On the particular pleasure of not remembering which pasta you had — and why that is the point.
We had pasta at da Ivo. We don't remember exactly which one. The evening was complete enough that it didn't matter. This is, in the context of how we usually talk about restaurants, a strange recommendation. It is also the most honest thing I can say about the place.
The exterior tells you what you're getting before you open the door. A red awning. Christmas lights strung across the campo in December. A window full of bottles and a carnival mask and a small ship model — things accumulated over decades by someone who has been doing this long enough to stop caring about the edit. The campo in winter is empty. That photograph is the argument for going to Venice in December more than anything I have written.
The campo in winter is empty. That is the argument for December.
Inside: red polka dot tablecloths. Candles that have been burning in this kind of restaurant since before anyone thought to photograph them. And the man in the enormous sunglasses.
He does not remove them. Not for service, not for the duration of the evening. He works the room with the ease of someone who has been doing this for several decades and has arrived at a completely settled relationship with the fact that his restaurant is very good and does not require explanation. A young waiter in a dark suit follows his lead.
Behind the bar: Gaja wine, a brass serpent sculpture, a Venetian carnival mask, a model ship. The room is a collection. It has been collecting since before most restaurants in Venice were opened.
We sat for a long time. The food was correct — seasonal, simple, executed with the particular confidence of cooking that has nothing left to prove. If wild strawberries appear on the dessert menu when you go, order them. They are genuinely difficult to find and genuinely worth the finding.
What da Ivo is, specifically, is a restaurant that has survived Venice's transition from a real city into a performance of itself and has done so without conceding anything. It does not have an Instagram-optimized interior. It does not have a menu in six languages. It does not have a table available at seven-thirty on a Friday without a reservation. It has red polka dot tablecloths and a man in sunglasses and fifty years of knowing exactly what it is.
Work with your concierge to secure a reservation. Go in December when the campo outside is empty and the Christmas lights are up and the city has remembered what it is when the tourists leave. We would go back without hesitation. We would order whatever he brings.