He just didn’t like water, or boats or being piloted everywhere in one of these low-riding gondola things that Venetian tourists seemed to view as so romantic. All the same, there was no way to get from their hotel to the restaurant he’d selected from the guidebook unless they went via water, and so again they climbed into a water taxi and set off.
The driver chatted to them in a mix of English and Italian. Max truly only grasped every other word the guy was saying, so he tried to smile and pretend he was too wrapped up in the city sights to talk.
Naomi leaned forward to talk to the driver, asking him about sights as they glided down the Grand Canal and asking him how to say basic words and phrases in Italian.
Finally they reached the area of the restaurant and disembarked from the water taxi.
There were only a few other diners—apparently a Thursday evening in December was not the busiest time in Venice for tourists—and Max and Naomi were given a quiet table with a nice view of the canal.
Nice if you enjoyed looking at the water,Max thought bleakly, and turned his attention to the menu.
Once again his lack of Italian was flustering him. He read through the dishes suspiciously. Culinary exploration was not one of his strong points; in fact, when he and Naomi had first started going out, it had been a bit of an inside joke between them.
After a while, though, it turned into a slight sore spot. Naomi loved ethnic foods, trying new recipes, and sampling new cuisine at new restaurants. For Max, the definition of “trying a new food” meant using a different brand of ketchup on his burger. He preferred good old English cooking—burgers, meat-and-potatoes dishes, that sort of thing—and tried new stuff only with the greatest of reluctance.
As far as Italian food, spaghetti and meatballs was about as familiar as he got with the cuisine.Antipasto? That sounded like something that would require an antacid later on.Secondi? He didn’t know what it was, but it sounded like a side effect of a bad illness.Brioches? Were they made of shoe leather? There were plenty of other items on the menu that he couldn’t even pronounce.
When the waiter finally appeared to take their order, Max explained haltingly his trouble with the choices. The waiter smiled and explained several of the dishes.
Finally, Max settled on polenta with grilled meat and vegetables. The way the waiter explained it, the polenta sounded like a kind of cornmeal porridge, which seemed like a weird choice for a dinner item, but he supposed it was better than pumpkin ravioli or calf liver and onions, both of which the waiter explained were Venetian specialities and seemed to think were very fine dishes.
Max ordered a bottle of red wine for the table while Naomi picked out her own meal—some type of fried sardine and onion dish, risotto, and vegetables. It didn’t sound in the least bit appetising to Max, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
The food arrived quickly and they dug in. Max decided the polenta wasn’t half bad; at least there was a generous helping of meat to be had, though he couldn’t help wishing for a bottle of ketchup to smother it in. He poked through the vegetables and wondered idly if Italian supermarkets sold anything like Heinz; he could buy a bottle and carry it around with him.
Dessert was at least a touch more familiar; Naomi ordered tiramisu, that strange, spongy creation which looked like cake but was soaked in espresso and a dark cocoa powder that made his nose feel itchy.
For himself he managed to order, of all things, a small plate of fried doughnuts and a cup of coffee. The doughnuts were suspiciously filled with raisins and bits of orange, and the coffee was extremely strong, but at least it somewhat resembled something he might find back at home in England.
He was pleased at least to see that Naomi was enjoying the meal though. She’doohed andaahed at every dish the waiter presented and blissfully downed two glasses of wine.
They’d lingered over their meal for over two hours; now she seemed quite ready to return to the hotel for an early bedtime.
“Great food,” Max exclaimed, more enthusiastically than he felt, as he paid the bill and the hailed yet another water taxi.How many more of these meals will I have to eat? Not to mention get water taxis…. Let’s see, tomorrow is Friday and our flight leaves Monday morning…
The driver helped them into the boat and they sat down at the back, Max somewhat awkwardly, Naomi leaning her head on his shoulder.
“This was a good idea,” she surprised him by saying. He put one arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently, forgetting momentarily the uncomfortable rocking of the boat.
The sun had set, leaving Venice dark and quiet for the night. City lights reflected on the canal and lent the scene a sort of peace that even Max could appreciate. Bright lights twinkled here and there; the city was getting ready for the Christmas season.
Back at the hotel they hung up their coats, scarves and gloves and turned down the bed. After the earlier flight and the heavy dinner, Max was ready for an early bedtime.
Naomi’s hand wavered momentarily over the phone, and Max hesitated, holding a spare blanket. Then she let out a massive yawn, covering her mouth in surprise. “Oh my goodness! I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do,” he said smiling. “You’re just worn out from the journey and all the excitement of finally being here.”
“I suppose that is it,” she agreed.
Max duly spread the extra blanket over the bed for added warmth and watched with relief as Naomi switched off the lamp and curled up in bed, phone call forgotten.
He switched off his own bedside lamp and curled up next to her, breathing in her vanilla-pear perfume and stroking her hair as she snored softly.
Maybe Venice can work it’s magic on us yet,he thought sleepily, before he too drifted off to sleep.
