A meal worth the waiter

LUNCH on the fly at a Venetian institution.

Trattoria alla Madonna

IS it possible that a certain look of disdain, a soul-penetrating, judgmental stare followed by a quick, dismissive turn of the head, can be a national trait? In Italy, of course, the answer is yes. And in my experience, the master of this move is a waiter at the venerable Venetian institution, Trattoria alla Madonna.

I have come to Venice as the departure point of a Mediterranean cruise and my time in the city is limited. I have merely a day and a half to reacquaint myself with the sights and smells and tastes of the ancient centre before heading off to the next destination. And so I am more than happy to accept the recommendation of a Canadian couple, Brian and Eileen, veterans of more than 70 cruises, on their favourite place to lunch in the watery city.

Trattoria alla Madonna is said to be a haunt of those gondoliers who ply their trade at the nearby tourist mecca of the Rialto Bridge. And so the first challenge the restaurant provides is to find my way there from the central Piazza San Marco through the maze of streets, alleyways and throngs of sightseers, across the Grand Canal and back into the puzzle of piazzas on the other side.

Fortified by a strawberry and pistachio gelato purchased just to get practice in handling euros again (no, really), it is easy to make a morning out of shopping and window gazing, taking a chance on any old street and suddenly finding a Gucci gallery only metres from a cramped little handbag and Murano glass shop.

But finally it is time to cross the Rialto, "the queer whale-back of the bridge, humped above the markets", as travel writer Jan Morris describes it. After just a short walk beside the river and then plunging in to Calle della Madonna, I find the restaurant easily, a glowing golden-yellow sign illuminating the entrance.

And then there is the confrontation. I am a lone female tourist of indeterminate age (or so I like to think), adrift in a foreign land. He is at the peak of his profession, wearing the crisp white shirt and black tie uniform of the Italian waiter, who seems somehow superior to his peers: more assured, more serious than those who serve just about anywhere else in the world. With a long, steady gaze, he quickly assesses my life so far, tots up my place in the world and allocates my seating accordingly.

I am placed at a tiny table facing the entrance, only a metre or two from the door to the kitchen and within sight of a cabinet full of seafood piled high on floes of ice. Next to me at an identical table is another lone diner, the two of us occupying the first and second places in a small row of seats. At first I think it's an insult, piling the singletons together. But then I get it: we can watch all the drama and the ebb and flow of the waiters and food and customers as if we have front-row seats at the opera.

And this restaurant is a work of art. Established in 1954, the place has a comfortably formal atmosphere. Paintings cover every wall of the several dining rooms. In the centre is what appears to be an ancient vine grappling with a wooden pole up to the roof, a clue to the restaurant's origins as an osteria, serving simple food and wine. But it's the seafood that is the defining element here. In the fresh produce cabinet on display are myriad pink-tinged shells piled with snowy crabmeat decorated with greenery ready to send out to the tables. There are lobsters and squid, silvery fish and orange shrimp, all waiting for their moment on the plate. One of the specialties is squid-ink spaghetti; the seafood risotto, by contrast, looks angelically golden. There are choices for those who don't like seafood, including liver, traditionally served in Venice with onions and polenta.

I opt for a simple breaded fish with a side dish of vegetables. The waiter nods, as if I have chosen appropriately, although perhaps not adventurously. I munch on grissini and admire the parade until my meal arrives: the fish is light and clean and delicious. The vegetables are baby zucchini, carrot, potato, peas and spinach flavoured with a little butter; they remind me of my grandfather's backyard vegetable garden -- fresh and unadorned. For dessert, the house concoction of pastry and custard, which collapses into a satisfyingly gooey mess on the plate, is ready to be devoured

The waiter seems happy that I am happy -- he has once again fulfilled his professional duty and sent another satisfied diner on their way.

Checklist
Trattoria alla Madonna, Calle della Madonna, San Polo, 594 Venice. Closed Wednesdays. Two courses from about E35. Bookings only for parties of four or more. More: ristoranteallamadonna.com.