Souvenirs: Polpette

I fell in love with Venice before I ever set foot in the city. I was 19 and an undergraduate at Berkeley, taking Elizabeth Honig’s class on “cities and commerce.” We began with Venice, at the height of its glory, and ended in Amsterdam, following the northward shift of early modern European commerce. I cannot say what made me love Venice.  I knew the city only as an abstraction, a jumble of maps, myths, and fragmentary images.

The year that I turned 24, I flew to Venice, alone. My Air France flight–loaded with Parisians on holiday–almost left CDG without me. On the plane, I sat next to an elderly couple. The husband, a law professor (now retired) at the Sorbonne.  The wife, a fragile, bird-like woman, who fretted endlessly over my decision to travel alone. I confessed that I spoke no Italian, a confession that only heightened her alarm. Our flight over the Alps was magical. We floated over the French-Italian border (“la frontiere,” according to my new friend) in the middle of a crystalline afternoon. As we flew over Mont Blanc, I could almost reach out and touch the Alps.  We descended into a shimmering Byzantine mosaic.  The Venetian lagoon opened at our feet. From the sky I could see the city, a mirage of red roofs and gold stone. (Later, I would realize that the stone was actually pure white.  The gold was an illusion, a product of the honeyed Mediterranean light reflecting on the Lagoon.)

The real Venice enchanted me.

I was also very lonely. I ate every meal on my own, and stayed in a hotel about 30 minutes from the city, in Mestre, Venice’s industrial twin. During that first visit, I experienced little of Venetian cuisine. I bought sandwiches from carts and survived largely on breakfast (from the hotel, generous, with capucchino and fresh breads, brioche with almond paste and fruit) and gelati.

I didn’t actually eat any real, sit-down meals in Venice until I returned in 2007 for the Biennale. I wound up dining with the Senator and his wife at Do Forni. I also made friends with another Taiwanese expatriate, a young woman studying Italian at the university and working, part-time, as a freelance translator.

With her, I finally experienced the range of Venetian cuisine. One hot summer night, she took me on a tour of Venetian cicchetti.  We drank white wine (1 euro per glass) and ate our way through the city. Some of the dishes were quite complex. Others were simple and relied entirely on fresh produce and quality ingredients. At our first bar, we ate fresh chilled melon (provided, gratis, by the house), a squid salad, fried mussels and baby squid with bits of fennel (the batter was light, lacy, and somewhat spicy, with white pepper and something quieter, more red), and marinated sardines (sarde in saor).

At a small bar in Canareggio (near the Jewish quarter), we bought polpettini (tiny meatballs) on toothpicks, and ate them while wandering Canareggio’s cobblestone streets. We finished the evening at the water’s edge, drinking a Spritz in Dorsodoro, and watching boats (mostly luxury yachts) cross the Lagoon like so many glittering jewels.

After I returned to California, I missed Venice, and decided to try my hand at polpettini, because meatballs, unlike other Venetian recipes, do not rely exclusively on the Lagoon’s bounty.  My recipe probably bears little resemblance to the ones that we ate in Venice, but they bring the city back to me.

An adulterated polpette recipe

Ingredients: Stale white bread, milk, ground pork, ground veal, minced garlic, sweet onion, an egg, a touch of cream (if you like), grated cheese (Parmesan or something similar), diced herbs (parsley is classic, sometimes I use oakleaf-arugula, which is bitter and spicy, and tastes like a bolder cousin to the common ‘roquette’ or arugula), white wine. Spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, freshly ground black pepper.

Soak your breadcrumbs in a milk and a touch of cream (if you like, it makes the meatballs that much richer).  When the breadcrumbs are soft, but not soggy, mix them with the ground meat (you may choose to omit the veal) in a large bowl, along with the finely minced garlic, sweet onion, grated cheese, spices, and herbs.  Crack an egg into the bowl, and mix by hand until the mixture is smooth and shiny.  This is our “dough.”  You might add a splash of white wine at this point.

Form the “dough” into walnut-sized balls.  Sit them on a plate, and prepare another clean plate. Be sure to make small meatballs.  If they are too large, they will not cook properly.

In a skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil.  You will fry the meatballs in the oil.  Wait until the oil is very hot, then drop in your first batch of meatballs.  There is no need to heat up a large quantity of oil–the meatballs are not “deep fried,” but pan fried.  Brown all sides of the meatball.  If the sides are springy to the touch (if the meatball no longer feels soft and damp, but like a firm ball), it is ready to eat.

Fry the meatballs in batches, do not crowd.  They taste the best when they are well-browned on the outside.

Note that your proportions should be at least 2 parts meat to 1 part breadcrumbs.  The breadcrumbs are a filler, and if you use too much, the meatballs will not hold together well.  I sometimes use 3 parts meat to 1 part bread. The breadcrumbs, however, soften the meatballs’ texture and adds delicacy.  You may ask your butcher to grind your pork a bit finer than usual.  You may omit the spices if the recipe seems too fussy.  Do not use too much garlic – a single clove is quite enough – or your meatballs will be overly fragrant. The polpettini should taste clean and simple.

For further information, you might consult this recipe for polpettini, written by Richard Corbo of Ducca (San Francisco).

Spritz

After a few scoops of rich gelato (made with fresh milk from the Dolomites), it’s time for a spritz.

Ingredients: Prosecco, Campari, sliced limes, ice.

Ratio of prosecco to Campari: about 3 parts prosecco to 2 parts Campari.  The Campari gives the sparkling wine a bitter, herbal flavor.  A lower proportion of Campari to prosecco yields a sweeter drink.

Pour prosecco and Campari over ice. Garnish with a slice of lime.

For an account of my visit to the Venice Biennale, read my 2-part piece on KQED.com: Part 1 introduces the Biennale and discusses the 2007 Biennale’s postcolonial themes, Part 2 discusses the 2007 Biennale’s engagement with the nation-state and the long 19th century.