Ai Cugnai, Hotel Du Vin

Spectator, The, Apr 15, 2000 by Simon, Sion

THERE is a common misconception that Venice is a good place to eat. It is not, at least not by Italian standards. Its two most famous restaurants, Harry's Bar and Da Fiore, are overrated and overpriced; middle-rankers such as Da No and Corte Sconte are more likely to disappoint than to delight; and others, like the Cipriani and the Monaco, are prized more for their setting than their food. A much better bet than these grand establishments is whichever of the small trattorias happens to be on form. One I went to last year, on the advice of Paul and Kay Henderson of Gidleigh Park, is La Furatola (Dorsoduro 2870, Calle Lunga San Barnaba). It's a very small, red-chequered-paper-tablecloth kind of place which only serves fish. They show it to you first on a platter and you choose what you fancy. I had a fritto misto, the lightness and beautiful sea-- spicedness of which remains fresh in my memory. In Venice last month I couldn't get to La Furatola, but the chap behind the tiny bar at Ai Cugnai, where I did go, was reverential in describing his rival.

Ai Cugnai is not as good as La Furatola, but it's better than 99 per cent of restaurants in London. Again small, simple and cheap, the name refers to cousins, but it seemed to be run by a gaggle of wizened, but charming, crones. We each began with a crab from the lagoon, served in its shell, plain and cold. I'm not quite sure why, but mine didn't do much for me. I think it may have been rather an old crab. By which I do not mean that it had been killed too many moons ago, but that it had seen too many before meeting its end. Black pasta with chunks of seppie, on the other hand, was great, a good example of how packet spaghetti is more appropriate to many dishes than home-made, and of how incomparably good to eat are the little things that swim around the Adriatic.

The latter point was reinforced by the platters of grilled fish and fritto misto we then shared. Those wrinkled hags bore us armfuls of piscine delights: St Pierre, monkfish, cuttlefish, octopus, the baby sole which are a culinary byword for the Veneto, and a bushel of other pleasures beside. Sometimes too oily for my taste and occasionally oversalted, it wasn't haute cuisine, but nor did it pretend to be. The fish was fresh, plainly but nicely cooked and, in the main, suitably seasoned. Great eating doesn't have to be much more complicated than that. On Ai Cugnai's card it says `Cucina casalinga -- prezzi modici', a claim from which one would run a mile in Britain, but a true badge of honour in Italy.

Not good enough, though, for Marco Niada of Il Sole 24 Ore and, particularly, Alessio Altichieri of Corriere della Sera. Having consumed three bottles of decent Friuli and gargantuan quantities of fish we were presented with a bill for 90. It was quite in accordance with the advertised prices, and not, I thought, unreasonable. The Italians were outraged. They were affronted. I would go so far as to say that Alessio was disgusted. The bill was a joke. There was no way they were going to pay it. They were neither imbeciles nor tourists. Alessio gave the chief crone his card and told her that he was a very important journalist (they still have such things in Italy); too important, in fact, and too outraged to pay her absurd bill. If able, he would return on the morrow and take up the matter again.

I soon realised I was getting a lesson in restaurant etiquette from a maestro. He didn't care about the money. He just objected on principle to being charged anything like what it said on the menu. He considered it an insult. Finally, and with breathtaking grace, Alessio allowed himself to be presented with an amended invoice for about 40 per cent less than it should have been. He paid most of the difference back with a hefty tip. The .restaurant showed its gratitude with what seemed like dozens of coffees, grappas and even, for one nauseating round, limoncellos. We strode out of there like kings.

I was almost equally surprised by the Hotel du Vin in Winchester (which now has siblings in Bristol and Tunbridge Wells). Over the years that I had never been, I had made assumptions - based on its location and type of clientele -- about the kind of place it is. I was expecting deep carpets, swagged curtains, polished walnut and golfing attire. But when we went a couple of Saturdays ago, only the last was in evidence (which it was always going to be, on the person of my father-in-law if nowhere else). It's all stripped floorboards and painted wood-- panelled walls. No tablecloths, even. Tres bistro. The menu is a sensible length (ten starters, nine mains) and promises the kind of intelligent, confident, `modern British' cooking which did, indeed, arrive.

Offal, which is very often badly cooked in British restaurants, was excellent. Caramelised veal sweetbreads, like calf's liver, were cooked more robustly than is the super-light fashion in the grander establishments. They were al dente, but not at all rubbery. I prefer my glands and organs this way, slightly firmer on the tooth. The sauce gribiche which accompanied the sweetbreads was also robust, with a good, high caper and herb content; almost a salsa verde rather than a more heavy mayonnaise. Paysan. I liked it.