Death in Venice

recipe: Matcha Raspberry Cream Cake

Matcha Raspberry Cream Cake, 2025

Welcome (back) !

Hej! If you’re freshly receiving this substack, welcome. If you’ve been here for a while now, welcome back. Chez Chez Robert is a weekly publishing of stories and recipes. The stories are sometimes poetic, sensitive, even vulnerable. My goal is to switch it up every week with a new offering. Recipes remain constant. I cook in a (mostly) Euro-centric manner. The recipes are based upon cravings and a desire to progress as a cook. Thank you for being here. I’m grateful and honored to share something I love.

Below is a short story I wrote. The recipe for Matcha Raspberry Cream Cake follows the story. Thank you.

Death in Venice

Mamma didn’t call my name this morning. “Paolo Furlan, vieni qui.” I rose naturally without utterance. Since yesterday I can’t remember hearing the bells from the neighboring chiesa. My bed linens have always found a way to entwine one of my legs holding me hostage. The hairs on my legs catch the morning draft filtering in through the wooden slats framing my window. I put on sweats and head downstairs for an espresso.

Most days descending the steps into my family’s kitchen I could hear mamma on the phone with her sister Alda. Alda moved to Trieste with a Croatian man she’d fallen in love with. Our family is from the lagoon, we’ve always been Venetian. When Alda departed it tore Mamma to pieces. Mamma called everyday in the hopes Alda would move back. One time I heard her making promises, “Paolo will sleep on the couch and you can take his room. He doesn’t mind, no no, seriously, he said he misses you.” Our family’s history changed when Alda left. I can’t quite remember though when things changed. As Mamma said, “your brain is a sieve trying to hold pasta.”

The kitchen was still, all of the house in fact. Firing up the espresso machine would be ill-minded behavior to disturb such peace. I grabbed my wallet and slipped on my trainers right by the door. I got these shoes at Foot Locker on a trip to visit Alda in Trieste. “Paolo, you have beautiful feet. These shoes are meant for people with disgraceful feet. Please spare us.” Alda had a way with words. I was making my own money though. Osteria alle Testiere had hired me when they learned of my Venetian heritage. Tourists pile in each night hoping to sample the mysteries of the lagoon. Unbeknownst to them, if they were to eat like real Venetians, they’d most likely catch the next boat back to the mainland.

The Furlan’s have lived for a century in Dorsoduro away from the action, away from the visitors. Walking by tourist groups you can hear the usual speculation, “they say Venice might be under water in this century.” I look down at the planks we stand on and think, “my dear, look down, we’re already under water.” The Furlan’s aren’t island people, we are from the lagoon. Our name, our reputation is built much like Venice, barely afloat. Mamma has asked that I start drinking more so I can meet a girl and get her pregnant. If I’m home too early after work she shakes her head in disapproval. “Perché Paolo?” My needs, my interests aren’t in the preservation of our name but in the arts. I thirst for paint. I could spend days in Museo Fortuny. This is my Venice.

Walking towards Campo Santa Margherita I didn’t have anyone to say “Buongiorno” to. Caffè Rosso is my respite from home, a place where I can have a cappuccino and think. The outdoor chairs and tables were locked, the interior black. Today isn’t a national holiday. It should be a normal Venetian Wednesday. I have work today, things to do. In my haze of waking up without caffeination I saw an empty square. No vendors, no children, no tourists. No tourists is horrifying. Our roots are connected to the wooden piles holding this city up and forever supported by tourists. No tourists, this is not good.

My disgraceful shoes picked up steam on the way to Tonolo. The local pasticceria where tourists and locals gathered in equal measure. A place where patience and values are tested daily. The glass door is locked, but the shelves are in full supply. The pastry case illuminated the street. In racing to Tonolo, I can’t remember if I passed a single person or had to move out of a tourist's way. Us Furlan’s move with purpose although the gait is gentle and poetic. Now, I’m foreign to my heritage running freely with no one to bump into.

Over the Rialto accelerating towards Piazza San Marco, my last location of certainty. The canal remained boat free. No gondolas pushing, chartering, trudging through the mud making an honest living. In Piazza San Marco the pigeons have taken over. Perhaps they’re the invasive species or the dominant one. I decided to walk through the Palazzo Ducale, at one point the center of trade and world power. The grounds were cavernous, hollowed, historical maybe, but to whom?

Pacing on the platform waiting for a ferry, someone or something to come along. If a fish came close I’d be at ease. From where I stand, Giudecca appears lifeless as well. Me and the pigeons. The Basilica in all its glory sits and postures with grandeur. The piazza is alien to my understanding. I don’t know this place, this isn’t my home. Surely I would never call anything touristy my home, but I came here for confirmation.

