All looks super! Pricing is definitely gentle.
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Thanks muchly! Will visit when I am there the end of August! (Although link does not work for me.)
sorry about that! here is the link:
not sure what it will be like to get a table in august, we’ve found Venice to be basically empty during the week this time of year and we had to wait for a table.
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The next morning, fortified by the kind of determination that only the promise of deep-fried dough can provide, we set out for Pasticceria Tonolo, following the sage advice of @JenKalb and @Phoenikia in my planning thread, our mission was to acquire and consume Carnivale treats.
We arrived around 10 a.m. to find the place absolutely teaming with people. It was the kind of busy that suggests the pastry shop had somehow discovered the secret to eternal happiness and was now doling it out in convenient, deep-fried portions.
Inside, things had gone feral. People were buying fritte by the dozen, clutching bags of them, as if hoarding provisions for an impending siege. The kitchen, however, appeared to have transcended the normal constraints of time and space, sending out fresh supplies as fast as the crowd could consume them.
Now, I am a man of reason. A man of restraint. A man who, when faced with an unstoppable tide of fried sugar-coated joy, made the prudent decision to order only three. This, I told myself, was an act of discipline. And then I took the first bite.
omigod! The fritte were still warm, golden, and inviting as an old friend. One was filled with zabaglione cream, another with apple, and the third, well, the third was plain and I must admit, I’m sick with regret, because among the offerings, there existed a fritte filled with cannoli cream and chocolate chips, and I had, in a moment of profound misjudgment, overlooked it. It is indeed a cruel, cruel world.
This, I realized, was a dangerous place for a man like me. A man whose willpower was already hanging by a thread, and that thread was now being actively gnawed upon by the demon of regret. Fortunately, my better half was there to intervene, employing the time-honored strategy of grabbing me by the arm and dragging me away before I did something drastic, like order another six dozen.
And so I left Venice without surrendering to a second round of fritte. I suppose, technically, that means I won. And yet, I can’t help but feel that somewhere, in the tally book of the universe, a little mark was made under the column labeled Missed Opportunities.
best,
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Truly a breakfast of champions! Well sir and madam…
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*well done 
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so envious!! laughing too!
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Whaaat? That isn’t the secret to eternal happiness?
Great report. Thanks for sharing un assaggio of happiness with us.
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And so, at last, our final night in Venice was upon us. We had secured tickets to, what else, a Verdi program, because if one is going to do the thing, one may as well do it properly. But first, we resolved to fortify ourselves with a few stops at the city’s famed bacari.
I set about researching a route that would achieve a delicate balance, something that would lead us gracefully to the doors of the music venue, pleasantly full, ever so slightly tipsy, but not so far gone as to mistake the conductor for an enemy officer. But Venice is stuffed with bacari and researching a crawl was an endless loop of recommendations, reviews, and blogs, all suggesting that if we failed to eat one particular deep-fried seafood thing at a specific, dimly lit establishment hidden behind an unmarked door and accessible only via interpretive dance, we might as well not have come to Venice at all.
Then I stumbled upon an article by Stephen Raichlen, and I knew it was a sign. Raichlen’s books had been my gateway drug into an obsessive, some might say deeply unhealthy, preoccupation with cooking, competing in, and judging barbecue. If Raichlen had blessed a particular bacaro, then by the sacred laws of culinary destiny, we were going there.
Thus, our first stop was Cantina Do Spade, which, according to Raichlen, served a meatball so magnificent that failing to order it was equivalent to visiting the Grand Canal and refusing to acknowledge the presence of water:
“To embark on a cicchetti crawl in Venice without trying Do Spade’s polpetta di spianata calabra would be like visiting San Marco and overlooking the basilica. It’s a meatball, but oh, what a meatball: fiery Calabrian sausage mashed with smoked cheese and potatoes, lightly breaded and fried.”
This sounded incredible. It also sounded like precisely the sort of thing I would remember to order.
I did not remember to order it.
Instead, in a display of what I can only describe as misplaced enthusiasm, I went for a piece of melted Gorgonzola with pancetta, caramelized onions, and a small cluster of edible flowers that seemed to be there more for moral support than actual flavor. Then a simple ham with olive oil. Both were excellent, but they were not, crucially, meatballs.
It was only after our first glass of wine had vanished into the Venetian mist that I realized my error. I still needed to order the meatballs. And was that freshly fried mozzarella in carrozza making its way out of the kitchen? And there, a fried squash blossom stuffed with cod?
Another glass of wine. Several more cicchetti. At long last, the meatballs. And they were everything Raichlen had promised, so much so that we were forced to order another round.
And thus, after an absurd amount of research and planning, everything went joyfully, gloriously off the rails. But we were full. We were happy. And, as an unexpected bonus, we still had tickets to Verdi.
Best,
Ps and here’s my wife’s latest missive:
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I greatly enjoy your writing.
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Thank you, that’s kind of you to say. There was a time when writing felt effortless, when ideas arrived fully formed, and I could barely keep up with them. Now, more often than not, I find myself simply trying to get the sentences right, shaping them, correcting them, making sure they stand as they should. But Italy, with its light and its history, seems to have loosened something in me, nudging the words back toward a more creative place.
best,
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This has been evident and a pleasure to behold!
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Where’s da meat-a-balls? Did you forget to take a pic, or am I missing something?
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they are on the left side of the last food picture, easy to mistake, as they are fried.
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Ah, gotcha 
. I was looking for ballz in red sauce Everything looks delicious 
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We leave Venice today but have decided to extend our trip, with a first stop in Ravenna to see Byzantine mosaics. I’m thinking of starting another thread for the rest of the journey, but before we go, I wanted to share a final reflection on our time in Venice:
Venice is not a city. Not really. It is a story someone told a long time ago, whispered over dark water and carried forward through centuries by the slap of oars and the murmur of voices in hidden courtyards. It is a place where the buildings lean in close, listening, and the streets do not lead you where you think they will, but where they think you ought to go.
It is a city of bridges and alleys, of sudden dead ends and unexpected wonders. It is the quiet moment in an ancient church where time seems to pause just long enough for you to feel the weight of history pressing in right before you step outside and are immediately lured into a bacaro for a glass of wine and a plate of cicchetti, elbow to elbow with locals and tourists.
The food when done right, is rich and rustic, the sort of thing that makes you momentarily forget where you are, because all that matters is the perfect pairing of pasta and wine. The pastries at Tonolo alone are enough to make a person believe in the divine, if only because it is impossible to eat a fresh, warm fritta and not feel that the universe, despite its occasional bureaucratic inefficiencies, got at least one thing exactly right 
Venice is a city that asks you to slow down, to look, to listen. And when you leave, you do so with the sense that you haven’t just visited a place, you’ve stepped into a story. one that, no matter where you go next, will stay with you.
best,
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Again, beautifully written. I’ve never been interested in visiting Venice, but you may have just inspired me. I’m not even kidding.
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Thanks! Coming from a family of professional writers, I earned my black sheep status by choosing a tech degree. But growing up around great writers and having an English minor, definitely gave me a leg up in my career.
Anyhow, if you do decide to go to Venice, try to pick a time when it’s not crowded. I think our experience would have been quite different if we had to fight through throngs of people to gain access to art, music and restaurants.
Best,
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May or June. We will see!
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I am often (when I am there) in Venice in late August/early September, and I stay in Cannaregio. Probably more crowded than when you were there, but not crazy as long as you stay away from the very touristy areas. You describe well the hush that is Venice, especially in the evening, as everywhere you turn there is the quiet, lapping water. I am so glad you enjoyed Venice. Obviously, you are not alone; but I do think you are singular! Grazie.
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