Let me tell you about the day I saved my darling niece from culinary catastrophe in Venice – though she’d probably argue she was perfectly capable of identifying tourist traps without my intervention. Charming naivety.
There we were, four souls wandering through San Marco Square: Glenda and her ever-patient Rashid, my sister ALPIE looking impeccably British despite the Mediterranean heat, and myself – dressed in silk because one simply doesn’t compromise standards for sightseeing.
The sun was merciless as we approached what I can only describe as tourist exploitation incarnate: a restaurant whose aggressively “authentic” name practically screamed desperation. The establishment reeked of financial predation disguised as hospitality.
“Rashid, darling, absolutely not,” I declared, my silk scarf catching the breeze as I surveyed the carnage with practiced disdain.
The hawker materialized – stained apron, dead smile, the hollow eyes of someone who’d sold their soul to TripAdvisor. “Beautiful ladies! Special menu today – fresh seafood, very authentic!“
ALPIE adjusted her perfectly tailored jacket with aristocratic precision. “Mon chéri, if it’s so fresh, why does it smell like yesterday’s regret?“
While Glenda maintained her diplomatic composure (such restraint, that girl), I catalogued the horror: plastic lobsters performing their eternal death dance in grimy windows, laminated menus sticky with tourist tears, prices that would bankrupt small nations.
“Sweetie,” I murmured, stepping closer with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to navigating both drawing rooms and danger, “that ‘catch of the day’ has been swimming in freezer burn since the Medici ruled Florence.“
Our persistent waiter waved his tragic menu like a surrender flag. “Spaghetti Carbonara, only €35! Very traditional!“
“Traditional highway robbery,” ALPIE muttered with the authority of someone who’d witnessed actual bandits – her British accent cutting through Mediterranean chaos like a well-sharpened blade.
Rashid, blessed man, steered us toward a narrow alley where actual Venetians consumed food that wouldn’t require liquidating assets. Behind us, the hawker pivoted to fresh cruise ship casualties – matching fanny packs marking them as prime targets.
And that’s how I saved dinner in the floating city of financial ruin. Some call it cynicism; I call it public service with excellent taste.
Travel Wisdom from VAL: When restaurant menus feature more languages than the United Nations and prices suggesting the chef moonlights selling Ferraris, keep walking. Venice’s treasures hide in shadows, not spotlights.
The things I do for family.
All Around The World 