Harry’s Bar is a dull pale box. This is remarkable in Venice, which is a hospice for dying palaces, held up aching over the world’s most charismatic puddle; Harry’s is a transgressive anti-palazzo. It is a world-famous restaurant, the jewel of the Cipriani brand, and it is very conscious of this honour; it sells branded tagliarelli and books about the meals it served 30 years ago to the rich and famous; it is into auto-iconography, like the city it lives in. For this, and so much else, I blame Ernest Hemingway. He ate here after shooting birds in the lagoon and doesn’t the world know it? Some men fought against Hitler. Others ate against him.
Outside, people pose for photographs by the signage. I do not know why the tourists need such comprehensive evidence of proximity to Harry’s, but they snap away. Venice has this impact; people take photographs so they can believe it exists.
I dropped The Spectator’s name for a reservation because I was once turned away with a postcard (it was a selfie) and a pitying look from the maitre d’.
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