SOME VENETIAN CAFFÈS
EVERY one in Venice has his own particular caffè, according to his own particular needs, sympathies, or tastes. All the artists, architects, and musicians meet at Florian’s; all the Venetians go to the Quadri; the Germans and late Austrians, to the Bauer-Grünwald; the stay-over-nights, to the Oriental on the Riva; the stevedores, to the Veneta Marina below the Arsenal; and my dear friend Luigi and his fellow-tramps, to a little hole in the wall on the Via Garibaldi.
A LITTLE HOLE IN THE WALL ON THE VIA GARIBALDI
These caffès are scattered everywhere, from the Public Garden to the Mestre bridge; all kinds of caffès for all kinds of people—rich, not so rich, poor, poorer, and the very poorest. Many of them serve only a cup of coffee, two little flat lumps of sugar, a hard, brown roll, and a glass of water—always a glass of water. Some add a few syrups and cordials, with a siphon of seltzer. Others indulge in the cheaper wines of the country, Brindisi, Chianti, and the like, and are then known as wine-shops. Very few serve any spirits, except a spoonful of cognac with the coffee. Water is the universal beverage, and in summer this is cooled by ice and enriched by simple syrups of peach, orange, and raspberry. Spirits are rarely taken and intemperance is practically unknown. In an experience of many years, I have not seen ten drunken men,—never one drunken woman,—and then only in September, when the strong wine from Brindisi is brought in bulk and sold over the boat’s rail, literally by the bucket, to whoever will buy.
In the ristoranti—caffès, in our sense—is served an array of eatables that would puzzle the most expert of gourmands. There will be macaroni, of course, in all forms, and risotto in a dozen different ways, and soups with weird, uncanny little devil-fish floating about in them, and salads of every conceivable green thing that can be chopped up in a bowl and drowned in olive oil; besides an assortment of cheeses with individualities of perfume that beggar any similar collection outside of Holland.
Some of these caffès are so much a part of Venice and Venetian life, that you are led to believe that they were founded by the early Doges and are coëval with the Campanile or the Library. Somebody, of course, must know when they first began setting out tables on the piazza in front of Florian’s, or at the Quadri opposite, or yet again at the Caffè al Cavallo, near San Giovanni e Paulo, and at scores of others; but I confess I do not. If you ask the head waiter, who really ought to know (for he must have been born in one of the upper rooms—he certainly never leaves the lower ones), he shrugs his shoulders in a hopeless way and sheds the inquiry with a despairing gesture, quite as if you had asked who laid out San Marco, or who drove the piles under Saint Theodore.
There is, I am convinced, no real, permanent, steady proprietor in any of these caffès—none that one ever sees. There must be, of course, somebody who assumes ownership, and who for a time really believes that he has a proprietary interest in the chairs and tables about him. After a while, however, he gets old and dies, and is buried over in Campo Santo, and even his name is forgotten. When this happens, and it is eminently proper that it should, another tenant takes possession, quite as the pigeons do of an empty carving over the door of the king’s palace.
But the caffè keeps on: the same old marble-top tables; the same old glass-covered pictures, with the impossible Turkish houris listening to the improbable gentleman in baggy trousers; the same serving-counter, with the row of cordials in glass bottles with silver stoppers. The same waiters, too, hurry about—they live on for centuries—wearing the same coats and neckties, and carrying the same napkins. I myself have never seen a dead waiter, and, now I happen to think of it, I have never heard of one.
The head waiter is, of course, supreme. He it is who adds up on his fingers the sum of your extravagances, who takes your money and dives down into his own pocket for the change. He and his assistants are constantly running in and out, vanishing down subterranean stairs, or disappearing through swinging doors, with the agility of Harlequin; you never know where or why, until they pop out again, whirling trays held high over their heads, or bearing in both hands huge waiters loaded with dishes.
The habitués of these caffès are as interesting as the caffès themselves. The Professor comes, of course; you always know where to find him. And the youthful Contessa! She of the uncertain age, with hair bleached to a light law-calf, and a rose-colored veil! And here comes, too, every distinguished or notorious person of high or low degree at the moment in Venice; you have only to take a chair at Florian’s and be patient—they are sure to appear before the music is over. There is the sister of the Archduke, with the straight-backed, pipe-stem-legged officer acting as gentleman-in-waiting; and he does wait, standing bolt upright like a sergeant on dress parade, sometimes an hour, for her to sit down. There is the Spanish Grandee, with a palace for the season (an upper floor with an entrance on a side canal), whose gondoliers wear flaming scarlet, with a crest embossed on brass dinner-plates for arm ornaments; one of these liveried attendants always dogs the Grandee to the caffè, so as to be ready to pull his chair out when his Excellency sits down. Then there are the Royal Academician, in gray tweed knickerbockers, traveling incognito with two friends; the fragments of an American linen-duster brigade, with red guide-books and faces, in charge of a special agent; besides scores of others of every nationality and rank. They are all at Florian’s some time during the day.
You will see there, too, if you are familiar with the inside workings of a favorite caffè, an underground life of intrigue or mystery, in which Gustavo or Florio has a hand—often upon a billet-doux concealed within the folds of a napkin; not to mention the harmless distribution, once in a while, of smuggled cigarettes fresh from Cairo.
