Harry’s Bar, Venice
“The Contessa is not at home, my Colonel,” he said. “They believe you might find her at Harry’s.”
“You find everything on earth at Harry’s.”
“Yes, my Colonel. Except, possibly, happiness.”
For any Hemingway addict, a visit to Harry’s Bar in Venice is a must. Hemingway drank at this little place; he ate there; he hung out with the owners; and, of course, he wrote about it.
I’m not a Hemingway addict. But I am a cocktail geek. And my son is a carpaccio fiend.
Ergo, since Harry’s Bar is one of extremely few places in the whole world which can lay claim to the creation not only of a classic cocktail – the Bellini – but a classic dish – the Carpaccio – and since we are in Venice, we are going.
A decision which requires a deep intake of breath. Because this tiny place is not just an official national landmark, but one of the most expensive restaurants in Italy.
One popular view of Harry’s Bar is that it’s a tourist trap. A look at the frontage should disabuse you of that.
Although Harry’s Bar is in every guidebook, it is relatively hard to find, down an alley round the back of Saint Mark’s square – and, before the bridge was built, it was extremely hard to find.
Which is not to say that tourists don’t come here. Of course they do, us among them.
But Harry’s hasn’t gone the Harrod’s route. The sole concession to icon status is a postcard you get with your (substantial) bill.
The interior, is neutral, clean lines, vaguely modernist, discreet. Fundamentally timeless.
And Harry’s is small. I mean, really small. There are a couple of tables of discreetly wealthy Italians, with the kinds of tans and crisp shirts that take a lot of money to buy, and some bar tables reserved for the inevitable tourists.
We land up at the Italian end. Because we’re coming not just for Harry’s Bar Bellinis but for Harry’s Bar Bellinis with Harry’s Bar carpaccio.
We order, duly, one Bellini, one Virgin Bellini (the boy, even in Italy, isn’t old enough for an alcoholic one, and our waiter cringes almost visibly at his order of a Virgin Mojito), plus one large Cipriani Carpaccio to share.
The Bellini arrives with little fanfare in an unfussy, heavy-bottomed tumbler.
And it’s excellent. By far the best Bellini I’ve ever had. One-third peach purée with a hint of sugar, and two-thirds prosecco, the regional sparkling white wine, stirred very briefly in a cocktail shaker with a bar spoon and then strained over a tablespoon to remove the resulting sludge and foam.
Fresh, tangy, and not remotely sweet, it’s a peach explosion. Lightly fizzy, subtly coloured – complete with the smallest flecks of blended peach skin – it’s absolutely moreish.
Which is why I’m super-happy when they give me another one on the house.
The boy, naturally, prefers mine to his Virgin Bellini, which comes in on the sweet side, as drinks targeted at children almost always do.
This, by way of contrast, is a Bellini virgin.
But before we get to the carpaccio, first a very brief history of Harry’s Bar — full story here.
Giuseppe Cipriani, the son of an itinerant bricklayer and a cook, had worked his way up from waiter in a range of hotels to barman at the Hotel Europa.
At some point during the 1920s, he came across Harry Pickering, a young man who’d been sent from America to Europe with his aunt to recover from alcoholism. Not, perhaps, the wisest strategy.
As Cipriani recalls, “He spent entire days at the bar at the Hotel Europa in the company of his aunt, his aunt’s young escort, and a dog. Anyone who wanted to open a small bar would have rung up a respectable margin of profitability serving just those three clients alone, I believe.”
After Harry and his aunt parted ways, Cipriani lent him the then-substantial sum of 10,000 lira to get Harry home to the US. It was 1931 by the time that Harry returned, bearing not only 10,000 lira but a further 30,000 so that Cipriani could open the bar of his dreams.
Enter Harry’s…
Cipriani created the Bellini cocktail round about 1948, and named it for the Venetian painter, because of its stunning pink (at one point, Harry’s Bar had prosecco cocktails on its menu named for an entire galaxy of Venetian artists).
Soon after that, he created the carpaccio for an Italian countess, Amalia Nani Mocinego, who was on a diet that meant she couldn’t eat cooked meat. And he named it, also, for a Venetian painter, Carpaccio, who enjoyed gore and bright scarlets.
The Cipriani carpaccio? Strips of very fine raw beef dressed in a sauce of mayonnaise and Dijon mustard.
No capers. No balsamic. No leaves. No mushrooms. Just good raw beef and sauce.
This is it…. Or, rather, this is one half of our shared carpaccio. Because, having ordered a large carpaccio to share, in a restaurant where bills per head normally come in, the lovely folk at Harry’s Bar have plated it up as two, complete with a mini-salad each.
And I do mean it when I say it’s lovely of them.
It’s a sign of a truly great restaurant that you can wander in looking (not only by Italian standards) quite phenomenally unkempt and clearly outside their target annual income by a factor of 10 or 20, and folk will go out of their way to be nice.
At first bite, the true carpaccio takes a bit of getting used to. Since the 90s, olive oil and balsamic have been cult ingredients. What is it with the mayo?
And then you take another bite. And there’s just enough mustard in the mayo to make it the perfect match. It’s creamy, with just a little bit of bite, the beef is phenomenally tender, and the green salad, frankly, belongs on the side rather than on top of the meat.
The boy decides it needs more mustard. And then decides he’s wrong.
And then dips his breadsticks into his mustard.
And so the chaps bring him some tuna sauce. And then they bring him an ice-cream.
And, as he leaves, the carpaccio fiend pronounces that this is the best carpaccio he’s ever, ever had.
So there. 100 euros extremely well spent.
Calle Vallaresso, 1323
30124 Venezia
Italy
Tel: +39 (0)41 528 5777