Deep Red

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One of the pleasures of the annual Festive story, is the chance to fill in a little more back story for Nathan and friends. As I always say, they’re canon if you want them to be. This particular story takes place in between the events of The Venetian Game and Vengeance in Venice.

Apart from Noddy Holder personally bellowing those famous words into your ear, nothing says “It’s Christmas” quite like a Tuesday night in Mestre.

‘Cheers, vecio.’

‘Cheers, Dario.’

We clinked glasses.

‘All finished for the year, then?’

He grinned. ‘All finished now until Epiphany. Two weeks of freedom. Well, I call it that but it’s not really. Never is with a baby in the house. And then it’ll be up to Trieste to see the in-laws.’

‘They must be excited. First Christmas for little Emily.’

He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Nat, man, I’m excited. My little girl’s first Christmas, you know? And she won’t remember it, it’ll just be another day to her.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But I’ll remember it. Anyway, enough about me. What are you doing? Or should I say, where are you going to be?’

‘We thought about Fede’s place on the Lido. Or her mother’s, in Chioggia. But then I decided the Consular Residence would be suitably impressive. I sent them both proper invitations and everything.’

‘Nice.’

‘Trouble is, I’m a bit worried that I might have raised expectations a little high, and Federica’s mother might be disappointed when she sees that the British Diplomat’s Consular Residence is rather more humble than she might have expected. Secondly, she’s not been introduced to Gramsci.’

Dario winced.

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I’m doing the cooking. Last year, Gramsci and I subsisted on frozen pizza. This year is going to be different. The whole traditional Dickensian Christmas experience.’

‘Terrible social hardship and cholera?’

‘More like – ‘ I did my best Alastair Sim impression – ‘you, boy! Fetch me the finest goose in old London Town’.

‘Goose? You have that for Christmas in England?’

‘We used to. It’s something we’ve forgotten. To be honest, I’ve never cooked it before. How hard can it be, right?’

Dario shrugged. ‘Who knows. There’s an agriturismo we go to for St Martin’s Day. They’re good at it.’

‘Nice.’ A thought struck me. ‘Hang on, I hadn’t thought about that. St Martin’s Day was only, what, six weeks ago. Is it a bit weird to be cooking goose again?’

‘Not ideal if you’re a goose, I suppose. But I see what you’re doing. It sounds nice.’

‘It’ll be more than nice, Dario. It’ll be an event. Christmas crackers, party hats, Hawkwind’s Yule Ritual on the stereo.’

He frowned. ‘Does that count as Christmas music?’

‘It’s got the word Yule in it. Of course it does. Anyway, I’ve ordered a goose from a butcher on Giudecca. Cost me a fortune, but they tell me the geese are all hand-reared and listen to classical music.’

‘Wow.’

‘I’m taking no chances, Dario. Marta – Fede’s mum – is going to realise what a sound chap her daughter’s boyfriend is.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work, Nat.’

‘It’ll be worth every moment, I’m sure. Oh and there’s one other thing.’ I held my hands out towards him. ‘What do you see?’

‘Er. Nothing.’

‘Exactly!’

‘I don’t understand.’

I tapped the third finger of my left hand, where a faint white imprint could still be seen.

‘The ring?’

‘Yep. I heard from my solicitor a week ago. Another three to four months and I’ll be a free man again.’

‘Wow. Congratulations.’ He paused. ‘And how’s the almost-ex?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. And so is Kiril.’

‘Kiril?’

‘Bulgarian ski instructor. They met last Christmas. The one I spent alone with Gramsci. But, hey, I’m over it now. So the ring has come off forever. And, with a bit of luck, it might even pay for the goose!’

‘Nice one. I’m glad it’s working out. You all sorted for presents?’

‘Absolutely, I am. Both Federica and Marta. Nothing too expensive, nothing too flashy, but all immaculately tasteful.’

‘Brilliant. Sounds like you’ve thought it all through.’

‘Oh, I have.’

‘What about New Year’s Eve?’

My beer was halfway to my mouth. ‘What?’

‘New Year’s Eve. You know. Red underwear.’

‘You what?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Red underwear for New Year’s Eve. For good luck, you know?’

