While here I read Leonardo Sciasia’s The Day of the Owl, a decidedly unglamorous depiction which delves into the seamy underbelly of localized mob control. Less a unified system than a murky network of connections, this world is imagined as one whose outlines are not even fully understood by those on the inside. Such a representation gets a nice cinematic pairing in Francesco Rosi’s Salvatore Giuliano, a portrait of an apolitical hustler that avoids any direct depiction of the man, only the shadow cast by him on the island’s arid landscape, and the way his actions were influenced by the eternal forces (organized crime, church, and state) which tussle for total control, balancing each other out in the process. It may seem trite to try and connect food to all this, but the culinary patchwork here is equally indefinable and unorganized; having spent dozens of hours trying to enforce order upon it, I feel like I’m no closer to pinning down any essential character or qualities, beyond the fascinating maelstrom of complete culinary entropy.
Agrodolce: That one ristorante experience was the tasting menu at Ristorante Manna in Noto, which, while fantastic, introduced me to the unpleasant sensation of simultaneously digesting nine generously sized courses, including a pile of Pasta con le Sarde that could have constituted a meal in itself. Here we also had beef cheek served Agrodolce, a typically Sicilian compound of sour and sweet flavors that involves reducing vinegar and sugar, another method that’s likely Arabian in origin. Another example of humble offall gone glitzy, the beef cheek was a good fit, even if it’s not exactly the most traditional means of applying Agrodolce. The historic pairing, and one that still sounds great, would have been rabbit, formerly one of the primary meats of the Sicilian diet, before the introduction of pigs and other livestock to the island.
One variation is Stemperata Sauce, which is used for swordfish, tuna and also rabbit, although I feel like the addition of tomatoes to the mix violates the straightforward rules of agrodolce, disbalancing the mixture toward sweet, and thus counts as a separate thing altogether.
An expansive definition, meanwhile, might include Caponata, the island’s most famous vegetable melange, which involves a characteristic mix of vinegar and sugar. Regularly employed in a variety of different capacities, this mash of eggplant, often bolstered by celery and/or tomatoes, is a real utility player, equally good as a mezze-style meal opening (fittingly also featured in Tunisian cuisine) and fleshed out with fish to attain entree status (sometimes referred to as “alla Palermitana”, although this name can also describe standard Caponata). Some interesting etymology from Clifford Wright delves into a complex linguistic history that I don’t have the capacity to untangle.
As for non-Siciian varietals, I had the chance to sample Montenegro, named for the 19th century Princess Elena, later Queen of Italy, who originally hailed from that Balkan kingdom. It’s produced in Bologna, the apparent invention of one Stanislao Cobianchi, whose exploits as detailed on the drink’s Wikipedia are so aspirational to me that I’ll include a rare quote here from the entry: “Stanislao travelled from continent to continent collecting 40 rinds, woods, seeds, rhizomes, flowers, fruits, citrus peels, roots, stems and leaves.” Why this liquor, invented in 1885, would have been named after an 12-year-old Montenegrin princess, who wouldn’t marry into Italian royalty for another 11 years, seemed like a weird mystery, although the official website provides clarification: the drink was originally named Elisir Lungavita (“Long Life Elixir”, basically) and retitled in her honor after her 1896 coronation.
There was also Unicum, an impossibly aphotic brew of cask-aged herbs, which as it turns out is not even Italian, but Hungarian. For those interested, I wrote in greater detail on Italian digestivi a few years back. Returning to the island, I’ll mention a few other potent potables that I didn’t have a chance to consume. First there’s Spiritu Fascitrari, a brandy previously produced from the honey of native black bees, which have since been supplanted by foreign invaders. Next is Prickly Pear Liqueur, a self-explanatory suspension of juice, sugar, and liquor, which I plan to make myself this summer if I can manage to scare up enough of these fruits. Having no ground to stand on in terms of explaining the wide world of wines, I won’t get into discussing them here, but rest assured they are as good as everyone says.
To return to Busiate, it’s also known also as “Maccaruna di Casa,” (“House/Home Pasta”), which places it as a close linguistic companion to Casarecce (“homemade”), another common indigenous shape. I also saw that name ascribed to a bag of crunchy potato chips, which led to some initial confusion, until I realized the term was being used in the same way that “artisanal” might be here.
Eggplant Parmigiana: Yet another dish that has transformed into an unwieldy behemoth in Italian-Americah hands, Eggplant Parmigiana is completely different here, on the island that claims its creation (more on this in a bit). While I retain a soft spot for American Parms - all of which work in slightly different capacities (even shrimp, and especially squid), like different members of a rotund superhero squad - it’s hard to argue that this Old-World version isn’t a far better showcase for fresh eggplants. To start off it’s much lighter, employing no breading, and cooked in thin layered sheets that recall lasagna, the only cheese a light dusting of parmesan on top.