Poor Gustavo! The government brought him to book not long ago. For many years he had supplied his patrons, and with delicious Egyptians, too! One night Gustavo disappeared, escorted by two gendarmes from the Department of Justice. Next morning the judge said: “Whereas, according to the accounts kept by the Department of Customs, the duties and expenses due the king on the cigarettes unlawfully sold by the prisoner for years past aggregate two thousand three hundred and ten lire; and whereas, the savings of the prisoner for ten years past, and at the moment deposited to his individual credit in the Banco Napoli, amount to exactly two thousand three hundred and ten lire; therefore, it is ordered, that a sight draft for the exact amount be drawn in favor of the king.” This would entitle Gustavo to the pure air of the piazza; otherwise?—well, otherwise not. Within a week Gustavo was again whirling his tray—a little grayer, perhaps, and a little wiser; certainly poorer. Thus does a tyrannical government oppress its people!
These caffès of the piazza, with their iced carafes, white napkins, and little silver coffee-pots, are the caffès of the rich.
The caffè of the poor is sometimes afloat. No matter how early you are out in the morning, this floating caffè—the cook-boat—has its fire lighted, and the savory smell of its cuisine drifts over the lagoon, long before your gondola rounds the Dogana. When you come alongside you find a charcoal brazier heating a pan of savory fish and a large pot of coffee, and near by a basketful of rolls, fresh and warm, from a still earlier baker. There are peaches, too, and a hamper of figs. The cook-boat is tended by two men; one cooks and serves, and the other rows, standing in the stern, looking anxiously for customers, and calling out in stentorian tones that all the delicacies of the season are now being fried, broiled, and toasted, and that for the infinitesimal sum of ten soldi you can breakfast like a doge.
If you are just out of the lagoon, your blood tingling with the touch of the sea, your face aglow with your early morning bath, answer the cry of one of these floating kitchens, and eat a breakfast with the rising sun lighting your forehead and the cool breath of the lagoon across your cheek. It may be the salt air and the early plunge that make the coffee so savory, the fish and rolls so delicious, and the fruit so refreshing; or it may be because the fish were wriggling in the bottom of the boat half an hour earlier, the coffee only at the first boiling, and the fruit, bought from a passing boat, still damp with the night’s dew!
The caffè of the poorest is wherever there is a crowd. It generally stands on three iron legs under one of the trees down the Via Garibaldi, or over by the landing of the Dogana, or beneath the shade of some awning, or up a back court. The old fellow who bends over the hot earthen dish, supported on these legs, slowly stirring a mess of kidneys or an indescribable stew, is cook, head waiter, and proprietor all in one. Every now and then he fishes out some delicate tidbit—a miniature octopus, perhaps (called fulpe), a little sea-horror, all legs and claws, which he sprawls out on a bit of brown paper and lays on the palm of your left hand, assuming, clearly, that you have all the knives and forks that you need, on your right.
Once in a while a good Bohemian discovers some out-of-the-way place up a canal or through a twisted calle that delights him with its cuisine, its cellar, or its cosiness, and forever after he preëmpts it as his caffè. I know half a dozen such discoveries—one somewhere near San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, where the men play bowls in a long, narrow alley, under wide-spreading trees, cramped up between high buildings; and another, off the Merceria, where the officers smoke and lounge; and still another, quite my own—the Caffè Calcina. This last is on the Rio San Vio, and looks out on the Giudecca, just below San Rosario. You would never suspect it of being a caffè at all, until you had dodged under the little roof of the porch to escape the heat, and opening the side door found yourself in a small, plainly furnished room with little marble-top tables, each decorated with a Siamese-twin salt-cellar holding a pinch of salt and of pepper. Even then it is a very common sort of caffè, and not at all the place you would care to breakfast in twice; that is, not until you had followed the demure waiter through a narrow passage and out into a square patio splashed with yellow-green light and cooled by overlacing vines. Then you realize that this same square patch of ground is one of the few restful spots of the wide earth.
It is all open to the sky except for a great arbor of grape leaves covering the whole area, beneath which, on the cool, moist ground, stand half a dozen little tables covered with snow-white cloths. At one side is a shelter, from behind which come certain mysterious noises of fries and broils. All about are big, green-painted boxes of japonicas, while at one end the oleanders thrust their top branches through the overhanging leaves of the arbor, waving their blossoms defiantly in the blazing sun. Beneath this grateful shelter you sit and loaf and invite your soul, and your best friend, too, if he happens to be that sort of a man.
After having congratulated yourself on your discovery and having become a daily habitué of the delightful patio, you find that you have really discovered the Grand Canal or the Rialto bridge. To your great surprise, the Caffè Calcina has been the favorite resort of good Bohemians for nearly a century. You learn that Turner painted his sunset sketches from its upper windows, and that dozens of more modern English painters have lived in the rooms above; that Whistler and Rico and scores of others have broken bread and had toothsome omelets under its vines; and, more precious than all, that Ruskin and Browning have shared many a bottle of honest Chianti with these same oleanders above their heads, and this, too, in the years when the Sage of Brantwood was teaching the world to love his Venice, and the great poet was singing songs that will last as long as the language.