I stared at him in silence for a moment, and then burst out laughing. ‘You bastard. You had me going there for a moment.’

‘Nat, I’m not joking. How long have you been in Italy?’

‘Coming up for ten years now.’

‘And you never did the red underwear thing for New Year’s Eve?’

‘Dario, seriously, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You don’t do this in Britain?’

‘We’re British. Of course we don’t do it.’

‘Wow. Well, that’s something you’d better get sorted.’

‘Are you quite mad?’

‘It’s a very Italian thing, Nat. It brings a great deal of good luck.’

‘It brings a great deal of embarrassment as well.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay. But what if Federica’s got you something?’

‘Then I’ll smile and laugh it off and say I didn’t realise we were doing that.’

‘And she’ll think you’re some kind of uptight, repressed British guy.’

‘I am an uptight, repressed British guy. Look, Fede and I have been together maybe seven months. I’m not sure we’re ready to take our relationship to that level yet. I mean, how long were you and Vally together before – before – you know – ?’

‘I think maybe the following Monday. Hey, you want to do the whole traditional English Christmas thing, great. But this is a traditional Italian thing. You could kind of meet in the middle?’

‘A grand meeting of civilisations over a pair of pants? I don’t think so. Look, I’ll compromise and cook musetto and lentils for New Year. But that’s it. And, come on, there’s no way Federica would have gone out and bought me a pair of pants.’ I paused. ‘Would she?’

But Dario only smiled…

—–

‘I can never remember what you English call these,’ said Marta. She reached out and made to pat my chest, before drawing back as if embarrassed. 

‘This? A sweater, I suppose. Or perhaps a jumper.’

She smiled. ‘A jumper. A strange word. You’d think that would make it easier to remember. At any rate, it’s very colourful.’

I looked down at the pattern. Snowmen, Santa Clauses, Christmas trees and snowflakes all mixed together in a pattern that clearly suggested the wearer was in the most festive of spirits and nothing was going to stop him.

‘And the words?’

‘Nadolig Llawen. “Merry Christmas” in Welsh.’

‘ I don’t think I understand.’

‘I went to university in Aberystwyth. I have vague memories of buying this. I think it must have shrunk a little over time, but it still fits well enough for one day a year.’ I patted my stomach and the action was enough to activate the small concealed button on the inside of the jumper. Once upon a time it had bleeped a cheery “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”. Now, the victim of multiple washes and a near-exhausted battery, it stuttered through an atonal nightmare that Karlheinz Stockhausen might have scribbled down had he awoken from the blackest of nightmares on Christmas night.

‘How wonderful,’ said Marta. ‘Do they all do that?’

‘More than you might think. But this was cutting-edge at the time.’ I patted my stomach once more and immediately regretted it as the tune warbled out again; this time stumbling slower and slower towards a final, despairing bzzt.

‘And everyone wears these? Every year?’

‘I think there might even be a law.’

Gramsci lay, contentedly, amongst a pile of discarded Christmas wrappings; occasionally swatting a scrunched-up ball across the room in the hope that one of us would throw it back.

Stripping down the goose carcass, I thought, would make for a hearty soup and a good few litres of stock. There was sufficient fat to keep me in roast potatoes until the next festive season. And the remains of the Christmas pudding, I’d explained to Federica and Marta, would make for splendid breakfast fried up in butter tomorrow morning.

They’d both looked at me, unsure as to whether I’d been joking.

There was washing up as well, of course. Lots of it. Fatty with goose grease and gravy stains, it was not going to be a pleasure. But that was tomorrow’s problem. In the meantime, Martin Barre’s guitar was singing out the final few phrases of “A Winter Snowscape”; a sign that The Jethro Tull Christmas Album had reached its end. Federica, perhaps wisely, had done some research ahead of the game and informed me that – if it really had to be one or the other – the Tull were a more festive musical alternative to Hawkwind.

She patted me on the arm. ‘That was lovely, caro. Our first English Christmas. Wasn’t it mamma?’

Marta smiled. ‘As Federica said, it’s all been lovely. Thank you.’

Fede got to her feet. ‘Come on then mamma. Let’s get you on to the boat.’

‘I can manage that myself, Federica. There’s really no need.’

