The Multis in Venice «

The Multis in Venice

Tuesday 6th December 2011

Where to begin? Where to begin?

10 mins to spare waiting for the airport launch yesterday afternoon in Venice. Well, pop into the Gesuati Church right at the Zattere stop and take some Tiepolo. My God! The Institution of the Rosary! Who’d have thought it. I never knew it had been instituted, did you? Huge swirling of drapery, clouds, set of steps, arms outreached. No sign of the Rosary.

That was in addition to the last-minute Tiepolo I’d taken at the Scuola Grande de Carmine.

3 days in Venice was a whole lifetime of hotels, restaurants, shops, hotels, boats, gallery openings, paintings, facades, church visits, cycles of paintings, ceilings.

I think I might have some decor tips for you.

I’m thrilled, utterly thrilled but in pieces.

We were in Venice for Beatrice Cantor’s opening at a gallery near San Marco. A party of about eight gained mainly from London, including those other artists of note, Seth Vaughan and Purbeck Crowhurst.

That was on Saturday night: I’ll tell you later.

On Saturday morning as I was coming in from the airport the Multis were being launched out to Torcello for the Locanda Cipriani. They had offered it to others at 120 euros each way just for the launch but, enfin, the Multis bore the terrible isolation of money.

It was at Florian’s on Sunday that the Multis moved the furniture for the first time since Byron was there, ripping the hearts out of a number of jewelled Venetian Greatnesses in butterscotch quilted coats. At Harry’s Bar the day before it had been a lesser upheaval. Have you ever taken Harry’s Bar? Tiny, bare brown room, hard wooden chairs. Absolutely nothing.

But it was later that day, in a simple restaurant apparently taken daily by Flavia, 83-year-old owner of the gallery where Beatrice Cantor was showing (we’ll be hearing more about her: an utter greatness), that eyes narrowed, voices were lowered to a slow growl and we were teetering on the brink.

We swirled in; Purbeck Crowhurst was with; he says things like, ‘Aw.. hasn’t he got big hands!’, of a waiter who might be within earshot and knowing English. But that wasn’t it. The Blond Multi addressed the waiter: ‘Flavia… we hear Flavia eats all her meals here. She always has steak and beans and grappa. Is that right?’ Then he said, as he always does, ‘Who owns this restaurant?’ Usually he follows up with, ‘Where does he/she live?’

He likes even lowly staff to be au fait, in the know, aware, even in a small way, that knowledge is power. He can’t bear to see them merely functionary. He wants them rising up, up and owning themselves.

But this waiter didn’t get any of that. He stiffened with hostility. The more the poor Blond tried to get a bit of buck, a glimmer of entrepreneurial spirit, the worse it got. ‘Now, I’m afraid this bottle of beer isn’t cold enough. Maybe at the back of the fridge there might be one that’s really cold.’

The Blond said he wanted to leave – with the bread brought and the wine opened!

But we clung on. Thank God the Multis liked the food, simple as it was. At half time through wine came a sudden glimmer of hope: if the Multis wanted to spend 30 euros on a second bottle, the menacing waiter could offer them the best for the same price: a barolo. They liked the barolo. We ordered tea and coffee to complete the dinner but then the Multis were reversing, back into the wine: more barolo required. How about cheese? The waiter who I’m sure earlier would have gunned us down had it been allowed announced his shift was ending. Leaving, in civvies, he waved through the window from the street, the Photo Multi shuttering away with the Nikkon like mad. It was a great scene, sustained for some minutes: Verdi or Puccini should have been called in.

We were en fete. We ordered pudding and various further specialist wines, cognacs and grappas.