This seems like a good time to dig into the difference between the cheese and the cooking style, and how this relates to the preparation of a vegetable much more associated with Southern Italy than North. As a kid I was always puzzled by what separated “Parmesan” the cheese from “Parmigiana” the dish. I now know that it’s due to Parma’s most famous cheese itself passing into French cuisine, where its name became gallicized before moving on into English. “Parmigiana,” meanwhile, appears nowhere in Northern Italian cuisine, and the only “Parm” you’ll commonly find in Italy at all is eggplant. There’s various theories as to why a dish which only lightly features the cheese is named after it, and whether it originated in Sicily or Naples, all of which you’ll find on this helpful Wikipedia entry. Wright’s theory does seem the most credible to me, although I could also buy a hybrid history in which an existing Sicilian “Eggplant Palmigiana” gained cheese and found its name fused with that of a slightly different dish. The fact that eggplant likely arrived in Sicily before Naples, due to its emergence from Arab/Spanish foodways, might bolster this argument.
It’s only in America, of course, that you find chicken, veal, sausage, meatballs and zucchini getting the Parm treatment, which at some point after immigration changed meaning from “a fine dusting of cheese on top” to “an outright assault of mozzarella mooring various foodstuffs to a hero or bowl of spaghetti”. You would of course never find any self-respecting native Italian applying cheese to chicken, veal, sausage, meatballs or zucchini (let alone shrimp or squid). There’s also the issue of Australian Parmas, which I found pretty similar the one time I ate one, not even realizing it was a different dish, although this was in a full restaurant, not a pub. I also want to take this opportunity to note the strangely mellifluous sound of the combo Australian/Italian accent, which was strangely common in the Queensland wine country I was visiting.
To return to Sicily: A Catanese version of Parmigiana is a tad heavier, employing primosale cheese, sausage and eggs. Back on the lighter side, there’s a local eggplant sformato, which to me looks a bit like the Genoese Polpettone.
Pasta alla Norma: To continue the eggplant investigation, this famous noodle dish of aubergines, tomatoes, ricotta salata and basil hails from Catania, where it originated, presumably sometime between 1831 and 2019. What can be said for sure is that it was named after an opera by 19th century Catania-born wunderkind Vincenzo Bellini, not to be confused with Renaissance artist Giovanni Bellini, the inspiration for the brunch cocktail. Beyond that I cannot procure a date, and while Norma premiered in 1831, and dish names are often tagged to the runs of especially well-received stage productions, I also doubt there were many Sicilian trattorias in operation that far back. I’ve seen a somewhat convoluted explanation that to refer to something as “a Norma,” was a mark of great esteem, one developed from the opera and eventually accorded upon the pasta, but this link seems specious.
Pasta Peperonata: Not widely seen in the U.S., Peperonata is one of those dishes that’s so basic as to be unattributable in origin, as simple a preparation as pasta with tomato sauce or Pasta Fazool. It does help, however, if you have a lot of very fresh peppers on hand, or perhaps a batch of once very-fresh peppers about to pass their peak. It does seem to be concentrated in popularity throughout Southern Italy, although stewed peppers are such a common dish that, moving North of Rome, they may simply be known by another name.
Semifreddo: I had somehow never tasted this very sweet, very almondy dessert until Sicily, which may be for the best, since desserts at the kind of stuffy Italian-American places that tend to serve this kind of thing are usually not spectacular, and also because molded ice cream concoctions are something of a science here. Tartufo, while born in Calabria, is given similar treatment. Along with Spumoni and Zuccotto, these scream “Mid-Century Italian” to me, which is likely because this is the period where affordable refrigeration became accessible across the country, giving everyone access to elaborate gelato desserts formerly reserved for the upper class. It was likely during the same period that semi-chilled desserts like Tiramisu, a Northern invention very common here due to the national love of coffee flavoring, swept the country.
I’ve already discussed the wonders of Italian almonds in detail, but will take some time to note how good the Noto variety I bought in Syracuse were. Sicily may also be able to boast the invention of the original almond milk (“Latte di Mandorla”), although I’m not prepared to, or interested in, granting any historical accolades at this point.
