She sells seashells by the seashore…. On the Isle of Favignana, Sicily (at The Isle of Favignana, Sicily)
Garbage sprouted from every ancient nook and cranny; aromas of horse dung, piss and ocean brine awakened my senses. Palermo’s early morning air was already dense with a heavy, relentless heat. My freshly pressed cotton dress wilted and immediately stuck to my body, still bloated from the previous day’s many indulgences: creamy pistachio gelato the color of aged green linen, crisp Reggionella cookies studded with sesame seeds and baked in a wood fired oven, freshly cut pasta topped with mountains of shaved tuna bottarga, and bottles of mature Sicilian wines produced from unfamiliar varietals.
And yet I was already in search of my next meal.
A glance down one end of Palermo’s archaic boulevard yielded views of the Tyrrhenian Sea, its vivid aquamarine waters beckoning, while the other end revealed mountain ranges, trapping the humid air.
The capital of Sicily dates back more than 2,700 years, and is revered for its architecture, history and gastronomy. Palermo’s name is derived from the Greek, meaning ‘always fit for landing in’ and indeed, we had landed to absorb every bit of its shabby grandeur.
Palermo boasts many outdoor markets held in the city’s historic, crumbling quarters, and I was determined to wander through several of them. Operating year round, six days a week, I imagine very little had changed in the markets over hundreds of years.
On its outskirts, Africans and Sri Lankans set up folding tables loaded with precious junk, while the markets’ interiors reveal the true jewels: stall after stall of vendors offered the most appealing eye-candy. Royal purple eggplants and cauliflower the size of Mussolini’s head vie for space against bushels of tomatoes, tomatoes, and more varieties of tomatoes. Massive tins of salted sardines were haggled over by men wearing dirty tee shirts embellished with American slang. Dried fruits, nuts, and salted capers, all beloved products of Sicily, are piled high awaiting Nonnas in housedresses to arrive on their daily shopping expeditions.
Creaky wooden tables leaned precariously under the weight of shaved ice piled high with hundreds of fish hauled in each day from Palermo’s waters. My sandaled feet waded through small pools of grimy water, slick with fish guts and market detritus, to inspect the enormous head of a swordfish, Italy’s workhorse, while the wide, unblinking, black eyes of a squid stared back at me.
Butchers in bloody aprons sharpened knives in front of gigantic butcher blocks, their dark patina burnished from the blood of hundreds of years of slaughter. Burly men with bald heads and scraggly beards, cigarettes hanging from the sides of their mouths, hauled shaven pigs and lamb through the markets, while cows’ heads dangled from black iron meat hooks, their eyes bulging menacingly. Vendors barked prices and inducements and one swarthy produce seller even shared a very decent rendition of Puccini’s Madame Butterfly as I lustfully eyed his torpedo onions.
Renowned for its street foods, I succumbed to a breakfast of swordfish Caponata and eggplant Parmesan washed down with an icy cold Moretti beer served at a tiny table by a sweet old man who repeatedly asked if everything was tasty. Never much of a grazer, I nonetheless followed up with a bag of succulent cubes of chickpea flour and green onion fried in lard and topped with a good shake of coarse Sicilian salt handed to me by a huge man without a tooth in his head. And I couldn’t resist a hunk of Sfincione, an authentic Palermo pizza made from a thick dough topped with herbs, onions, tomato sauce, strong mountain cheese, and anchovies made by a charming woman with a dusting of flour in her jet black hair.
I skipped the spleen sandwich.
Awnings in red and blue, burnt into dreamy Mediterranean shades by the indefatigable Sicilian sun, protected the decrepit stands, while bells from the market’s dozens of small chapels noted the passing hours, blessing the entire circus.
The butterfly seemed anachronistic; brilliant colors and joyful fluttering against the blackness of Mount Etna’s burial ground. The hills smell of char, burnt earth and communities long ago swallowed up by its outpouring.
Etna’s name is derived from the Phoenician word ‘attuna’, meaning furnace or chimney. It remains one of the most active volcanoes in the world, the latest eruption occurring in 2012. Situated on the northeastern side of the island of Sicily, the awesome Mount Etna is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Its gaping, burping maw is often crowned in clouds, allowing the briefest glimpse by tourists willing to spend the day and their dollars being transported to the top in all-terrain vehicles by dull guides with shallow information, their hands constantly outstretched for tips.
