Ittica Zane: three generations of fishers at the Rialto market

Venice, Erbaria, Rialto Market.

Many stalls are now divided in two. On one side, neatly arranged fruit and vegetables. On the other, plastic bags filled with unlikely risotto mixes, spices, colorful pasta and other inventions designed to fill tourists’ baskets.

We ask a vendor why he has all this merchandise on display.

“Venetians don’t come here anymore. If we filled our stalls only with local produce, we’d probably end up throwing it all away.”

A few meters away, beneath the pillars of the main market hall, the atmosphere is different. Fish, still stiff from their freshness, lie in rows on beds of ice. Here, the market still seems to come alive. 

Early in the morning, the crates arrive. Water runs off the stainless-steel counters; a profusion of fresh scales, shells and carapaces spills from the boats onto the quay. Knives strike the cutting boards. Customers greet each other in Venetian dialect and ask the stallholder what they bought the previous week. The briny smell is everywhere.

At the back of the market hall, behind the largest fish stall, one of the fishmongers works with precise movements. Older than the others around him, he wears a white apron and quietly oversees everything. His name is Nino Zane. Behind his stall, amid the frantic bustle of the other vendors, we ask if we can put a few questions to him.

 “I live in Burano. When I was young, the eight of us brothers and sisters lived with our mother and father in a tiny house. I was already going fishing as a boy. Then I did my military service, and at twenty-one I came here. I started out with my uncle. Later, I opened this stall with my sons. And I’m still here, thank God.”

A customer arrives. 

“Can you give me two of those?”

With a deft movement, he picks up two cuttlefish, weighs them and hands them to her. Meanwhile, Nino’s son Matteo has peeled some raw langoustines for us. He offers us the translucent, slippery flesh and invites us to swallow it just like that. It is tender, tastes of the sea, almost sweet, and melts in the mouth. The patriarch returns. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Sixty years.”

He pauses, his expression serious. 

“Actually, eighty-three years.”

“Was your business already this big?”

“No. It was smaller. There used to be more of us, but many left, and those who stayed expanded their stalls.”

Another customer comes up.

“What did I get last time?”

He smiles.

“Sole.”

The customer nods. 

“The problem isn’t whether the stalls get bigger or not. The problem is that there are fewer and fewer Venetians. That’s the real tragedy.”

Sadly, it is a familiar refrain among many shopkeepers. A silence falls, then, to lighten the mood, we ask him which fish he likes to take home. 

“Cuttlefish. Sardines. Sardoni. Sole.”

He picks up a sea cicada, known as a canocchia. The crustacean is striking for its pretty spots and its remarkable resemblance to the summer insect. 

“They’re beautiful at the moment. But between October and February, they’re something else. Everything has its season. It’s the same with produce from the land. Sant’Erasmo artichokes. Asparagus. Their season doesn’t last long. If you want them at their best, you have to eat them at the right time.”

He shows us the rest of his wares with proud but weary energy. A seagull lands on the stall opposite, waits a few seconds, stretches out its neck, then grabs a fish and flies away. The fishmonger shouts something at it in Venetian. The customers burst out laughing.

“It happens every day.”

We ask him if he still goes fishing. He shakes his head.

“No. A lot of people have stopped. There aren’t many left fishing in the lagoon. These days, almost everything comes from the wholesale market.”

When we mention moeche, the little soft-shell crabs whose twice-yearly season makes them so rare, his expression changes. 

“They’ve almost disappeared. The blue crabs have wreaked havoc; they’ve eaten everything. The lagoon has changed.”

The noise around us grows louder as people jostle for the last slipper lobsters. 

“Where do you like to eat?”

“At Gatto Nero. Ruggero’s place.”

He smiles.

“I feel at home there. And at home, my wife does the cooking. Usually cuttlefish or stewed cagnolétto.” That’s the Venetian name for palombo, a small shark with firm, delicate flesh, traditionally prepared as a stew. 

“And on Saturdays, I bring a little fish home and we grill it in the garden.”

The conversation comes to an end, and duty calls. So we ask him for a photo.

He calls over his two sons, Alessandro and Matteo.

Before they pose, the father runs his thumb over one son’s cheek to wipe away a small mark, a gesture both tender and stern. We press the shutter and take the photo. Behind us, a customer with a wheeled shopping trolley in one hand and the other raised in the air exclaims in dialect:

“Could I have some sardines?”