Badduzze: Classically, the Italian meatball is the polpette. These are a niche local variation, supposedly grilled between citrus leaves, although they also seem to show up in soup. Since we’re on meatballs, I might as well mention that there’s tuna ones as well. There’s a similar dish known as Tuna 'muttunatu, although honestly I cannot figure out exactly what this is. Leaving the world of balls, tuna steaks are also consumed, under the name Tunnina. Finally, there’s a tuna-fied version of sfincione, which swaps out the bread element for a slab of fish, a weird choice that might actually be delicious under the right circumstances.
Cicerchia Pea: Another local heritage legume. There’s a Sicilian soup, consumed since ancient times, that from what I’ve read seems to sometimes make use of this pea.
Cuscusu: Another Maghrebi classic ported over to this side of the Mediterranean, cuscusu is basically cous-cous; same grain, different topping. In this case, it’s generally a generous serving of seafood.
Now that we all have access to reasonably-tender beef cuts to some extent or another, Farsumagru is no longer available only to the upper class, which is what I imagine has allowed it to draw a bit closer to braciole, leading to it also being referred to as “Braciolone,” or “Bruciulini” in Sicilian. Fish also gets this treatment, in so-called tuna sausages.
More common for fish, however, is the concept of “Involtini,” in which individual fillets are wrapped around a filling of breadcrumbs and aromatics. This practice makes its way to America most famously as Eggplant Rollatini, a great dish with a clearly invented Italian title. There’s speculation that such a use of eggplant never occurred in Italy, premiering only in America, where immigrants were keen to recreate the Involtini but lacked the fresh seafood or meat to do so. I think it’s unlikely no native Italian ever bundled up an eggplant slice in this fashion, but I will agree that what’s called “Rollatini” does end up as a totally different dish, part of a class of heavy, red-sauce fortified oven bakes that are closer to American casseroles than airier Italian Pastas al Forno.
Back in Sicily, these are primarily made with Swordfish (“Involtini di Pesce Spada”), but also utilize tuna or veal. This fact causes some to mark Involtini as a close relative to Braciole (back on that spectrum again), and while it’s likely the two have common history, they have at this point diverged. I think what most bears out a French origin point is that Farsumagrua, Involtini, and Braciole are all forms of roulade, with braciole being versatile enough to take on both the large form of the former and the Involtini style of individually wrapped rolls. To complicate things further, there’s also Saltimbocca. I am now wading into extremely treacherous waters, but from what I’ve been able to ascertain, including my personal experience, the “original” Saltimbocca (“Saltimbocca alla Romana”) is not generally rolled, which leads me to speculate (rather wildly, if I do say so myself) that the “Rollatinied” form of the dish is not Italian, but Italian-American.
If this is indeed the case, I’d then say it was impossible to determine whether that rolled status came about as a copy of Rollatini-style dishes (I count this as unlikely, considering the appetizer-y Saltimboccas sit on a different section of the menu, rate differently in terms of presumed fanciness, and are not baked), or a copy of Involtini-style Sicilian food served at more “authentic” locations. They may also be a copy of the original French roulade, reflecting a mid-century propensity of Italian-American food to “elevate” itself by absorbing techniques from French/Continental cooking. Think of the much-maligned Chicken/Veal Francese, a soggy workhorse of the Sterno circuit, which can actually be fantastic if made properly and not left to languish in its own juices for hours (I am lucky enough to have a father-in-law with a history in French kitchens, who recently changed my entire outlook with a perfectly prepared Flounder Francese).
Back to Involtini: related dishes include Sarde a Beccafico, another roll-up featuring sardines around a similar breadcrumb, pinenut and raisin filling. I was curious why the sardine version has its own specific name, despite being otherwise indistinguishable from Involtini, and the answer once again draws us back to the groaning feast tables of local lords, and by extension their faithful Monsu chefs (I’m actually getting really tired of talking about these guys). Beccafico” (“Fig Beak”), in fact designates a type of small bird (perhaps a Typical Warbler, more likely an entire class of pesky fig eaters), which in olden times were stuffed and eaten in this same fashion. Considering their petite size, I imagine this form of consumption was likely similar to the grisly gustation that accompanies eating Ortolans. Sardines seem a little less monstrous to my taste, although the tails are apparently still sometimes left flared out, to approximate those of the birds.
Finally, to close out this overlong disquisition on all things stuffed and rolled, there’s Seppie or Calamari Ripieni, signifying cuttlefish or squid. These are technically stuffed, not rolled, but the composition of the filling is similar, and so I will include it here.