Instead, we allowed ourselves to be guided by the brilliant book Walking In Sicily written by a Brit (the finest walkers), Gillian Price. We hiked Mount Etna for hours without encountering another soul; a sweaty, steep, slow incline through lovely new growth forest and into blindingly bright clearings of hardened, shiny black lava the size of tall buildings washed down the side of the mountain. Standing at the base of this blackness in Sicily’s unyielding sun, I was overcome with a sense of unease. Mount Etna is otherworldly, spooky. A weird energy emanates from its territory, as often noted by the assorted new age hippies attracted to the area.
The ever-present sooty ash is a constant reminder of Nature’s callous ability to wipe away and start anew; indeed, the volcanic soils left behind are incredibly fertile. Stunning vineyards and orchards are spread wide across the lower belly of the mountain giant. Soils the color of night burst with productivity; some very fine wines from unfamiliar varietals are produced here. Honey from small family farms, high quality pistachios, and vivid green extra virgin olive oils all hail from this mountain’s cataclysm.
I have learned to be cognizant of time when traveling in many Mediterranean countries: most shops open from 9-1 and re-open from 5-7. Italian breakfast consists of coffee, pastry and a cigarette and restaurants serve lunch from 1-3. Fucking period. If you don’t eat then, you’re munching on car snacks until dinner is served after 8pm. We rushed down from our mountain hike in order to score a late lunch at a nearby restaurant. The place reminded me of a newly constructed Sonoma winery built by gobs of recently acquired wealth: lots of tile and glass and reclaimed wood with freshly planted grasses and olive trees and the requisite fountains.
We sat in the garden under a canopy, Mount Etna’s ever-changing weather suddenly showering us with a summer rain. We listened to the rumble of thunder as we gorged on antipasti of fiery roasted red peppers with garlic, cured meaty green olives, baked cipollini onions in vinegar, hearty sheep’s milk cheeses, and local salumi laced with silken lardo. We slated our thirst with artisanal beers from southern Sicily poured from enormous bottles under the ever-threatening gaze of glorious Mount Etna.
The reedy man behind the counter of the tiny Italian pasticceria wore a too-small white hat and a scruffy beard. His middle-aged wife, dressed in a dark, typical house dress, eyed me from the back of the shop. The dimly lit space sold dense, sweet cookies made from local honey, candied orange peel, and cannoli, all specialties of the region. I wished them each a good morning in Italian and ordered a cannoli. I was corrected: cannolo (the singular). Originating in Sicily, the cannolo is the island’s most familiar pastry export. Originally made only during Carnival, they are now a proud daily tradition.
And here I was about to breakfast on one from a famed shop in the historic center of Modica, a small medieval town in Sicily’s heartland. But before I could partake, I apparently had to ask for it correctly. Satisfied by my language lesson, the man disappeared into the back kitchen to fill my cannolo by hand, as is done for each one ordered. Seems it’s sacrilege to order a pre-made cannolo out of a case, as the delectable ‘little tube’ (the Sicilian meaning) is at its optimum a mere three hours after being filled before the crust softens from the filling.
Each pasticceria has its own cannolo recipe so there exist thousands of variations. The ricotta filling, made each day, can range from savory to sweet; some use ewe’s milk, a specialty of the island, but most ricotta is made from cow’s milk. Some are studded with pistachio and some with candied orange peel, both local delicacies.
The pastry dough producing the tube-shaped shells contains a splash of the island’s famed Marsala wine and are fried in lard, adding that extra layer of complexity and crunch. Fuck the calories. During the short time the hot crust remains flexible, it is rolled around a stainless steel tube. Until recently, it was rolled around sugar canna (a bamboo plant related to sugar cane), which absorbed the excess oil and shaped the shell, but stainless steel was deemed more hygienic.
There was a shell the size of a newborn baby on the counter in front of me and I briefly considered ordering it, but realized what I SHOULD be ordering was the ‘cannulicchi’, which is no bigger than a finger. Instead, I settled for a traditional cannolo, which the Magic-Maker presented to me on a bright yellow paper napkin with a fine dusting of powdered sugar and chopped pistachios from Mount Etna decorating each end.
I walked outside and leaned against a shaded wall, still cool in the early morning, and licked the ricotta cream, more succulent than sweet, from each end before biting into its shell; light and airy and divine. I went back to the little shop the next two mornings for that very fine cannolo. Since the Magic-Maker and his wife don’t speak a word of English, all I could say loudly is ‘Cannolo bellisimo’. He stared at me and smiled, but I’m sure he and his wife had a good laugh when I departed their little shop, cannolo in hand.
The morning catch: Tuna hauled in from Sicilian waters, scored at the dock in Ortigia; diced and tossed with finely chopped, newly harvested baby cipollina, fresh lavender, capers, mint, oregano, green oil and basil - all gathered from the area and prepared and served with evident pride by an incredibly talented woman with few remaining teeth in a stained tee-shirt, all the while smoking a cigarette.
