Xemei

Poble Sec was winding down as I walked up, shutters half-closed, and then one doorway spilling noise and light like a family argument you would happily join. Deciding what to eat at Xemei is the happiest kind of impossible. The menu speaks Venetian: cicchetti to pick at with your fingers, oily fish brightened with vinegar and onion, pasta that tastes of somebody's zio at the stove. My method is surrender. Start with the little bites, take one pasta, then let the brothers pour whatever they think you deserve. You may wait, you may squeeze in, and nobody looks at a watch. Che meraviglia, and I say that perhaps once a season. A monthly table if my diary allowed; every few months in truth, each one anticipated.