Valletta’s Vanished Vongole: Vinny’s Velvety Vengeance

In the Wake of Fireworks

Uwejja! The Grand Harbour was aliv with kolours and bangs like never seen before. I tell you, not one, not two, but exactly 60,001 people were left gawping at the sky spectacle. A record-breaking show, where even the fireworks seemed to dance the mazurka in unison. But, mela, it wasn’t just the pyrotechnics that had Maltese eyes poppin’ and jaws droppin’.

Mean Streets of Valletta

Meet Vinny – full name Vincentius Vongolovich – known as the Prince of Ħobż biż-żejt but also, unfochunately, the king of bad luck. On any normal day, you could catch him slingin’ his artisan sandwiches near the Upper Barrakka Gardens, his overfilled kiosks perfuming the air with ripe tomatoes, kunserva, and the sea’s own kapunata (a glorious aubergine relish). But this New Year’s Eve, fate was determined to add a pinch too much bżar (pepper) to his life.

The Velvety Vendetta

As the clock stroke twelve, and the fiery flowers bloomed above, a suspicious shenanigan unfolded below. Vinny’s world-renowned vongole sauce—a secret held tighter than an Ġnejna Bay bikini in August—was stolen! Not a pot, not a jar, but the entire velvety vat of it. Amidst the oohs and aahs, a thief took the chance, leaving Vinny with naught but an empty pot and an apron full of despair.

Culinary Conundrum

“Hawnhekk inkun! Here I stand, betrayed by my own broth.” Vinny lamented to the crowd, unknowingly becoming the second spectacle of the night. “My vongole! Who would commit such a shellfish act?” he wailed in the linguistically challenged English beloved by the locals.

“Sauce or sorcery, the culprit must be found. Mela, it is a matter of national deliciousness,” cried the inconsolable Vinny.

Mdina’s Witness

A twist as big as the Azure Window: the silent city spoke up. Roberto, a ruggedy Gozo glassblower holidaying in Mdina, claimed that he saw the saucy heist through his monocled masterpiece. “I saw him, a man as shady as the deepest grotto, fleeing with the vat,” he told Times of Mela, nearly dropping his ftira mid-bite.

Detective Dunja on the Case

Enter Detective Dunja, the Mata Poppins of mysteries. With an X-Ray vision no door can withstand, and intuition sharper than the spikes on a Maltese door knocker, she was on the thief’s tail quicker than a rabbit in stew season.

The Sudden Stir

In a plot thicker than Vinny’s missing sauce, Detective Dunja revealed the un-thinkable: it was indeed an inside job. The thief was none other than Vinny’s own żaqq (belly), emboldened by the revelry to make off with the goods to satisfy a gluttonous appetite.

Confessions by the Kiosque

“I couldn’t help it,” Vinny confessed, baring his soul like a festive qagħaq tal-għasel. “Each year, the craving grows stronger. The last strike of the bell, the burst of fireworks, and my sauce calls to me.”

“All is forgiven,” Detective Dunja declared, sweeping the onlookers off their feet like a sirocco. “But, dear Vinny, to avoid a repeat, you must tie your żaqq with a belt next time.”

The Grand Finale

The story diffused through the crowds like the aroma of a fresh luzzu coat. By dawn, Vinny was again surrounded by eager patrons, each vying for a taste of the coveted sauce he almost ate entirely. People laughed, the morning sun hit St. John’s Co-Cathedral’s spire, and Vinny’s kiosk did a brisk business, putting the zest back into his zest for life.

Indeed, the Times of Mela readers, mela, what a story you just read. Keep an eye out for lost vats and hungry kiosk owners, and don’t forget: in Malta, the sauce is thicker than water, and often, much tastier!