from this Bermuda triangle of camera flashes and cheap tourist tat as much as possible. I wanted to find the Alta Acqua Bookshop, apparently the most beautiful bookshop in the world and it was certainly that. A ramshackle establishment packed with books at every available corner, cats sleeping on top of piles of magazines, a full-sized Gondola in the middle unsurprisingly full of books and a doorway leading straight onto the green pearlescence of a canal. Having thumbed through every art-monograph I could lay my hands on and sifting through tattered copies of Opus International we left via the main entrance and started back towards the centre.
Turning directly to the right stood an establishment named Enoiteca Mascareta, the name sounded familiar and a quick nose around the windows of the bar confirmed my suspicions. This was the famed bar run by local legend Mauro Lorenzon. You may have seen him if you watched the series 'Jamie Does...' earlier this year. The Venice episode featured a flamboyant chap who opened bottles of Prosecco using a sword and Mauro was indeed that chap. As it was the morning the bar was still closed but we decided to return later that evening to see what the fuss was about.
After a day spent being cultural, a trip to The Peggy Guggenheim Collection among the many highlights we returned to the hotel for a quick shower, a small rest and to get our ever so slightly travel-creased glad-rags on. After a short walk back into the Castello district of town we were back at Enoiteca Mascareta, a place now bustling with fashionable Venetians quaffing oysters by the platter and chugging on bottle after bottle of wine. With no sign of the man himself we settled in, leaning on the beaten wooden bar, Grundy with a glass of deep and spicy red wine (Valpolicella) and in the spirit of intrepid travel and ignoring all medical advice I had a glass of Mauro's own brand of Prosecco. Having not swung emotions in a Jekyll and Hyde type intervention I decided to have another, then another, oh Christ, that's my sixth.
Having had Prosecco before but only in our own drab little country my expectations at first were not high but blimey, this stuff was good, this was the true elixir of life: surely?. A tad merry (by this years standards this was quite the drinking session) and fully engrossed in the infectious atmosphere of the bar I noticed a figure in the shadows, entering into the bar like a beam of sequin waist-coated life came Mauro, the eccentric wine expert I had heard so much about. Working his way around the bar he greeted the assembled ensemble, for some of these Venetians (of which every body was, only us two Brits bringing the tone down) it was almost a religious happening. Cries of "Mauro!" rippling across the dimly lit wine bar. I was also lost, although not quite speaking in tongues and ordered yet another couple of glasses. Will he get the sword out?
One thing led to another and before we knew it we were chatting to the great man, albeit in a rather disjointed Italian/English mix (from both parties.) A little drunk I made him promise to get his Sabre from the wall hook tomorrow evening, seeing a man open a bottle with a sword was something I simply HAD to see before leaving the city. I had a few days yet anyway. As arranged we arrived at 8.00pm sharp but where was Mauro? Guido, one of the bar staff approached us and said Mauro was called to an important engagement, oh well, it would be a shame to come here and not have a bottle and it gives an excuse to return tomorrow. We also had a few oysters (described by Guido as very special) and they were the freshest I had tasted with a salty-ozone punch that was decadently satisfying (this is saying something for someone who hails from Cornwall.) Further intoxicated and after having a nosy peek at the menu I booked a table for us the following day.
At 8.30pm the next day we returned and were seated in the best seats in the house, adjacent to the bar. Mauro was back in his rightful place and smoothly working the crowd only pausing from his social duties to down the odd glass of wine or eight. As a starter we shared a platter of meats, cheese and olives. Bresaola, Prosciutto, Salami, five different Italian cheeses ranging from hard flecks of Parmesan to the more yielding options topped with juicy purple-tinged black olives. Bread and olive oil was complimentary and wholesomely vast in range.
Next, the main course. I selected Sèppie al Nero con Polenta (cuttlefish cooked in it's own ink and served with fried Polenta) and Grundy opted for the duck served in sauce, as of yet we didn't know what the sauce would be but Prosecco makes you surprisingly prone to risk-taking.