My keys work, thank God. I rush to the phone hoping to get ahold of Alda, I’d even call Enzo at the Osteria. Enzo knew the Furlan story when he hired me. “Your papà was Alessandro Furlan?” My father was only known to other Venetian families. My father, Alessandro, was one of the most respected motoscafi employees. He drove water taxis year round. During the Biennale he would tell me about driving Cate Blanchett or the one time he received one hundred euros from Martin Scorsese. When he wasn’t tasked with special routes, he would do scheduled rides from the airport. When I was old enough, I would help him somedays when my mamma was out. He was so loved, I loved him for teaching me a real Venetian skill.

I picked up the phone attempting a call, no noise. An inflamed memory penetrated my spine rendering me to the couch. My cell phone couldn’t connect to anything, no wifi, no service, no social media. The sconces on the walls were chosen by Nonno Rocco. True Murano glass that he carved and caressed with his oxygen and his fingers. A piece of our past clinging to the wall as the couch enveloped my feigning body.

I woke up one day, newly fifteen years old when Mamma had called, “Paolo Furlan, vieni qui!” like her mother had done and her mother before her. For centuries we’ve been woken by voices, called to action by our ancestors. Mamma and Alda sat in the living room side-by-side. Alda looked up and grabbed me, she held me close crushing my bones, sure to never let go. Mamma was whispering to herself, “don’t look out, don’t look out.” I broke free of Alda’s grip and ran to the window looking down at the rii. The narrow waterway collected a man, barely buoyed face down. Papà to me, Alessandro Furlan to others, was gone.

Mamma had wanted small planters at the base of our windows to grow sage and rosemary. In an act of love, Papà tried to surprise her the morning of their twentieth wedding anniversary with a small bed of sage and rosemary on the kitchen window. His act of love would be his final act in life. I knew then what I know to be true now. I wasn’t able to tell him that he’d be one of the last Furlans. Mamma cries and screams begging me to start a family, to get drunk, to make a happy mistake. I couldn’t drink enough to keep anything alive, even myself. The lagoon is suffering, this man made posturing city is a fraught place bloating in misrecognition.

My first boyfriend was Andrea. “My God, my Papà loves your Papà.” Andrea’s father and mine worked in motoscafi together. Andrea’s dad was a mechanic. I met Andrea at Caffè Rosso. He was with a bunch of his friends and he noticed me from attending my fathers funeral. I would frequent the cemetery island where most Venetians are buried, bringing flowers to my father wrapped with leaves of sage that he planted. Andrea approached with his latte and asked if he could join me. I was writing a lot at this time. My grief, my frustrations, my rage all on paper. I wasn’t used to having company. Andrea grew up under similar circumstances, he understood my silence and reserve. I possessed an ancient Venetian disposition. My artistry on full display. Andrea confessed he’d like to see more of me and I obliged.

We spent many days, hours, and even weekends together sharing familiar Venetian stories. Baccalà gone wrong, nightly gondola theft navigating the canals with friends and our first spritz with Select. Andrea and I couldn’t remain familiar with each other. He’d show me his sketches of looks that debuted in Milan. He loved creativity and escape. Andrea applied to Polimoda in Florence and was accepted. Before he left he spent his last night with me. His parents didn’t care if he was gay or not. All they cared about was that he was happy and free. Andrea kissed my hand, “you’ll leave this city, I know it … we’ll see each other on the other side.”

The couch cushioned my fear, took away my pain, allowed me to just be for a moment. What happened while I was asleep? This lagoon has experienced its fair share of strife. It’s been knocked down, built back up and slowly surviving amidst the odds. Being a Furlan, being Venetian isn’t my story. I’ve always wanted to take my soon-to-be husband's name. Paolo Marino, Paolo Caruso, Paolo Bruno. Whoever I choose to love, whoever I choose to marry, with my earnings and posturing to tourists I’ll depart this lagoon just like Alda.

When Papà died I didn’t know what to do. He and Mamma always had answers for me, solutions to every situation. Now Mamma is fixed on Alda coming back. She’s grown distant and resentful of our heritage dissipating into the salt air. The phone is ringing. My spinal inflammation tamed allowing me to answer the call.

“Paolo, it’s Alda. Mamma is here. She said you slept so hard she didn’t want to wake you. She’s loving Trieste. She won’t shut up about how proud she is that you’re making good money. She thinks you’d like living here. She wants you to visit again. By the way, do you still have those hideous shoes?”

Recipe for Matcha Raspberry Cream Cake below. Paid subscribers get access to all recipes.