Cocktails and Crime

· Leave a comment ·

As you might know, Nathan Sutherland enjoys an occasional drink. So, too, does David Hewson’s Arnold Clover (he’s even been known to go to the same wine shop that I use). What, then, could be more natural than to arrange a couple of crime-based cocktail evenings (or should that be cocktail-based crime evenings?) at this year’s Venice Noir.

First up, here’s David with his favourite places to eat and drink, and news of a special event on the Friday night.

My first recommendation is don’t dine near the Piazza San Marco unless you know what you’re doing. Outside the hotels, some of the places are very touristy. But here’s an exception. Il Ridotto is a charming little restaurant in Campo Santi Filippo e Giacomo. Just nine tables so you must book and you’ll pay San Marco prices. But it’s a lovely spot and the Hotel Rio opposite was once home to Vivaldi.

I like to catch a boat to the Lido and enjoy the very local Al Merca, situated in the old market a ten-minute stomp from the vaporetto stop. Reliable local food, always a pasta dish and fish main course of the day, and there’s a very popular cichetti bar attached too. Best booked through Quandoo. That wonderful frittura mista at the top of the post is theirs. If the pasta of the day happens to be spaghetti alla busara, a dish from Trieste made with lagoon mantis shrimp, grab it. This is the one I had a while back and it was superb.

Spaghetti alla busara at Al Merca on the Lido

There’s always someone who wants meat, of course, and for that you need to find La Vacaria where you can even enjoy the legendary Fiorentina. It’s in an interesting out of the way location on the Fondamenta de L’ Arzere. Al Canton, the cafe next door is a great spot for lunch and breakfast too. The name, by the way, doesn’t just refer to the fact this is a meat restaurant. Not so long ago there used to be cows grazing in this area on the edge of Dorsoduro.

These are all serious restaurants but you can eat for a lot less. I love the traditional carbonara at Bakarò in Campo Santa Margherita — as good as any in Rome and you can eat outside in the square if the weather’s good enough. 

Margaret Duchamp (see if you can work out the name) is a great pub in the same square with a decent range of inexpensive panini and other light meals. Nearby you’ll also find good pub grub and excellent negronis in Cafe Noir and around the corner on the way to the Frari some of the best cicchetti in town at Bacarotto. Now for two places you’ll find Arnold Clover and Luca Volpetti visit regularly in my books. The Osteria ai Pugni is a long-time favourite bacarò with inexpensive lunchtime meals if you can get a table. And Adagio is the friendly cafe by the Frari they head for during breaks from the nearby Archivio di Stato. Nice cicchetti too…

Cicchetti at Adagio

If you crave a fancy three course lunch you’ll usually find a fantastic 40 euro menu at the close by Il Refettorio. This is a very pricey place run by the Majer chain in the evening, but much more affordable at lunchtime. They usually do octopus, below. Here’s the current lunchtime menu to whet your appetite..

Il Refettorio lunchtime menuDownload

Octopus at Il Refettorio

And finally for a very memorable cocktail head for the beautiful old cafe of Il Mercante near the Frari. A very old establishment that used to be known as the Caffè del Frari, and in the 19th century had a famous cat visited by all manner of celebrities over the years.

Cin cin!

Inside Il Mercante, an elegant and historic place for a cocktail.

And if you’re still in the mood for more, here are my recommendations!

As those of you who follow my Venice novels might know, Nathan Sutherland does enjoy a drink. Negroni by preference, Spritz by necessity. Crimes, after all, are unlikely to be solved following a mid-morning Negroni.

This has, of course, meant a considerable amount of research on my part. But, in the cause of authenticity, that’s just the sort of thing a writer has to do from time to time. 

Now, if you’re attending the festival, you’re likely to be spending a lot of time in the area around the Ateneo Veneto. You’re going to need somewhere, then, to squeeze in a restorative drink and a bite to eat in between panels. Fortunately, the American Bar at the Taverna La Fenice is almost right next door, and they serve an excellent Spritz and cicchetti as well as more substantial bar snacks.

Of course, we’re only about five minutes walk from Piazza San Marco and you’re going to want to check that out. It’s very tempting to go to Florian or Quadri which indeed are lovely but you’ll be paying a lot for the experience. Instead, head for the Gran Caffè Lavena. And here’s a tip for you – don’t sit down but stand at the bar and you’re paying normal prices! They might even throw in some crisps. It was good enough for Richard Wagner and so it’s good enough for me. 

Head in the other direction, towards Campo Sant’Angelo, and you’ll come across Nathan Sutherland’s local the Caffè Brasilia (or “The Magical Brazilians) in the Rio Terà dei Assassini. It’s changed hands a few times over the years, but it’s still good. And you really do need to check out the Negronis here.

Head a bit further afield, over to Dorsoduro, and a Spritz outside Nico’s on the Zattere is always a pleasure on a fine day. However, should the weather drive you inside (and we are going to be in the middle of November after all), then why not check out “Corner Pub” (or, as Nathan calls it, “Church Pub”) in the Calle de la Chiesa. Alessandro, Virginia, Mercedes and the rest of the staff are all lovely, there’s a terrific selection of panini, focacce and polpette of every description, and Alessandro makes a mean Negroni!

Now, together with David’s recommendations, I think that should be enough to keep you comfortably fed and watered over the weekend. But if that isn’t enough, why not join us for two special cocktail evenings?

At 7pm on Friday 14th, David will be in conversation with Ian Rankin at La Rivista Restaurant, Ca’ Pisani. You’ll definitely need to reserve for this one (at €30 per person), so write to ristorazione@capisanihotel.it .