Within ten minutes a member of the kitchen staff places two plates of steaming umptious risotto in front of us; "Compliments of Mauro, he wishes you to sample his risotto." This was the biggest sample I had ever seen but never one to turn down free food I did my duty and tucked in. Buonissimo! The rice oozing from the fork, with just enough bite in the centre, chunks of chicken tasting like how we've all forgotten chicken tastes and a gorgeously wine tinged waft of steam filling the air around.
The cuttlefish that arrived after was one of the most surprisingly taste-filled and beautiful things I have eaten. The sort of food that makes you create noises as you chew, after much nomming (as I believe is the current buzz-phrase) I swept the remaining sauce from the plate with a piece of bread and unashamedly left the plate near-squeaky clean. The duck was cooked to perfection, rose tinted at the centre, crispy skin and a sauce as it transpired made from char-grilled peppers, orange, tomatoes, onion and is that white wine?
Suitably stuffed although still, as always, enough room for dessert we ordered Tiramisu. Jamie Oliver has said that Mauro's version of this classic Venetian dessert is the best he had tasted and with this recommendation it would have been rude to pass on such an opportunity to try. As you may have guessed it was nothing short of amazing. Time to loosen the belt a notch. Before we had chance to reach for the Rennies Guido passed us each a plate of Biscotti and cream. Oh, ok, if I must.
Guido, could we have the bill please? 'Yes of course, give me a moment.'
Guido however knew something was about to happen wheeling in a trolley with a small burner on top and a copper pan on top of that. Mauro, now wearing his medal of the 'Confrèrie du Sabre d'Or' clattered rice into a pan of popping olive oil, Risotto as performance? Only in Italy. Fifteen minutes later curiosity got the better of me and I joined Mauro at the portable stove, putting his arm around my shoulder he explained to me that he was about to teach me to make a fish risotto, all produce sourced from around The Veneto a fact he was rightfully proud to state.
After much stirring and conversing I returned to my seat. I was ready to leave and rest my now bulging stomach but before we knew it two more plates of Risotto were placed in-front of us under Mauro's orders. I couldn't eat anymore but I had to, I couldn't resist. The plate finished I was ready to burst.
Suddenly and amidst much cheering music began to play, music from just about every Western your dad used to watch, Mauro, brandishing a golden Sabre. Taking a bottle of Prosecco in one hand, stroking the sharp blade of the sword across the bottles neck with the other, on the count of three: THREE and in the blink of an eye the bottles neck went flying across the bar, Prosecco bubbling out of the now blunt end. To a rapturous cheer Mauro catches the excess with his lips and proclaims the contents to be magnificent. Tomorrow we had to return to England, I'm going to miss this place, before we went Mauro sat down at our table took my Venezia Moleskine notebook and began to write a goodbye note, although in Italian he translated the heartfelt sentiment.
As a keepsake I bought a bottle of his Prosecco to take back, the bar staff signed the label, something I will treasure. I will never find another bar quite like this and to be accepted by the Venetian clientele so weary of tourists was certainly an honour.
I can only wish that I will return again soon. Thanks Mauro, Guido and the team.
Cooking Risotto with Mauro Lorenzon:
Venice 18th September 2010.
'Blueberries In Their Natural Surroundings.'
1. Jamie Does... (Channel 4 Series.)
2. Soft Brew (Non-Alcoholic Fruit Beer - Marks & Spencer.)
3. Fairly Nuts Ice Cream (Ben & Jerry's.)
4. Marmite X.O (Extra Old Matured Marmite.)
2. The words 'Street' alongside 'Dance' and 'Troop' make me shudder at their mere mention. street dance can't be as hard as we first imagined; after all as it seems that 70% of the British public are more than capable of it and seem to think the Queen would like to watch.
3. I'm working in a shop at the moment and nothing annoys me more than people thrusting or holding bank notes in your face. This often happens as you are trying to bag and ring-through their order on the till, they will wave the note in your face, often following you around the counter until you take it from them. If this sounds like you, I hate you.