Mpanatigghi - One of the odder foods in this land of many strange flavors is Mpanatigghi, a sweet pastry from Modica filled with chocolate, almonds, lemon peel and….ground beef. This is made even odder by how rare of a concept “ground beef” is on the island; this is the only place besides meatballs I can even think of it being used. Most recipes seem to define these as “cookies,” but to me this seems like a cheap tactic to heighten the tension between the sweet and the meat; as far as I can tell they are empanada-style pastries (hence the name), sitting along the same spectrum as the Cassatelle discussed in the previous post. The chocolate can at least be explained by the predominance of that ingredient in the Mpanatigghi’s hometown, where a very old cold-pressed style of production, adapted via the Spaniards from the original Aztec method, is utilized. As far as the collaboration between the sugared and the meaty, it’s not completely out of left field, considering the Southern Italian Sanguinaccio, which makes use of the excess blood from pigs killed just before Lent. This makes me wonder if Mpanatigghi originally contained blood, not beef, and the recipe was simply streamlined for more modern tastes as the years went by. Ranging further afield, there’s also Finnish blood pancakes, usually served with lingonberries, which are represented by a truly wretched image in their Wikipedia article.
Pasta cu Macchu: Fava mush pasta is a peasant-food staple here, traditionally prepared at the tail end of winter, sometimes eaten alone as a soup. There’s also a green maccu. Among this class of hearty winter dishes, there are also pumpkin soups, some of which include an orzo-type pasta to further amplify their effect.
Pasta 'Ncasciata: This one means “cooked over embers,” and of course, designates a bunch of different baked pastas, a reminder that any baked dishes with a significant history were originally prepared this way. Some of these baked pastas, the borders of which seem to primarily be designated by a top sprinkling of caciocavallo to achieve a crispy, encased crust, are prepared in timbale form, which seems like the ultimate destiny for any vintage dish of this type with white-tablecloth aspirations. While we’re on the Timbale continuum, there’s also Mpurnatu, a “Ziti Pie,” that looks pretty close to American Baked Ziti, although a bit less saucy. Other, even less American-friendly versions are out there; I’m particularly partial to this variation, which has no sauce, very little cheese, dried mushrooms and chicken guts.
As far as pastas named after cooking vessels go, there’s also Pasta a Tainu, “Pasta in a Saucepan,” a Cefalù specialty now largely relegated to the Feast of Saint Salvatore, who is not actually a distinct person but the form of Jesus also known as the Pantocrator (“Almighty’”). This form is usually associated with Eastern Orthodox Christanity, which seems odd, especially since this figure is emblazoned upon the apse of the city’s cathedral as a huge mosaic. But this clue also provides an answer: the building was constructed during the 12th century, by the Italo-Normans, who were operating the island as a client state under the larger influence of the Byzantine Empire.
Spaghetti alla Siracusana: A pasta from Siracusa seasoned with bottarga, olive oil, smoked fillet of herring and various herbs. As far as seafood pasta missed opportunities go, I happened to also visit during the off-season for sea urchin (which lasts roughly from November to April), which means I missed the classic Spaghetti ai Ricci. Time did not allow for any dalliances with Linguine con Seppia, a cuttlefish-stocked pasta where the ink forms the base for the sauce. I also wasn’t lucky enough to happen upon Pasta allo Scoglio (“on the rocks”), a catch-all term for noodles served with fish and crustaceans.
Tripe: Closing things out with offal seems appropriate, so I’ll quickly wind through any gnarly comestibles not already covered in the street food post. As a 2nd-4th generation Italian-American with heavily suburbanized/Americanized parents, I was lucky to avoid red-sauce splattered tripe as a childhood rite of passage, and have heard enough stories about it from others to be thankful. Having tried it since, I truly grasp the lack of appeal, and while I can handle any of the four cow stomachs implemented in Asian or other cuisines, I find Italian-American tripe to generally taste like moist netting. I am willing to admit this is probably linked to paltry preparation and could be corrected at some point; maybe the answer is tracking down some authentic Trippa Olivetana, prepared in the style of the Benedectine nuns who occupied the historic church of San Giovanni degli Eremiti in Palermo.
Tripe is also served fried with a dipping sauce in Sicily, and Italy at large, which does sound more appetizing. There’s also Budello Grasso (“stuffed gut,”) which looks a bit like an Italian haggis. Finally, there’s the stuffed guts and spring onion casserole dish known as Turciniuna, hailing from Ragusa, about which I can find nothing but Pinterest posts and pictures. This seems like the perfect place to wrap this long, strange trip into the underbelly of Sicilian food, about which I can now safely state that I have nothing more to say. Hopefully, when I am able to return, the resulting series of posts will not be quite so long, although I cannot promise anything, considering how much more there likely is to discover.