‘It’s no problem at all.’ Fede kissed me on the cheek. ‘Nathan will be wanting to start on the washing-up, after all.’ She lowered her voice and whispered to me, ‘Sorry, but mamma will be lonely if I don’t spend Christmas evening with her.’

‘Are you sure that’s all right, Mr Sutherland?’, said Marta, a reminder that I hadn’t quite made it to plain old “Nathan” status just yet.

‘Absolutely,’ I smiled. ‘Washing up first,’ I lied, ‘and then Gramsci and I will settle down and watch a Christmas film.’

‘That’s nice. What do you have in mind?’

‘I’ve already done The Brighton Strangler. But for Christmas Day itself, I think it has to be Where Eagles Dare.’

‘I don’t think I know that.’

‘There’s lots of snow, spectacular alpine scenery and Richard Burton machine guns hundreds of Nazis. Perfect Christmas viewing.’

She looked confused but managed to smiled. ‘Oh. Is that another very English thing?’

‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without it, signora.’

‘Nathan has very strange ideas about what constitutes a Christmas film,’ said Fede. ‘What was that horrible thing you made me watch last week?’

‘The Legend of Hell House? It takes place at Christmas. Therefore it’s a Christmas film.’

Neither of them looked convinced, but they smiled anyway. Fede gave me a hug and a kiss and whispered into my ear once more, ‘Well done, caro.’ She raised her voice, ‘I’ll see you New Year’s Eve. And, don’t worry, I’ll have your present.’

The earth seemed to stop moving. Even Gramsci, rustling under his nest of wrapping paper, fell silent.

‘My – present?’

‘Of course. It’s an Italian tradition, isn’t it mamma?’

‘It is,’ Marta smiled, ‘Federica’s told me all about it.’

I turned to Fede. ‘You told your mother?’

‘Of course.’

Marta giggled. ‘But I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I’m not to say a word.’

There were further hugs and kisses, and they made their way out into the darkening streets. 

I closed the door behind them, and then slowly slid down the wall into the crumpled pile of wrapping.’

‘Well now, puss, ‘ I said, ‘New Year’s Eve just became a whole lot more complicated, didn’t it?’

There was a little m’yeep from under the pile, and a paw emerged to send a scrunched up ball flying across the room.

—–

You can cook a musetto forever. A cousin of the more famous cotechino, it’s a deeply savoury and meaty sausage made from the muzzle and head of a pig. The texture might be described as unctuous if you were feeling generous, or gelatinous if you weren’t. A good musetto was a fine thing but, by now, I had come to think that it was a fine thing to have perhaps just once a year.

I had boiled it and boiled it, changing the cooking water twice as the fat ran out, and still it bubbled away as if it was perfectly happy to carry on like this for hours to come. The lentils – the other essential component of the dish – had been ready for hours and sat in a covered pan, ready to be warmed through whenever the musetto decided it had finally had enough. The two of them, eaten together on New Year’s Eve, were supposed to bring good luck. 

And I was all in favour of a bit of good luck. The past twelve months had been relatively kind. On the plus side, I’d met Federica. On the other hand, a man called Arcangelo Moro had tried to kill me. If next year could be more of the same, ideally without the threat of bloody murder, I’d be okay with that; and if boiling a sausage for hour upon hour could help, well, I was prepared to give it a go.

I heard the rattle of keys in the lock, and smiled. We’d exchanged keys to each other’s apartments as a pre-Christmas gift. That felt kind of significant.

Fede gave me a hug and a kiss and smiled as she realised what was cooking.

‘Cotechino?’

‘Better than that. Musetto.’

‘Wow. You’re really going for this, aren’t you?’

‘I meant what I said. I’d do the cooking over the holiday. Christmas Day, British-style. New Year’s Eve, Italian-style. Are you sure your mother didn’t want to come?’ I looked over Fede’s shoulder as if she might be hiding.

‘No, she’s with the same group of friends she’s gone out with on New Year’s Eve for the past twenty years.’

‘That’s nice.’ No Marta, I thought. That, at least, would take the edge of the situation; turning it down from “excruciating” to “mildly embarrassing”.