Similarly, at  7pm on Saturday 15th, Gregory Dowling and I will be discussing some of the great figures – and drinkers – in crime fiction. More than that, we’ll be unveiling the official cocktail of the festival in the wonderfully noir-ish space of the bar at the Palazzo Experimental on the Zattere. Again, spaces are verylimited for this one, so reserve your ticket (30 euros) by writing to adriatica@palazzoexperimental.com

We look forward to meeting you, hopefully over a drink or two, in Venice!

Cooking with Nathan : San Pietro

· 2 Comments ·

There’s not much left in the fishmonger’s at Palanca. My fault, I’d got up late, and midday on a Saturday morning is not the time for buying fish as they’re running down the stock.

I took a look around, but nothing is really grabbing my attention. But there’s always San Pietro (“John Dory”) something of a luxury fish in the UK but seemingly more common – and certainly cheaper – in this part of the world.

I only need two fillets but, as I said, the boys are trying to clear everything, and so I leave with three instead. That’s nearly half a kilo of fish.

Fried in breadcrumbs is always an option of course, but that seems a little unexciting for such a fine fish. Then I remember I’ve got a few pieces of salmon in the freezer that I was saving for a basic pasta sauce. I’ve probably got all the parts I need for a fish stew. And so, that evening, I set to work.

You know the drill by now : I mix us a brace of Spritz Nathans, and cook to Steely Dan’s “Can’t Buy a Thrill” as I’m doing a complete Dan relisten.

Ingredients (serves 3….yes, I know, there are only two of us)

One small onion

One fat clove of garlic

About a dozen small tomatoes

One medium-size potato

Pinch of saffron

Two fillets of San Pietro

Maybe 50g of salmon. More won’t hurt if you’ve got it.

Half a litre of chicken stock (you could probably get away with water, but stock is better if you have it)

Parsley if you’ve got it, some fresh chilli if you’d like, salt to taste

Method

Stick a pan on a low heat with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil.

Sweat the (finely diced) onions, and then halve and add the tomatoes. Cook them down. You can take as long as you like over this. When they’re nearly done, finely chop the garlic and add that as well.

Chop the potato into small-ish cubes and add to the pan along with a pinch of saffron. Give it all a good stir together and then add the stock. Cover and let it simmer for about 15 minutes, or until the potatoes will take the point of a knife.

In the meantime, chop your San Pietro and salmon into chunks. When the potatoes are done and the stew is about the right consistency (add a little water if you need to), add the fish to the pan – you don’t want them to be cooking for more than five minutes as they’ll overcook and start to fall apart, so go easy on the stirring. Season to taste.

And that’s pretty much it. Add parsley if you’ve got it, chilli if you’d like it. Some lightly toasted bread rubbed with olive oil and garlic would be nice; but the potatoes are there to add carbs and so it’s non-essential. Also I forgot. And didn’t have the right kind of bread anyway.

And that was Saturday. We managed about 2/3 of it. The rest, I thought, would do us for Sunday.

The trouble with that is that it left one spare fillet of San Pietro which I could probably do something with at a later date, but it’s a slightly annoying amount of fish to have left over. Also, reheating the stew risked the fish falling apart.

So what I did was kind of a variation on a fish chowder.

Ingredients (for two)

Remains of yesterday’s fish soup (you kept this in the fridge, didn’t you….please tell me you kept this in the fridge…)

One fillet of San Pietro

Dozen prawns (it was Sunday, so I went to Conad – they were perfectly good)

140g sweetcorn (or thereabouts- this just happened to be the size of the tin I had in)

Splash of milk

Parsley

Method

Blitz the existing soup in a blender or food processor.

Scrape it into a pan, and let it down with some milk

Add the sweetcorn, and cook it through until the consistency seems about right

Chop the remaining fillet of San Pietro and add it to the pan together with the prawns

Again, you don’t really want to give this much more than five minutes. Season to taste, and dress with parsley (I don’t think chilli would have worked in this case. Coriander might have been nice though?)

Toasted bread on the side if you’ve got it.

Straightforward cooking, probably reasonably healthy, and two fun meals to prepare. Doesn’t have to be San Pietro, I imagine any firm-fleshed white fish would be fine – cod, haddock, even monkfish if you’re pushing the boat out.

Happy eating, everyone!

What we didn’t eat on our holiday…

· 8 Comments ·

So, we’re just back from a month in Sicily. We go there every year in August. But this time is different. It’s barely a month since we laid mum to rest. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I feel burned out. In short, I’m in need of a break.

Work on next year’s Nathan book is behind schedule, for obvious reasons, but Sicily gives me a chance to catch up. Write in the morning, join Caroline on the beach in the afternoon. After a few weeks I’m dragging it back on track and I can even admit to myself that, yes, I’m enjoying this and I think this book is going to work out.

Dinner in the evening varies between Sicilian street food or ice cream (because we’re old enough now to have an ice-cream and call it dinner). But there are also those nights of proper restaurants where we might just treat ourselves. Which, in this part of Sicily, basically means fish.

As a result, I’ve managed to eat my own bodyweight in grilled anchovies.

Let me explain. Grilled small fish – sardines, anchovies, whatever they may be – are just one of those things I could always eat. Forever. It’s my Death Row meal. Ideally with a big pile of crispy chips on the side. And I have eaten a *lot* of anchovies this holiday. And, tonight, I’m planning to do the same.

I ask the waiter if there are any Small Fish available. He nods, and says, of course.

Great. I’d like some small fish, grilled over charcoal, and a big pile of crispy chips please.

Of course, he nods. Then he frowns. One moment.

