Venice is a city like no other. It’s improbable, the way it floats on water, and wonderfully grand — all frescoed palazzi and Palladian churches. Most visitors come to see the art, of which there is more than you can take in in a lifetime. But for me, its true magic lies in the way it lives and breathes. The way you can tell the time by the church bells echoing through the streets. The drying laundry that hangs from washing lines stretched high up across the canals, fluttering in the wind like garishly coloured flags. And the baker at our local pasticceria, who will let no child leave his shop without pressing a meringue into their hands and pinching their cheeks. Venice, for better or worse, remains relatively untouched by modern convenience and has a pace of life all of her own.
My parents moved here in 1990 from England, where I was born and where we lived for the first years of my life. I have no recollection of my first night in the attic bedroom at the top of our house (where we still live), or of seeing the city for the first time from the water. I remember hearing there had been a bomb at our home in Hampshire, which I later found out was an IRA attack. (At the time, my father, Alistair, Lord McAlpine, was a target because of his friendship with Margaret Thatcher.) Most distinctly, I remember my mother telling me we were to move to Venice — and me asking if this meant that I wouldn’t have to go to school. I was six.
I did have to go to school, of course — a crumbling convent with echoing cloisters and sweet nuns in starched white wimples. It was another world from the one I had known in London. My best friend, a gondolier’s daughter, and I ate risotto at lunch in a big hall with wooden benches, and I learnt to speak Italian with a thick, distinctive Venetian accent.
With time, the strangeness of life in a city with no cars — travelling around town by boat and splashing through the streets during high tides — became my everyday, though for me, it has never lost its charm.
My most vivid childhood memories, the happiest ones, are largely centred on food. The lazy lunches in our walled garden, in the shade of a fig tree. My father laying the table with tumblers of camellias, bowls of lemons and crisp white linens. Strains of Verdi blaring from the little stereo in our kitchen. Friends gathered, with drinks in their hands and chatting among themselves, as my parents set about the business of cooking: pan-fried artichokes with heaps of verdant parsley, spaghetti alle vongole in olive oil, vitello tonnato — veal in a decadent tuna mayonnaise sauce (a favourite of mine), whole fish baked in the oven, and wild strawberries in zabaione cream.
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My mother is a fantastic cook — she has had a passion for Italian food for as long as I can recall. She lived in Rome in her early twenties and when she returned to England, she opened a delicatessen importing Italian delicacies that were almost unheard of in England.
When we moved to Venice, she started paying attention to how the locals cooked, so our way of eating became more Venetian. It is from her I learnt to love the produce local to the lagoon: canocce (mantis shrimps), moeche (soft-shelled crabs), bruscandoli (wild hops) and castraure (the tender baby artichokes that come from the nearby island of Sant’Erasmo). But above all, I learnt that, with a few simple, fresh and seasonal ingredients, you can create a meal that is at once opulent and humble, which brings people together and casts an indelible mark upon their memory.
I still divide my time between Venice, where my heart lies, and London, where my husband, Anthony, 31, works and where we live with our son, Aeneas, 3. I am lucky enough that my lifelong fascination with food has become my work. I write the Italian lifestyle blog From My Dining Table, where I share recipes inspired by my life in Venice — and which I hope captures at least a little of the ephemeral spirit of a city I can only describe as magical.
Skye’s Venice
All’Arco
A rustic and bustling baccaro, with standing room only. Their list of cichetti (the Venetian version of tapas) — from a crudo di canocce (mantis shrimp) drenched in olive oil to crostini laden with lardo and honey — changes daily, according to what the guys behind the bar find at the market that morning.
Calle dell’Ochialer 436, San Polo; 00 39 041 520 5666
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Al Covo
A cosy, family-run restaurant hidden away in the depths of quiet Castello. When in season, the zucchini flowers (which are stuffed with ricotta and mint, then dipped in a batter of milk and flour and deep-fried) are a must, as are the puddings.
Campiello della Pescaria 3968, Castello; 00 39 041 522 3812, ristorantealcovo.com
La Mela Verde
An unimposing-looking gelateria a short walk from Piazza San Marco, serving the best ice cream in town. Green apple is its signature flavour, but other delights include creamy pine nut and a basil, mint and lemon sorbet — sheer heaven on a hot day. Fondamenta de l’Osmarin 4977, Castello; 00 39 349 195 7924
Caffe Florian
Old-world glamour, silver trays and the most devilishly rich hot chocolate you will find anywhere in Venice. Sit out in Piazza San Marco to enjoy the views and listen to the cafe’s quintet playing, or perch inside at the bar and pay half the price.
