Venice, 1950. A bartender, a painter, and a countess. At Harry’s Bar, Giuseppe Cipriani invents something special for his friend, Countess Amalia Nani Mocenigo: raw meat, sliced paper-thin, melting in your mouth like a well-kept secret. He would call it carpaccio, after the crimson red that only the painter Vittore Carpaccio could capture from the lagoon. Food without a mask, elegant, pure. Its perfection lies in revealing everything.