‘It’s not a reflection on your cooking. Although she did wonder just how anything gets done in the UK between Christmas and New Year.’

‘It doesn’t. The Christmas season – like ourselves – expands a little bit more every year. One day it’ll be like your eighteenth century Carnevale.’

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, flat, parcel wrapped, appropriately, in red. ‘Are we doing presents first?’, she said.

I raised the lid on the musetto, and nodded. ‘We’ve got hours yet.’

‘Well, I got you this. I hope you think it’s okay.’ She made to pass it to me but I shook my head. 

‘Tell you what, why don’t you open yours first?’ I passed her a package, considerably smaller than the one she’d offered me. Perhaps just three inches in a height and an inch wide.

She looked puzzled, but smiled once she tore it open. ‘Lipstick?’

‘Not just lipstick. Red lipstick. I thought it would be appropriate and something I could buy without any, you know, awkwardness. Hang on, no, I didn’t mean it to sound like that, I meant – ‘

‘You might be babbling again, caro.’

‘I am, aren’t I? Anyway, I bought you this. And then I started to think – hang on, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing lipstick and – you don’t, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now, in a perfect world, that would have been a big bright red lipstick kiss. But, well, we’re not in a perfect world. It was still a nice thought, though.’

‘Well then I started thinking that I’d got everything wrong and this wouldn’t do at all and so – ‘ I shooed Gramsci off the gaily-wrapped box under the Christmas tree and held it out to her. 

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s your New Year’s Eve present. Well, presents, to be exact.’

She looked down into the box. ‘What, all of them?’

‘All of them. Now, let me fix us a brace of Spritzes first. I’ve invented this thing called a Spritz Nathan. It’s a like a regular spritz except you remove all the boring things like water and replace them with Prosecco. I’m hoping it’ll catch on…’

—–

Fede and Gramsci sat amongst the discarded wrappings, surveying their respective hauls. Which, in Gramsci’s case, meant the paper.

Fede ticked her presents off on her fingers. ‘So, I make that – red slippers, red earrings, red necklace, red scarf, red woolly hat, red mittens – ‘

‘Red lipstick,’ I reminded her.

‘Of course.’

‘That’s what started the whole thing off. I realised I’d never seen you in lipstick before. And so all the other red things were by way of compensation.’

‘That’s ever so kind of you caro.’ She leaned over and kissed me. ‘I just don’t understand quite why. It’s all lovely but – ‘

‘As I said, I was panicking and decided to just throw red things at the problem until it went away. It’s like this. I’m a middle-aged British guy who’s only just learned about the whole lucky red pants thing and I’m sorry, I tried, I really did, but when it came right down to it I just couldn’t do it and so…I got you all this.’

‘The “lucky red pants” thing?’

‘Dario told me all about it. Red underwear for new year. Good luck. All that stuff. And as I said, I’m a middle-aged British guy and I didn’t want to seem weird and so – this.’

‘That’s very kind of you caro, but it’s precisely because you’re a middle-aged British guy that I didn’t do the underwear thing.’

‘Hang on. You didn’t?’

‘God, no.’ She started to laugh. ‘You really thought that?’

‘Dario,’ I muttered, and she laughed some more.

‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘You’d better open it up.’

My hands were shaking with relief as a I tore the paper open. And then I started to laugh as well.

A Blu-Ray. Of Dario Argento’s Profondo Rosso.

‘You bought me this?’

She smiled. ‘One of your horrible films. Was I right?’

‘It’s one of my favourites.’ I hugged her. ‘Best girlfriend ever.’

‘I try. And it seemed appropriate.’

I looked at the cover. ‘Well, it’s certainly red. Deep Red!’

‘There’s just one thing though. I don’t have to watch it with you do I?’

‘It’s a Christmas film!’

‘Is it? Is it really?’

‘Well, there’s a special festive Christmas knife murder in the opening scene.’

‘Mmm. Okay. Maybe just the once though.’

I hugged her to me as I heard the musetto boiling away on the stove. It was still, I thought, several hours away from being properly cooked. But that didn’t matter. Perhaps we wouldn’t need any extra luck in the New Year after all.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Cocktails and Crime

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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

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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…

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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

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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

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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!