Ti Amo Sicilia…. (at La Vineria Cafe)
Through the wide-open windows came the sound of a car horn blasting the first few, famous bars from the theme of The Godfather. Waking from a deep sleep, I giggled. I wasn’t expecting to like Calabria. In all of my travel research, this most southern area of the boot was portrayed as the dirty whore cousin to the other, more ‘respectable’ Italian regions.
But like it I did.
A small, converted convent overlooking the old city of Tropea provided our very brief lodging, complete with Byzantine carvings of St. Francis and an honor bar stocked with good grappa and Amaro. The crystalline waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea below offered a cool respite from the midday heat, its rocky beach lined with umbrellas shading Casper-white tourists from northern Europe and very bronzed, beefy Italians in teeny bikinis. The warm water was incredibly clear, giving new meaning to the adage ‘swimming with the fishes.’
We roamed timeworn alleyways and peered into dark, long neglected cavernous spaces, its cool air smelling of old earth and mold; partially boarded up by those who quickly abandoned the old city for more modern digs.
Colorful laundry hung to dry from overhead balconies. Intimate pieces of clothing flapping in the afternoon breeze resided next to Madonnas encased in glass and adorned with plastic flowers, her exalted perch carved directly into the ancient stone buildings.
Wooden produce stands lined the streets into town, manned by toothless men in white, starched tank t-shirts. Ripe figs and assorted varieties of citrus plucked from surrounding gardens were plentiful. Freshly dug Tropea Torpedo Onions, a local delicacy, were strung together like old-fashioned Christmas lights, bulbous and brightly colored, and hung with evident pride.
I filled a bag with several strings of dried, fiery Calabrian peppers for smuggling home, their seeds to be planted in the garden, inviting easy recall of the charms and warmth of Calabria.
We arrived late afternoon, tired from the heat, bickering about directions, and driving fast on tiny roads with maniacal Italian tailgaters constantly attached to the bumper. The historic hill town of Matera, in the southern Italian region of Basilicata, is remote but worthy of travel. Houses, restaurants, businesses, and churches are situated in caves carved into the chalkstone hills, built on top of each other and connected by a labyrinth of chiseled stone staircases and alleyways.
I eyed the climb up the hundred steps to the hillside cave hotel with dread; the teensy box of a rental car was packed to the gills with suitcases, electronics, food and bottles of local Amaro.
Traveling like a gypsy = tipping the porter generously.
The cave room was dark, lit only by candles and a single window, which looked out over an enormous canyon dotted with stone crucifixes and grazing cows. The large bed had wooden steps to compensate for its height and was made up with aged Italian linen sheets. A rustic table was set with ripe fruit and a water pitcher and there was a glass jar with bath oil next to the tub.
Matera has been settled since the Paleolithic; the city itself founded by the Romans in the 3rd century B.C. Since then, various peoples have laid claim to this small city, reshaping it in their own image. The cave dwellings were fully inhabited without water, electricity or plumbing. In the early 1950’s, the Italian President visited Matera’s historical center, the Sassi (literally meaning from stones), witnessed its pervasive poverty and had its 20,000 inhabitants evacuated to other neighborhoods. The abandoned area became state property and rapidly deteriorated. Churches carved from rock and decorated with medieval frescoes soon crumbled away.
In the late 1980’s the Italian government devoted dollars to modernize the Sassi with a network of water and gas systems; electricity and telecommunications cables were buried in underground trenches, not disturbing the architecture or landscape.
So my hotel room, once quite literally a hole in the wall, is now ‘primitive-fancy’, created by an hotelier with a vision.
As Matera is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, I envisioned busloads of tourists descending on its timeworn hills, but we moved mostly among its 3,000 inhabitants. The complex network of caves, churches, tiny streets and arduous stairways made for grueling ascensions but interesting exploration. A large cave dwelling housed a music conservatory, the clatter of practicing piano, trumpet and violin wafting from its primitive windows to the Sassi below. Church incense (remarkably different from sticks we burned to cover the smell of skunky college dope) emanated from each door of the dozens of Duomos, inviting us to linger in their dark, cool interior; our eyes adjusting to ogle colorful frescoes and ancient paintings of the long dead.
Come breakfast, we drizzled mountain honey over mounds of fluffy ricotta made by gnarled old ladies in black housedresses. Late suppers of hand-cut pasta with wild artichokes and platters of grilled vegetables drizzled with good, green oil from the hills were paired with bottles of inexpensive Aglianico, a local wine perfectly suited to the rustic foods of Basilicata.