He heads off to investigate the fresh fish cabinet. He talks to the boss. Shaking of heads goes on and my heart sinks.

He returns. There are some small fish. But only a few. Not enough to make a proper dinner. Perhaps I might like something else?

I’m a bit thrown by this. In all honesty I hadn’t really consulted the menu as carefully as I might. But I did notice there was a modestly priced steak. And, given there’s a proper charcoal grill, I imagine that would be pretty good.

So I ask for the Bistecca.

His expression changes, becomes quizzical.

‘What, you don’t like fish?’

‘Er, yes, I do, but given you haven’t got any small fish – ‘

‘We have lots of fish!’

‘ – yes, but as you have a proper charcoal grill I thought maybe the steak – ‘

He shakes his head. ‘The steak is there only for small children who don’t like fish!’

‘Oh.’

‘We have ricciola. It is a beautiful fish.’

I know what a ricciola is. It’s an Amberjack. It is, indeed, a very fine fish.

I’m still kind of thinking I would *quite* like that steak. But I get the impression there’s not going to be a discussion here.

‘I’ll have the ricciola,’ I say.

He nods and smiles. ‘Excellent choice, sir.’ He pauses. ‘It is much better than the steak.’ As if I were in any doubt.

‘Could I still have the big pile of chips?’

‘Of course.’

Caroline, by this stage, is wiping tears away.

The ricciola arrives. It is indeed a splendid fish and the chargrilled flesh makes it all the more splendid. We then share a torta di cassata between us and I finish with a coffee and grappa, as Caroline has an amaro amara.

It has been an excellent meal and the ricciola a perfect recommendation. I shake hands with the waiter and tell him we’ll see him in a few days. As, indeed, we do. Only this time there really are small fish available…

A month passed. A month of writing and reading and eating and, simply, of just feeling happy. Honestly, I wasn’t quite ready to go home. But, at the end of the day, Sicily brought me back to a more healthy state of mind. I feel better for having been there.

I still wish I’d had that bloody steak though.

Notes from Sicily

· 6 Comments ·

Hi everyone, it’s been a few months since I last posted on here, the reasons for which I’ll come to later.

Well, “The Magus of Sicily” came out on July 3rd and reviews thus far have been overwhelmingly positive. Which is a relief. The Mirror, Mail and Financial Times all really liked it and – most importantly – feedback from readers has been wonderful.

And, as I said, that was a relief. I confess I was nervous about this one. Not because I’m not proud of the book – I am – but because after eight books in a series I was worried about holding on to my readers or, as I wrote in the acknowledgements, having them throw the book across the room once they realised Nathan wasn’t in it.

So thank you all so very, very much for the feedback. And – if by chance you were one of those who threw it across the room – don’t worry. I’m actually in Sicily at the moment but, confusingly, working on next year’s Venice novel and, yes, Nathan, Fede, Gramsci et al will be back!

And now, sadly, I come to the reason for the lack of recent posts. As those of you who follow me on the socials will know, my mother died at the end of June. It was peaceful and without suffering and for that I am grateful. It was also not unexpected; but nevertheless nothing can ever quite prepare you for the late night phone call from an all-too-familiar number…

I have my lovely cousins in the South of England who, like Caroline, have been an immense support to me. But Mum was my last living relative on that side of the family and my last living relative in Wales. I am the last Jones now. That’s a lot to get my head around. It also means that the rhythm of my life which, since dad died, has been three weeks in Venice followed by a week in Wales has now changed. Things will be different now. That, too, is a lot to get my head around.

She never got to see “The Magus of Sicily”. To be honest, she was too physically frail to read by the end of her life. But she knew what I did, and would always ask about how I came up with plots and ideas (answer : you walk around Venice and something will come up). She always asked after Caroline (if she wasn’t there – she also visited a lot) and Mimi (who, sadly, she never got to meet except via photos).

“The Venetian Masquerade”, book 3 in the Nathan Sutherland series, came out back in 2019. The dedication reads :-

For Mum and Dad, with love.

It took me many years to find la strada giusta.
Thank you for your patience

Six years on, and I still mean that. Diolch, dad. Diolch, mam.



Adventures in car hire

· 7 Comments ·

Well, this was going to be a wrap-up of Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival 2025, and there will be one, but in the meantime you’ve got this piece of nonsense instead.

I was supposed to be flying back to Wales, via Bristol, 24 hours ago; but a strike put paid to that and so, thanks as ever to Caroline who rebooked everything for me, I found myself flying out this morning. All went well, neither of the airports were horrible (okay, I had to remove a blade from my razor but – I forgot, my bad) and I’m at the car hire place nice and early. Picking up the car from Avis is super-efficient and, so far, it’s all going well.

I check the car over and notice a small scuff on the paintwork. I go back inside and mention it to the young woman behind the desk who says, oh don’t worry, just take a photo of it and it’ll be fine. Okay, good to know.

Then I actually get into the car.

Now, the thing you need to realise is that cars now work differently to when I left the UK. I live in Venice. I don’t have a car. And I spend about 20 minutes trying to get the onboard computer to communicate with my phone as the route from Bristol Airport to the M4 is tortuous and, even after all these years, I don’t trust myself to remember it.

Anyway, I get it sorted, and I try to start the car. I know ignition keys are becoming a thing of the past, but I look around the dashboard and I can’t find a start button. Eventually I google “Vauxhall Crossland Start Button” and find it’s kind of hidden away behind the steering wheel. Phew. That could have been embarrassing. I press the button and the engine rumbles into life. Just take the handbrake off and I’m good to go.

