Fegato alla veneziana
This is not about xenophobia. This is about parsley and sage not belonging here. Even after months of living together, the foreign object in the body remains a foreign object. This is the basic rule in traditional Venetian dishes.
When you go out to buy the calf's liver, the first question you must ask the butcher is: How is your mother? In Venice everyone knows everyone else, and you may already know that she has added a new cat to her set of dead cats. It is, however, true that the butcher feels that no one reads him like his mother. He will therefore be partially honest about his prices and the freshness of his products. He naturally tries to offer you pig's liver—which is cheap—to demonstrate his knowledge of recession. You must insist on calf's liver. You must tell him to julienne it as his mother had taught him. This second reference of his mother serves to remind him that if he chops the liver haphazardly, his mother would learn of it and express her displeasure.
You end your purchase by saying, Arriverderci. This is a simple warning that if the calf's liver he's sold you doesn't meet your personal standards as calf's liver, he will see you again and begin to hear voices talking badly behind his back for at least ten years.
Once back at home, you wash your hands and put on your favorite contact lenses. There's proof enough that wearing a pair blocks the accumulation of sulfuric acid in one's eyes. You don't have to cry while slicing the onions into thin transparencies—unless you find crying over onions better than crying over another (dubbed) Bridges of Madison County rerun.
To know the exact amount of onions to go with the calf's liver, you need a kitchen scale. The weight of the calf's liver (julienned) must be equal to the weight of the onions (sliced). When some balance is reached between the two, you are ready to begin.
You drop the onions in a pan and add extra-virgin olive oil or melted butter—for the weak of heart—until they are half-drowned. Think Captain Jones in the quick sand. Think tsunami aftermath. This is the effect you want to obtain. Once you are satisfied, you may turn on the gas flame.
It takes 10-15 minutes for the onions to turn brown. This is a good time to call your own mother. One hand can hold the phone while the other stirs continuously. And because she is your mother, you never spend more than 15 minutes talking to her. After the 15th minute, she starts citing self-help books that could change your life for the better, and this is a good time to say that you need to add the calf's liver before the onions burn completely. A mother always understands that burning food is a serious matter, not something that happens on her side of the family. She hangs up.
Left to your own, you add the calf's liver. You allow your desire for salt and pepper to control your hands. Eventually, the calf's liver turns from dark red to brown. As soon as this change occurs, you must add white wine to the level of your liking. Because alcohol evaporates, no one need ever know how much you like white wine when cooking.
The calf's liver is ready once all traces of alcohol and blood have gone. You may now invite a person or group of strays to share the meal.
The fegato alla veneziana is served ideally with polenta or, to prove that the natives of Venice aren't xenophobic, a baked potato from Ponder Steak House in Ponder, Texas (if you call ahead). The best wine to accompany this dish is always the wine of your preference.