Gelato

I went out with a friend today, ostensibly for coffee and gelato, but neither of us had had lunch so we both ended up with sandwiches. Upon completing our sandwiches, we moved on to cappuccinos, but decided to give the gelato a pass—this time.

However, our delightful waiter—who from time to time during the meal would seem to randomly stop next to our table looking up at the wall perpendicular to us (we realized after this happened the first time that there was a TV on the wall we hadn’t noticed)—decided that we could not leave without gelato, so he brought us a plate with samples. Two tiny spoons each of four different flavors, selected to pair with our cappuccinos. Good man. I’ll be going back to that restaurant.

The moment brought to memory another gelato experience, in Saint Mark’s Square in Venice. I’d wandered the city all day with my parents and we were winding down our time when we got to Piazza San Marco. We took our photos of the basilica and campanile, and of the water taxis going past in the main thoroughfare.

And then we decided, since we were in Italy, and we were in Venice, and it was a nice day, we should get some gelato and cappuccinos at a café. We figured a café on Piazza San Marco could probably handle both.

We found our way to a café with outdoor seating and settled in to watch the tourists and the pigeons for a few moments. If there are vortex points in major cities worldwide which draw in both Japanese tourists and pigeons (a running theory I have), piazza San Marco may be the strongest of them all.

When we turned our attention to the menu, we found out what tourists are willing to pay for gelato and cappuccinos in Venice, and decided that the better part of budgeting was to order a coffee-flavored gelato.

Between bites of velvety cream, hinted with sweetness and the sharp flavor of coffee, I glanced down at the napkin that had come with our gelato. “Quadri,” it read, “dal 1638.”

My Italian is less than impressive (though better than my French, but that’s not saying much) but I determined from my context clues what “dal” meant. And so, spoonful by spoonful, watching the couples kissing out among the pigeons and thinking, “Ahh, Venice,” I ate my coffee gelato at a 363-year-old café in the Old World.