Except…

Except, try as I might, I can’t get the bloody handbrake off. I google “Vauxhall Crossland handbrake” and follow the instructions and…and…nothing. The damn thing refuses to work.

Eventually I give up. I go back in and say words to the effect of “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand cars any more, can somebody tell me how to take the handbrake off.”

The young woman who was dealing with me comes out to the car park and shows me. Of course, it works first time. Oh, silly me! We have a good laugh about it and I prepare to set off.

And I do. As soon as I’m past the barrier to the car park a warning light starts flashing and there’s an incessant PLING sound. Apparently the seat belt isn’t on.

I’m on the road now and there’s nowhere to pull over. I do a U-turn at the airport roundabout, go back to the rental place, and pull over. I unlatch the seat belt and plug it in again. I open and close all the doors. I plug in the passenger seat belt.

PLING.

I plug in the rear seat belts.

PLING.

I open and close all the doors again because, hey, shutting things down and starting them again always worked in IT.

PLING. PLING. PLING.

There’s only one thing left to do.

The young woman is well used to me by now and we greet each other as old friends.

She takes pity on me. Perhaps I might like another car?

I practically weep with gratitude. Nearly an hour has passed since I first picked up the first car.

It’s an automatic, are you okay with that?, she says, by now evidently a bit worried that I might be behind the wheel of any vehicle at all.

Frankly, by now, I’d be grateful for a man with a flag walking in front of me as a warning to other road users and so, yes, I’m perfectly okay with that.

We swap keys, I get into my new Nissan, and I set off. The roads are clear, the sun is shining, my heartrate returns to normal, and I’m back in Pembroke three hours later.

I still couldn’t get the bloody Bluetooth to work, mind you.

With my sincere thanks to the lovely people at Avis for their immense patience…

Venice in Film : Venetian Bird

· 2 Comments ·

Just a quick post, as we’re all working away like crazy here on the upcoming Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival, but I recently watched this early fifties British noir and thought it was worth recording given the Venice connection.

First of all, why that title (take from the source novel by Victor Canning, in the US it went out under the rather generic name of “The Assassin”)? Well, the plot centres around British private detective Edward Mercer (Richard Todd) searching for Italian war hero Renzo Uccello (John Gregson) in post-war Venice. Although I do wonder how many people would have made the connection of Uccello = bird.

As you can see, we’re firmly in Third Man territory here, only with a Venetian spin. The trouble is Todd is no Joseph Cotten, Gregson is no Orson Welles, and Eva Bartok is no Alida Valli. And so, sadly, Venetian Bird is no Third Man.

Perhaps that’s unfair. We’re holding up a masterpiece of cinema as a point of comparison here and Venetian Bird has plenty to enjoy on its own merits. There’s a veritable who’s-who of fifties character actors amongst the cast – George Colouris, Miles Malleson, Eric Pohlmann – and best of all, there’s Sid James. Now (as those of you who listen to The House of Hammer will know) this is Sid in his pre-Carry On days, demonstrating just what a great character actor he was.

But what really makes Venetian Bird worth watching is the location filming in Venice. The black and white photography is gorgeous and the final set piece, as Mercer pursues Uccello over the rooftops above San Marco, is terrific.

Not a classic then, but well worth a watch.

Right, that’s all for now – hoping to see some of you at Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival next month!

Cheers

Philip

Gŵyl Crime Cymru Festival 2025

· 2 Comments ·

So here we are. The programme for Gwyl Crime Cymru 2025 dropped – appropriately – on March 1st, St David’s Day.

I have the great privilege of being Chair of this year’s festival. However, none of this would have been possible without the great work put in by my dear friends and colleagues Sarah Ward, Sarah Todd Taylor, Jacqui Harrett, Gwenllian Williams, Jacky Collins, Chloe Tilson, Linzie Fitzpatrick and Wini Davies. And, above all, without Gail Williams without whom this festival would not be happening!

The philosophy is as it was back in 2020, when the festival launched. It’s about the best in Welsh crime writing. It’s about the best in international crime writing. Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival is about bringing readers and writers together in a space where we can all share a drink and a laugh together.

25 – 27 April, in Aberystwyth. For those drinks, for those laughs, for meeting old friends and making new ones, for chats in pubs and fish and chips on the beach, for those glorious sunrises and sunsets and the best in crime writing – we hope to see you there!

There’s a Negroni waiting on the bar for you…

Warmest wishes,

Philip

Venice in Film : Eva

· 2 Comments ·

A recent watch with the House of Hammer team, Joseph Losey’s The Damned has set me off on a bit of a project, namely to watch every Losey film by the end of the year. A bit like my Fritz Lang odyssey of a few years ago, except this might be a little bit easier given that Losey’s filmography is shorter and all the films actually exist.

Unlike the Lang project I won’t be doing these in order. Thus far I’ve just been picking and choosing ones that happen to catch my eye. And this led me to 1962’s French-Italian co-production Eva (Eve, in the UK and – oh dear – The Devil’s Woman in the US).

Stanley Baker plays Tyvian Jones, a working-class Welsh writer living in Venice. As he explains, his first novel made him famous and the film adaptation made him rich. Well, perhaps they were different times for writers. Anyway, despite being engaged to the lovely-but-fragile Francesca (Virna Lisi) he becomes obsessed with high-class escort Eva (a deeply sexy Jeanne Moreau). Tyvian’s life unravels, in hopeless pursuit of Eva whilst being unable to find happiness with Francesca. It also transpires that he may not have been entirely honest about his background…

Further down the cast list we find Losey favourite James Villiers and his lovely voice. There’s a small role for Lisa Gastoni, and none other than Peggy Guggenheim has a cameo as a baccarat player in the casino. IMDB says Vittorio de Sica is there as well, but I couldn’t spot him.

