by Ed Sikov
"Let's go to Italy," Dan suggested out of the blue.
"Yay!" I cried and jumped onto his lap. He was reading "The Economist," which got badly crushed, and he spilled his seltzer, and I got chewed out.
I'd never been to Italy, so to me, it was a dream-like country with 583 kinds of pasta (like strozzaprelli, or choked priests, which conjured images of kinky intra-clerical sex acts gone terribly wrong), seafood antipasti, fabulous wines and deep-fried artichokes. Oh, and the great gay artists: the repressed Michelangelo and Caravaggio, the bad boy of the Baroque who wasn't repressed at all.
Venice came first. I convinced Dan that we should take a private water taxi to our hotel, so we sped along the waterways directly to the front door. That's when Dan fell into the Grand Canal.
There he was, bobbing in the filthy water, clutching his sinking suitcase with one hand and grasping the dock with the other. The taxi guy fished him out rapidamente, and the hotel staff came rushing out shouting, and the only things that went missing were a guidebook and Dan's entire self-esteem.
Reader, I couldn't help myself: I laughed. This was not a wise move.
We had dinner last night with our Pines housemate Chipper, who was aghast at the waterlogged details I dropped. "No," he said. " Ja wohl," I replied darkly. Dan was furious. "You promised you weren't going to tell," he complained. "And anyway, that's not Italian; it's German."
He must have been truly offended by my little breach of a major confidence to miss the "My Fair Lady" reference. I do feel guilty – but not guilty enough to withhold from you the supremely hilarious sight of a dripping Dan being hoisted out of the drink by a young boater with great lats. And the way he reeked as he trickled onto the dock! Molto disgustoso!
Chipper changed the subject: "Did you go to Harry's Bar for Bellinis?" Now I was indignant. "I would not set foot in that, that trappola per touristica, if Hemingway's life depended on it. Besides, I hate Hemingway." The Bellini was indeed invented in Harry's Bar in Venice, where the alcoholic, overrated writer hung out. We had our guidebook Bellinis in the more gracious Danieli Hotel, which is equally trappola, but at least there are some gorgeous young Venetian waiters who look like they'd rather be in South Beach.
The Bellini is an overly sweet mess of a drink that should only be made with fresh peach juice and good Prosecco. Most places use sweetened peach nectar and cheap bubbly. I'll stick with Italy's more chest-hair-oriented grappa. Grappa is essentially firewater. It has the clear, clean taste of grain alcohol – but it's kissed by the faint essence of the grape from which it's distilled. I ordered it at cocktail hour. Dan was embarrassed. "You're not supposed to drink that before dinner!" "Oh, pooh! Supposed by who?" I said, admiring my impromptu rhyme. The point is: drink grappa when you want grappa. And I'll take a mediocre grappa over a bad Bellini any day.
The Bellini
Get yourself an electric juicer, run perfectly ripe peaches through it, and mix with chilled Prosecco.
Grappa
Buy a bottle. Drink it. What? You don't like your new chest hair? So shave it.