Piazza San Marco 57; 00 39 041 520 5641, caffeflorian.com
Pasticceria Rizzardini
This is a favourite with locals for treats such as ricotta cake peppered with candied peel, slices of pine nut and cream tart, or individual rum-truffle cakes. Head here for breakfast and enjoy a freshly baked brioche and a cappuccino standing at the bar.
Campiello dei Meloni 1415, San Polo; 00 39 041 522 3835
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Drogheria Mascari
An old-fashioned spice shop behind the Rialto Market. There are jars upon jars of spices, dried fruit, candied peel, sweets and endless varieties of honey. Don’t leave without a bag of Cuba Rhum truffles and don’t miss the room at the back of the shop, where the walls are lined with bottles of wine and exotic Italian liquors.
Ruga degli Spezieri 381, San Polo; 00 39 041 522 9762, imascari.com
Casa del Parmigiano
A magical cheese and charcuterie shop on the corner of the Rialto Market. Every kind of Italian cheese you could dream of, from saffron-scented pecorino to gorgonzola layered with mascarpone. It also sometimes sells exquisite fresh pasta that is, more often than not, made with truffles. Expect to queue, but know that it’s worth the wait. Campo Cesare Battisti 214, San Polo; 00 39 041 520 6525, aliani-casadelparmigiano.it
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Skye McAlpine’s salt-baked sea bass with roasted lemons
This is the most rewarding way to cook fish. While it is pleasingly simple to assemble, the result is nothing short of spectacular. I always insist on bringing the fish to the table, still cocooned in the salt crust, before filleting it with a theatrical flourish. Don’t be daunted by the gargantuan quantity of salt — the crust (which you discard before eating) gently steams the fish but doesn’t overly flavour the flesh. The sharpness of the lemon flesh, which I scoop out of its lemon-rind shell to serve, cuts beautifully through the almost meaty flesh of the sea bass.
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Serves 4-6
INGREDIENTS
Heat the oven to 180C (200C non-fan). Gut the fish (or ask your fishmonger to do this for you) and gently wash under cold running water to clean away any excess blood, then pat dry and set to one side.
Pour the salt into a large mixing bowl and add 270ml water. Use your hands to mix the two together into a thick paste. Line a roasting tray with baking paper, spoon a third of the salt paste onto it and spread evenly so that you have a 1cm-2cm layer of salt crust to put the fish on. Place the fish on the bed of salt, then fill the cavities with the herbs and cover with the rest of the salt paste, pressing it down firmly to mould it to the shape of the fish. Place the tray on the middle shelf of the oven and cook for 20 minutes.
While the fish cooks, halve the lemons and scoop out any seeds. Arrange the fruit, cut side up, in a small roasting dish, sprinkle with the sugar and a generous pinch of salt. Cook at the top of the oven for 5-7 minutes, until the fruit begins to caramelise and the rind softens.
Before serving, cut away and discard the salt crust, then fillet the fish, drizzle generously with olive oil and eat either warm or at room temperature. Serve with the flesh of the roasted lemons and a simple green or fennel salad, or roasted new potatoes and baby artichokes — see the recipe in this section.
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Skye McAlpine’s roasted new potatoes with baby artichokes
Artichokes are ubiquitous in Venice. You can buy most of them ready-cleaned at the market, which makes the cooking of them a speedier, if not simpler, affair. That said, there is a certain rhythmic satisfaction that comes with cleaning your own.
Serves 4-6
INGREDIENTS
Preheat the oven to 200C (220C non-fan). Fill a large bowl with cold water, squeeze the juice of half of the lemon into the water and add the lemon half, too.
Clean the artichokes: remove the tough outer petals, cut off the tip of each head and trim the tough part of the stem by cutting around it as if you were peeling an apple. Put each artichoke into the lemon-scented water as you clean them — this will stop them from browning before you cook them.
Quarter the potatoes into small chunks and toss them in a large roasting tray, drizzle with the oil and sprinkle with salt, then place the tray in the oven for 20-30 minutes, giving the potatoes a good shake every now and then to stop them from sticking to the bottom of the pan.
When the potatoes begin to look cooked (if you slice into one with a knife, it should feel soft), quarter the artichokes and add to the tray, too, then squeeze the juice of the remaining half lemon over the vegetables. Set the tray back in the oven and roast for a further 15-20 minutes, until the potatoes are crispy and the artichokes tender.
Tear fresh parsley leaves over the dish and add salt and pepper to taste before serving.