Eva was co-scripted by Hugo Butler (blacklisted in Hollywood, like Losey himself) and his regular collaborator Evan Jones, who, unusually for the time, play up Baker’s Welshness. He even gets to sing Sospan Fach at one point. Baker was another favourite of Losey’s : if you wanted someone to play a tough cop, a working class hero or simply – as in this case – a major league asshole, there was no-one better at it than Stanley Baker. The boozy, self-destructive Welsh artist (this is only a decade after the death of Dylan Thomas) could easily have become a cliche and yet Baker makes it work; a seething toxic stew of machismo and self-pity. Moreau is cooler, controlled without ever wandering into “ice maiden” cliches, the intellectual to Baker’s force of nature.

Losey, filming in glorious black and white, makes 60s Venice look as beautiful as it ever has, including some memorable interior scenes at the Hotel Danieli and, unusually, on Torcello. Essential viewing for the Venetophile, then, but it’s also a wonderful film in its own right.

Highly recommended, then. It’s a film that will stay with you.

The Vasari Corridor

· 14 Comments ·

Or, A Warning to the Curious…

Or, Always Read the Small Print…

Florence is one of those cities that I wish I loved a little bit more than I do. It’s not much more than a couple of hours away from us by train but we don’t visit that often. The reason? We quite like it, but we don’t love it. Yes, Venice is overcrowded, but Florence feels like that as well, only with cars. It feels like slightly hard work.

Against that, you have to set the fact that it’s a city absolutely jam-packed full of Really Great Stuff. And that might be reason enough for a visit in itself.

January, then, would seem the ideal time to go. And, more than that, we’ve found that there’s the chance to visit the Vasari Corridor. It leads from the Uffizi and above the Ponte Vecchio to the Palazzo Pitti. Commissioned by Cosimo I de Medici to a design by Giorgio Vasari, the idea was to minimise the time the Duke would have to spend in public – for reasons of safety rather than vanity – whilst moving between his home and the offices of government. They put it together in just five months in 1465.

Perhaps most excitingly, it grew to house a collection of over 1000 paintings by the great and good, including a unique collection of self-portraits by Rosalba Carriera, Rubens, Van Dyck, Vasari himself and many, many others. From 2013 onwards, 20th Century works were added including Chagall, de Chirico and Beuys.

Private group tours became available in recent years, before the corridor closed for renovation in 2016. And now it’s been opened again to the general public. This, therefore, was an opportunity not to be missed.

The day arrives. We set off at a not-unholy hour of the morning, making sure Mimi has sufficient food and drink to survive the day (as ever, she inspects her facilities before giving us her familiar “I suppose this will do” look) and take the Frecciarossa down to Florence. There’s time for lunch – a splendid plate of meats and cheeses and a spritz. and then we’re off for the main event.

I head for my favourite room in the Uffizi, which is probably my favourite room in any gallery, anywhere. The one that holds the three Maestà of Giotto, Duccio and Cimabue. And I notice that Cimabue is under a transparent plastic sheet. I ask an attendant if it’s about to be restored. She tells me that there’s a lot of electrical maintenance work going on in the gallery and so lots of works are under wraps. They chose a transparent wrap for this one so that the room at least has the illusion of looking as it was.

Fair enough. I wander onwards and notice that this is the case in many of the rooms. Indeed, some of the paintings are wrapped up completely and can’t be seen at all. Now, you might think this would spoil the experience, but that’s not the case. Because a combination of the ongoing work and the time of year means the gallery is – if not exactly empty – surprisingly uncrowded. The Leonardo room, where viewing the paintings is normally akin to a contact sport, is remarkably quiet. And this is the case throughout the museum. Despite the fact that there are works in almost every room that can’t be seen, this might be my best visit ever.

Then it’s time to make our way downstairs to the room adjoining the Cappellina Veneziana, the starting point of our journey across the Vasari Corridor. Centuries of great artworks await us…

Except…

…we’re in a corridor. A bare corridor. Ah, well, this is obviously just the entrance. We turn right at the end, and that’s probably where everything starts and so…

Nothing. Except an empty corridor.

Caroline asks, politely I should stress, where the artworks are.

The guide looks faintly embarrassed. There aren’t any on display at the moment and there are unlikely to be for another two to three years.

This, frankly, is a bit of a blow. I consider getting cross, but it’s not her fault and, I think, it’s entirely possible we just didn’t read the small print. We have paid, it seems, for a 25 minute supervised walk down a bare corridor. Yes, the views are nice and you get a look down into the interior of the church of Santa Felicita , but I’m not sure that’s enough on its own. There are lots of nice views in Florence which you can see for free just by wandering around. We have paid, it seems, 43 euros a head to walk down a corridor.

Okay, that’s a little unfair. That 43 euros does also allow you two hours in the Uffizi itself (possibly more as you probably won’t be checked once you’re inside). And, as I said, this is actually a pretty good time to visit.

We could get pissed off about this but decide not to. We’ve had a nice lunch, a walk around Florence and a couple of hours in one of the greatest galleries in the world. More than that, I think, it’s probably our fault anyway. We must have forgotten to check. So we do what we always do when faced with slightly disappointing situations. We go for a spritz and find a bar – the Caffe Amerini – with lovely friendly staff not too far from the station. We’re not paying Venetian prices here but that doesn’t matter. We are, after all, the people who’ve paid 43 euros to walk down a corridor.