A very late supper of summer truffles and porcini mushrooms tossed with fresh tagliatelle… (at Matera, Italy)
Sunset or fresco?? (at Sassi di Matera)
A rainy, late afternoon nosh… (at Matera, Italy)
Freshly picked pistachios with leaves from a spicy pepper tree in Puglia, Italy…
The clang of cowbells from distant pastures carries on the blazing air, competing with an earsplitting cacophony from cicadas hiding in tree branches overhead.
God, it’s hot. Roasting hot. My thin sundress is sticking to my body, my floppy hat weighty with sweat. To counter the heat, I ate mounds of creamy gelato drizzled with Acacia honey for breakfast but it helped only temporarily… The owner of the Masseria where we’re staying in the southern Italian region of Puglia explained it’s unseasonable weather, but that’s of no cooling comfort. The Masseria, a 19th century working farm producing organic fruits, vegetables and extra virgin olive oil, is surrounded by thousands of olive trees, many nearly 2,000 years of age. I ventured into the olive grove this late morning seeking shade and breeze and found both underneath an enormous olive tree, its ancient limbs twisted from nature’s ferocity.
Olive trees are most productive between 400 and 800 years of age. During World War II, many of Puglia’s trees were felled for wood, severely altering the area’s landscape. Referred to as ulivi secolari (literally centuries-old olive trees), it takes many generations for an olive tree to become productive. A ban on the destruction of Puglia’s more than 50 million olive trees was instituted, even if they are too old to produce much, if any, fruit. While Puglia produces nearly half of the country’s olive oil, the trees are prized for an additional reason: Italian President Berlusconi, host of the infamous ‘bunga-bunga’ parties, and his rich cronies would send their henchmen in the dark of night to dig up these venerable trees and cart them to their gardens in country’s north, lending their grand digs an air of the historic. The Pugliese were so outraged that now the older trees are numbered and tagged and monitored by satellite!
I shuffled slowly back to the patio of the farmhouse and sat in the shade of a gigantic fig tree, its perfume almost overwhelming in the heat. I plucked a fat fig from the heavy branches, its seams bursting with ripeness. Splitting it in half with my fingers, I dunk the luscious, ruby fruit into a puddle of rich, green oil from the bottle on the table, allowing the sweet and savory to whisper their historic secrets to my awaiting senses.
Capocollo di Calabria, made from cured pork shoulder and neck and sliced ultra-thin, boasts a Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) status… This succulent, purely Italian ham is so highly regarded that it’s protected by law! Prepared with white wine, spices, garlic, and fresh herbs, then stuffed into casings and hung for 6 months to cure. Ribbons of lardo are interlaced with the tender meat, allowing it to melt on the tongue… (at Lecce, Italy)
Saint Oronzo directing me to the best gelato in Puglia. Nocciola, ‘natch… (at Piazza Sant'Oronzo)
In the southern province of Bari, Italy, there lies the small, seaside town of Molfetta. Shabby in the way all ancient Mediterranean towns are: flaking stucco and peeling paint, brightly colored shutters drawn closed at midday, the pervading smell of oily fish baking in the sun, and several dozen churches, their bells mourning each passing hour. Thousands-year old crypts, guarded by hoary men in starched white tee-shirts, are stacked with bones and watched over by a giant stone carving of a skeleton holding an hourglass in a one hand and a scythe in the other.
Escaping the blinding midday heat, we slip into a dark trattoria and gorge on seafood antipasti and quaff liters of local white wine, bantering with the owner in broken fragments of many languages. We order macchiatos and then sip bitter Amaro with a few cubes of ice before slinking back for a siesta, taking care to walk in the cool shadows of the timeworn stone buildings.
A very small hotel lying directly on the Adriatic is a modernist architect’s wet dream: angular, completely white, spare rooms sprinkled with Italian, high design lamps and couches, and enormous windows to catch the gentle ocean breezes. The owner and his son, both weirdly and wildly unsuited to the role of hotelier, are often found stalking the hallways. The roof from which to witness the spectacle of sunrise and sunset was shared only with the hundreds of sparrows who descend upon the town’s coast, raising a ruckus while devouring their morning and evening feasts.
“Mon Dieu! Your butter is leaking!”
And indeed, it was. The instructor, a French-born-Chinese pastry chef, spoke heavily accented English, but her tone was an unmistakable mix of contempt and disappointment at my weak efforts to properly seal the corners of my dough. She snatched the rolling pin from my hands to salvage the oozing mess that was piled on the steel table in front of me. As a former Pastry Chef for Paris’ esteemed Hotel Meurice, she surely understood how to make passable pastry from my shoddy sow’s ear.