Upon returning, I decide to check if we had, indeed, forgotten to check the small print. And what do you know? Halfway down the page, there it is :-

“Riportato oggi alla sua originaria nudità…”

Or, on the English page :-

“Restored to its original simplicity” 

Both of which I think are understating things just a little bit when a “No art to be seen here, lads” might have been preferable.

So, should you go? Well, for us it was a relatively short journey. Those travelling from further afield might well feel short-changed. Yes, there’s the chance to see the corridor as it hasn’t been seen before. Yes, the views are impressive. If that’s sufficient, then go ahead. Just be aware, that’s all.

As ever, Caveat emptor, folks!

The Yule Ritual

· 18 Comments ·

A Nathan Sutherland short story for Christmas

Everybody has their own Yule Ritual. When we’re kids it’s all about putting a glass of sherry out for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph. Or was it a carrot for Santa and a sherry for Rudolph? At any rate, the carrot was usually there in the morning and the sherry nowhere to be found. And then trying to sleep. The sound of mum going downstairs at an unholy hour of the morning to get the oven warmed up as the turkey – she kept a dossier – absolutely had to be in the oven before sunrise. The sound of her – I think I always knew it was her – putting down a pillowcase of presents at the foot of the bed together with one of dad’s old socks. The sock, I knew, wouldn’t contain anything more exciting than tangerines and, to be honest, they weren’t really the main event. But that was okay. It was part of the ritual. And I’m sure they did me good. I would keep my eyes closed and pretend to snore – this was back in the days when I actually had to pretend to snore – and I’d be aware of her presence on the threshold of my room. And then the door would gently shut, and the lights would dim. Both of us knew exactly what was going on, of course. But that was okay, too. It was part of the ritual.

   And then one day I realised I’d become older, but I had to keep it going. For mum’s sake more than mine. And we kept the pretence going for as long as possible. Until the ritual changed and became boozy Christmas Eves with friends, which always ended with rolling home on cold and frosty nights, keys fumbling in the lock, and exaggerated and always unsuccessful attempts to be quiet for fear of waking anyone up.

   And then the years creep up on you, and your friends have got older. And they have families now, and so they don’t want to do that anymore. And, perhaps, a Magical Christmas is now replaced with a “Quite Nice” Christmas.

   Then one day you wake up, and you’re in Venice now, and you have a wife and a mother-in-law and an unfriendly cat. But your best friend has a little girl and so, by proxy, the magic is back if only for a little while….

Dario and I had our thing. I always called it The Yule Ritual. He asked me why and I told him it was a Hawkwind thing. I remember his beer glass pausing, halfway to his lips. And then he smiled, and nodded, and never asked me again. Because, of course it was.

   We would go out to Mestre, to Toni’s bar on Corso del Popolo, on the twenty-third of December, and sit outside under the heaters. Originally that was so I could smoke. Then I quit, but we continued to sit outside anyway. Toni would bring us pints of Nastro Azzurro  – we were the only customers who drank pints and so he’d got the glasses in especially for us. Then there’d be slices of pizza, and we would pull our coats around us, shivering, as we watched people come and go. Office workers, clocking off for Christmas, having a final drink with their friends before heading home for the holidays. Desperate looking men in search of stores that remained open for last-minute shopping. Teenagers pretending to be cool, but all, secretly, excited about the holidays as the last little bit of magic hadn’t been extinguished yet. And families with small children who oohed and aahed at the lights, as even Mestre on a cold December’s night was not devoid of the Christmas spirit. Toni would join us when the customers had thinned out (strictly a small beer for him) and we’d raise our glasses and promise to see each other, same place, same time, next year. Then we’d make our way home, a little unsteadily, and keys would rattle in locks as we both tried not to make any noise, and Dario would tell Vally that I was a bad influence on him, and I’d tell Fede that Dario was a bad influence on me.

   It was what we did. It was the ritual. The Yule Ritual.

——————————————————

   ‘Sleeping again, tesoro?’

Federica. I hadn’t heard her come in.

   ‘Just resting my eyes, cara.’

   ‘Okay. Can you do that without snoring though?’

   I struggled to my feet, my back twinging from the effects of a little sleep on the sofa that had evidently turned into a big sleep.

   ‘I thought I’d find you hunting for presents.’

   ‘I don’t do that.’

   ‘Oh, you absolutely do. Don’t think I don’t know.’

   ‘Well, it’s a very Christmassy thing to do, isn’t it?’

    ‘Yes. When your six. I bet little Emily doesn’t do it.’

    ‘Oh, she does.’

    ‘And I bet you she doesn’t.’

    ‘And I say she does. I was round at Dario’s yesterday and – and – ‘ My voice trailed off.

    ‘Go on.’

    ‘We might have swapped notes on present hiding places.’

    ‘You told a six year old about the best places to hide Christmas presents?’

    ‘What can I say? I was being jovial uncle Nathan, that’s all?’ I gave her a hug and a kiss and changed the subject. ‘How’s Marta?’

   ‘Mamma is fine. Looking forward to Christmas with us. And she’s bought us an early present.’

   ‘That’s kind of her.’

   Fede rummaged in her handbag. ‘Well, it’s not really for us. It’s for Gramsci.’ She drew out a red and green velvet cat collar. ‘Isn’t this lovely? So thoughtful of her.’

   ‘Erm. Thoughtful. Yes.’

   ‘But there’s more. Look.’ She clicked a button on the top and lights flashed on and off as We wish you a Merry Christmas played in the background.

   ‘Wow.’

   ‘What do you think?’

   ‘I think it’s what every cat is looking for.’ I paused. ‘Actually, now I think about it, I think it’s what some cats might be looking for.’

   ‘Oh, he’ll love it.’

   ‘Do you mean that?’ I frowned.

   She shook her head. ‘No. But he hasn’t got to wear it for long. Just long enough for you to take a photo and send it to mamma.’

   ‘He’s never going to do that. Your mother’s met him, she knows what he’s like.’

   ‘I know. But she gets ever so sentimental about Christmas and so – ‘ she put her arms around me and kissed my cheek – ‘it would be ever so nice. Just a quick photo. She’d be so pleased. And I’ll forget about you hunting for presents’

   I sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll have a go.’

——————————————————

I winced at the sting of the antiseptic.

   ‘How is it?’

   ‘Not too bad. He seems to have missed all the major arteries.’

   ‘It’s a lovely photo though. He almost looks cute.’

   I looked at the photograph on Fede’s phone. Gramsci stared out at us with an expression that clearly said he would track down and kill anyone who dared to share it.

    ‘Yeah. I think almost is the operative word there.’ I dabbed at my hand again. ‘Ow.’

    ‘You’ll live.’ She patted my other hand and checked her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be going? If you’re going to meet Dario for your thing.’

   ‘I should. I’ll have to step it out a bit.’

   ‘You’re not getting the vaporetto?’

   ‘I think I’d rather walk. See the lights, the decorations, all that sort of thing.’

   She smiled. ‘Look at you. I can hardly believe it’s the same man who’d discuss present-hunting strategies with a child. Will you be late?’

   ‘Wouldn’t think so. Even Toni doesn’t do lock-ins.’

   ‘Okay. Well, have a good time. I know it’s important to you both.’

   ‘We will. Big foaming beers are waiting!’

   ——————————————————

As a wise man almost said, the Venetians know how to keep Christmas well. There was the tree in Piazza San Marco, ice skating in San Polo, choral music in churches throughout the city and roast chestnuts really were sold in the streets. But best of all, it didn’t start until December. On the other hand, nobody had ever heard of Slade, but that seemed like an acceptable trade-off.

    I made my way down through Rialto, and then up through Strada Nova. It wasn’t the most direct route, but I wanted to see the lights on the palazzi on the Grand Canal and even Strada Nova, thronged with both visitors and locals, still had a little magic about it. I stopped to buy some roast chestnuts, remembered I didn’t really like them, and stuffed the bag into my pocket. At least they’d help to keep me warm.

   The Christmas lights lined the streets all the way up through Cannaregio and up through Lista di Spagna. The railway station looked as festive as it ever would and then, along with everyone else, I made my way uncertainly over the Calatrava bridge to Piazzale Roma, nervously testing each step for fear that frost would have turned each glass panel into a death trap.

   Dario was waiting at the bus stop, his breath steaming and stamping his feet to keep warm.

   ‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up for a moment there.’

   ‘Wouldn’t miss the ritual, Dario.’ I took out the packet. ‘Roast chestnut?’

   ‘Thanks man, but I don’t really like them.’

   ‘Oh.’ I put them away again.

   The bus hissed to a halt behind me, making me start.

   Dario chuckled. ‘The same as last year, then?’

   ‘The same as every year, Dario.’

   ‘Large beers? Pizza slices? Sitting outside under the heaters?’

   ‘Wouldn’t be Christmas without it.’

   ‘Oh, and that song you played for Emily?’

   ‘Slade? Merry Christmas Everbody? She doesn’t like it?’

   ‘Too much. She won’t stop singing it. It’s driving us mad. She’s memorised the words.’

   ‘But that’s good, isn’t it? She’ll be miles ahead of anyone in English lessons.’

   ‘Hmm, that’s true. Yeah, that is pretty cool.’

   ‘I could lend her a copy of the Jethro Tull Christmas Album if you like?’

   ‘Maybe when she’s in Big School?’ He got to his feet. ‘Here we go. This is our stop.’

   Immediately, we could tell that something was wrong. Festive lights were strung across Corso del Popolo. The streets were busy. And every single shop, bar and restaurant was festooned with decorations.

   All except one.

   Toni’s was closed. Not just closed, but boarded up. A sign pasted on the door announced that it was becoming a nail bar in the New Year and they wished all their potential new customers the compliments of the season.

    Dario looked at me, and then down at his nails. ‘I’m not sure we’re potential customers, vecio.’

   I looked at the sign again, and ran my fingertips over the rough surface of the boards. ‘Oh hell, Dario.’

   He shook his head. ‘I just didn’t know.’

   ‘Neither of us did.’

   ‘When did we last come out here, Nat?’

   ‘Last Christmas.’

   ‘And we never thought to check. We just thought it’d always be here.’

   I looked down at my shoes, and then into the streets. Happy, laughing people who gave neither us nor the bar a second glance.

   ‘So what do we do now?’

   I ran a hand through my hair, and then a shop on the other side of the road caught my eye.

   ‘Okay. I’ve got a plan.’

   ‘Uh-huh.’

   ‘There’s a mini-market over there. What if I go over there, pick us up a couple of beers and some paper cups and, well, we’ll recreate the experience as best we can.’

   Dario stared at me. ‘Have you genuinely gone mad, Nat?’

   I shrugged. ‘Best I can think of.’

   ‘Nat, it’s freezing. You want us to drink beer from a paper cup standing on the street in the middle of Mestre?’

   ‘No?’

   ‘No. Terrible plan. In fact that might be the worst plan ever from a man with a history of terrible plans.’