It wasn’t yet 10am and already I’d been humiliated. Unable to blame my bumbling on neither wine with lunch or skunky weed scored in a local park, I hung back and watched her work my dough into something more worthy of being baked into the French national treasure: a croissant. This early morning baking class, offered near Paris’ Hôtel-de-Ville, held out the tantalizing notion that I would soon be capable of churning out flaky, airy delights in my own kitchen. Now red-faced and smocked in a cheap plastic apron with my name scrawled across its front in blue magic marker, I wasn’t so sure.
The history of the croissant is as layered as the pastry itself. In 1683, Vienna was under attack by the Turks who, unsuccessful in their attempts to starve the city into submission, began to tunnel underneath its walls. Viennese bakers, slaving away at their underground ovens, heard the racket and alerted the city’s defenders who thwarted the Turks’ intentions. To celebrate their victory, bakers made a pastry in the shape of the Turkish crescents they had seen on the enemy’s flags. The legend continues that it was a young Austrian princess by the name of Marie Antoinette, who married Louis XVI and insisted that her Parisian chefs recreate her favorite pastry, thus introducing the croissant to France.
The amount of butter used to make a dozen croissants is gluttonous. But the French appetite for high-quality butter is a constant and guilt-free accoutrement to the table, not unlike liters of quaffable wine and the ashtray. We weighed ingredients, composed silken almond cream, and kneaded balls of fleshy dough. We talked of tempering and egg washes and cacao percentages. The highly organized basement kitchen, now covered in the detritus of a war waged on sacks of flour, was soon filled with the comforting aroma of baking dough. Strong coffee was passed around, as we tasted through our morning’s accomplishments.
As I walked into the bright, early summer sunlight and away from the Beaux-Arts building housing the cooking school, I reached into my culinary swag bag and tore into a still-warm chocolate croissant. My gustatory critique of the rather dense pastry told me that with practice, I could do better.
Hours later, as I sat enjoying a café crème, I wiped at the corners of my mouth. Looking down at my black cloth napkin, I realized, with more than a bit of pride, there was a thin coating of flour on it.
The glorious white asparagus on offer at nearly every market in Paris in late spring and early summer. While growing, soil is constantly heaped on top of the plant so it doesn’t see the light of day and doesn’t produce chlorophyll which turns the stalks green… (at Marché des Enfants Rouges)
Fresh morning catch of polpo at the fish market in Bari, Italy… (at Porto di Molfetta)
Pastis’ on a Sunday afternoon… (at Place des Vosges)
The blast of air whizzing past my head startled me, the sound of beating wings more dream than distinct.
As the Harris’ Hawk landed on my thick, outstretched leather glove, I briefly recalled the first dozen times I fired my shotgun during a long ago opening day of dove season: my head turned away and my eyes tightly shut closed, my fingers curled around the trigger and barrel in fists of fear.
I’ve forever been interested in birds, but mostly concerned with hunting, butchering, and slowly roasting their succulent, little bodies, preferably plumped with fresh herbs and enjoyed with mature Pinot Noir. Today, falconry is not so much about securing dinner (unless your bird of prey retrieves rabbits and ducks), but rather training a bird to hunt in his natural habitat and return to his keeper. The bonding of bird to falconer dates back thousands of years; colorful Egyptian hieroglyphs etched on walls exhibit the spiritual connection falconers develop with their birds through a commitment to breed, train, handle, and fly them.
After my initial shock at being transformed into a human perch faded, I slowly turned my head and opened my eyes, coming face to beak with a stunning creature of evolution. I studied the curve of his head and the earthy shadings of his feathers as he gobbled a raw piece of chicken leg from my heavy glove, which protected my forearm from his curving, yellowish talons.
Falconry has a long and distinguished history in England and it was in the small town of Grange-on-the-Sands in northern England that I had come to learn a bit about its artistry. My mentor for the day was an eccentric middle-aged woman, a falconer of 20 years, who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of birds of prey. With her eyes set widely apart and her mane of thinning brown hair combed into a high crown, she oddly resembled one of her charges, an image made more real when she whistled for the hawk to descend upon us from his perch high in the evergreens.
We spent the drizzly afternoon learning about the habits and nature of birds of prey, while the Harris’ Hawk followed us through the thick, damp forest, occasionally landing on my arm to feed and study me, undoubtedly bewildered by my intentions to understand him.