   I was about to argue, but then sighed and shook my head. ‘Ah, you’re right. I mean, there are people in Mestre drinking on the streets for real. Wouldn’t be right, would it?’

   He shook his head.

   ‘You got any ideas, Dario?’

   ‘One. It’s called not freezing to death. And it starts with going back to Venice.’

   I ran my fingers over the boards once more. ‘But Dario, this was our thing. This was our Christmas thing.’

   ‘And so we’ve got to find a new thing. That’s the way Christmas works.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Back to Venice.’

   ‘And where?’

   ‘Only one place to go, vecio. Come on.’

——————————————————

‘What is this Ed?’

    ‘It’s a glassful of Comfort and Joy, Nathan. It’s a Festive Negroni.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘Just a Negroni. But there’s some burnt orange, brown sugar, star anise and – ‘ he grinned – ‘here’s the magic touch.’ He slipped a cinnamon stick into each glass, and slid them across the bar.

    He must have seen the expression on my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

   I did my best to smile. ‘Nothing. It’s just that, well, I’m sure it’s very nice and very festive and full of good cheer but – ‘

   ‘But what?’

   ‘I think what Nathan is trying to say,’ said Dario, ‘is that he’s a bit of a Negroni purist.’

   Ed scowled. ‘Nathan, I’ve spent hours on the internet talking to bartenders all over the world about this. And no Mister Scrooge comes into the Magical Brazilians at Christmas and tells me they’re a Negroni purist, all right?’

   ‘Mister Scrooge? I’m Mister Scrooge?’

   ‘The guy in that film with the Muppets? Right now, that’s who you’re being.’

   ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll give it a go.’ I clinked glasses with Dario. ‘Buone Feste.’

   ‘Buone Feste, Nat. Buon Natale, Ed.’

   I took a sip, as did Dario. We looked at Ed.

   ‘What do you think?’

   ‘Fantastic!’

   ‘A masterpiece.’

   ‘You’re a genius, Ed.’

   ‘He is, isn’t he?’

   Ed looked at us both. ‘Really?’

   ‘Absolutely.’

   ‘Oh yes.’

    We smiled at each other. All of us, playing the game.

   ‘I mean, I could make you a regular one. If you’d prefer.’

   There was silence, but only for a moment.

   ‘That’d be great.’

   ‘Yeah, well maybe just make one up. And then we can compare them eh?’

    He smiled. ‘Okay. I can do that. Or maybe a hot spritz?’

   ‘Regular Negroni is fine.’

   ‘Oh yes. Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

   Ed turned back to the optics behind the bar. Dario and I took another sip from our drinks, grimaced at each other, and then forced smiles onto our faces as a cold blast came from outside and a customer entered.

   ‘Sorry to gatecrash the party, everyone, but it seems I’m being Babbo Natale tonight.’ Fede stood there, a gift-wrapped box in her hands and a Santa Claus hat on her head. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Or should that be Mamma Natale. Although I’m not sure that’s even a thing. Ed, could you make me a Negroni?’

   ‘I tell you what,’ I said, ‘we can do better than that. Why don’t you have one of Ed’s Festive Negronis? In fact, why don’t you have mine?’

   Ed passed two regular Negronis across the bar. Fede smiled and picked one up. ‘Oh, that’s very kind, but that doesn’t seem very fair. I’ll just have one of these instead.’ She sipped at it, and her face lit up. ‘Ah, that’s what I needed. Now, just to establish ground rules. I’m not doing any of that Ho Ho Ho nonsense. And I’m not going to ask you if you’ve been good.’ She stared at me. ‘Especially you.’

   ‘Could I sit on your knee?,’ I suggested. The Festive Negroni must have been stronger than I thought.

   ‘Don’t push it.’

   I looked at the package in her hands. ‘Early present?’

   ‘I think it must be.’

   ‘I thought I’d found them all.’ Dario and I started to laugh, but then I saw the expression on her face and stopped.

   ‘It arrived a few weeks ago. There are still some hiding places you haven’t found.’

   ‘There are?’ I turned to Dario. ‘Damn, Emily’s let me down.’

   Fede sighed. ‘Anyway, you were supposed to get it today. It’s addressed to the two of you.’

   ‘Dario?’ I nodded at the package.

   He shook his head. ‘No. You should.’

   ‘No. Should definitely be you.’

   ‘Oh, let me.’ Fede rang a fingernail along the side of the box and tore off the wrapping paper. She looked inside and smiled.

   ‘Take a look.’

   Dario and I peered inside. Two large bottles of Nastro Azzurro. And two large beer glasses, of the type that no-one else in Mestre ever used.

   ‘There’s a card as well.’

   I tore it open. It was a postcard, not a Christmas card.  Azure blue seas and golden sands stretched away into the distance as Toni, resplendent in Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses beamed out at us.

   ‘Where is he?’, said Dario.

   ‘The Grenadines. I think. He says something about island hopping. He says he’s got a lock-up in Mestre full of stuff from the bar. And he thought we’d like to have these.’

   ‘Wow.’

   ‘He says he’s thinking about us. But mainly he’s thinking about cocktails and snorkelling. He says he’s enjoying it so much he’s going to go back next year.’

   And Dario smiled at me and rubbed his eyes, and reached over to hug me.

   ‘He’s got his own Yule Ritual now, vecio.’

In memory of dad, whose pint glass from the Old Kings Arms now rests in the drinks cabinet.

Nathan takes a well-deserved holiday next year, as we’re off to meet The Magus of Sicily in July. But, never fear, he’ll be back for Christmas next year and in a full-length novel in 2026.

My thanks to all of you for your support and, of course, to Hawkwind for the title.

And wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.