Made In Sicily
Giorgio Locatelli

with Sheila Keating

Photographs by Lisa Linder

Dedication

To Clive Exton

who always told me I could achieve anything I wanted

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

A mythological island

Antipasti

Verdure

Cuscus e zuppa

Pasta

Pesce

Carne

Dolci

Searchable Terms

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

A mythological island

‘Sicily is Sicily – 1860, earlier, forever’

– Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

As a northern Italian, I grew up with preconceived ideas about Sicily and southern Italy. The joke was always that no one in the south did any work; it was the northern Italians who ran the country and made things happen. I grew up in Corgeno, on the shores of Lake Comabbio in Lombardy, where our family had a hotel and restaurant, La Cinzianella, and like most people in the village we went on holiday to Emilia Romagna, or maybe Liguria. It was only in the seventies that people really started to go south.

So you cannot overestimate how exciting it was that when I was about twelve years old, four friends, whom I looked up to because they were older – maybe eighteen – went off to Calabria, and from there to Sicily because one of them fell in love with a Sicilian girl (he actually ended up marrying her). Corgeno is a small place, where everybody knows everything about everyone else, and in those days when someone came back from their holidays they would be in the village square telling stories about the time they had had.

When these guys returned, they were full of talk about the fantastic life, the sun, the beautiful sea … they made Sicily sound like a Robinson Crusoe island, full of beaches with no one on them. In my mind it became an idyllic, almost mythological place that sounded like the Caribbean, populated by people who were Italians, but yet not like Italians; almost a different race. They spoke a language that was completely different to ours, and the whole island seemed to work in such a different way to northern Italy.

It was twenty years before I finally got to go to Sicily for the first time. Life got in the way: the army, cooking in Paris and London, having a family – my wife Plaxy, son Jack, and daughter Margherita (Dita) – setting up our first restaurant, Zafferano, and then later Locanda Locatelli. Then, in the late nineties, the winemaker Alessio Planeta (pictured on the previous page) invited me to look at an olive oil project he was beginning at La Capparrina in Menfi, in the south-west of the island. What was interesting was that after cooking for over two decades in London, I found myself looking at the island as much through the eyes of a Londoner as those of a northern Italian. Even after countless holidays in Menfi, where I have got to know many of the local people, there are times when I still feel as foreign as Plaxy, because when the local farmers or fishermen talk in dialect I can’t really understand what is being said!

On that first visit it was early spring, just before Easter, when I arrived in Palermo, and as we drove down to Menfi I was completely blown away by the fact that the island looked so green and bright and gorgeous. I had expected something like northern Africa, and it is true that some areas are like that, but even in the middle of the motorway there were masses of big red bougainvillea, and the road cut through beautiful wheat fields and orange and lemon groves, olive groves, vineyards and fields of artichokes. The whole island was like a garden, and in a way the structure, with its funny old walls, reminded me a little of the English countryside.

I could see straight away that the northern Italian idea that the guys who lived in Sicily sat around doing nothing was completely wrong. Everywhere you saw the hand of man, the agriculturist, over nature, in fields and groves that had been worked and tended for thousands of years.

What grows together, goes together …

Every time I go to Sicily, what blows me away is not only the incredible intensity of flavour that is in everything you eat, from the pale greeny-gold broccoli that punches you in the face with its taste, to the tomatoes from Pachino, which are so exquisitely sweet they almost make you want to cry, to the lemons growing everywhere, so beautiful you can just slice them and eat them with salt and olive oil. No, it is not only that. It is the absolute belief that the Sicilians have in the ascendancy of the ingredients over any kind of over-creativity or pretentiousness. Whenever I have eaten in people’s houses or in restaurants, what I see is not the personality of the cook or the chef coming out in the dishes, but the personality of the land and the sea.

The first wave of people to invade Sicily, the Greeks, went there because of the abundance of the territory. In the Odyssey, Homer talks about the land of the one-eyed giants, the Cyclops, at the foot of Mount Etna, which, despite the fact that the Cyclops did nothing to tend the land, was so rich with produce that it amazed the hero, Odysseus, when he landed on the island. Obviously the Cyclops never existed, but I sometimes think that Homer invented the idea of them because he had found such a beautiful place he didn’t want anyone else to share it: ‘Don’t go there; there are one-eyed giants!’ Because the orchards, gardens and groves of olives, ‘luscious figs’, the ‘vine’s fruit’, and the ‘vegetables of all the kinds that flourish in every season’ were very real, and they have remained, immovable, at the heart of Sicilian cooking no matter who has invaded or ruled over the island.

When people talk about Sicilian cooking, they always say, ‘This is what the Greeks left’, or ‘This is what the Arabs or the Spanish brought’, because Sicily’s history is a complex one of two and a half thousand years of invasion and domination by foreign powers who treated the island as a colony, and often plundered their produce to feed their homelands. After the Greeks came the Romans, the Arabs, the Normans and the Spanish, and when Napoleon invaded Naples in 1798, King Ferdinand and his court took refuge in Sicily, bringing over chefs from Paris who cooked the fashionable French food of the times and were known as the monzu, a version of ‘monsieur’. Finally, in 1860, Garibaldi, helped by the English, landed at Marsala with his band of ‘redshirts’ to begin his conquest of Sicily and the unification of Italy.

Historians talk about the sophisticated, baroque, baronial cooking of the Sicilian nobility on the one hand, and on the other, cucina povera, the cooking of the poor people who were forced to be clever with whatever ingredients they had. And we cannot forget the Mafia, which has historically controlled food prices, production and businesses. Of course, all this social history left some sort of mark, but I believe that the biggest influence on Sicilian food, and the winning force over everything, is the territory: the land and the sea. These determine the produce, which has stayed constant and strong throughout all the cultural changes, hardships, bloodshed and extortion.

Even if the Arabs introduced oranges and lemons, sugar and spices all those centuries ago, it is the territory that ultimately decides what grows. We are talking about food from a very special, particular land, especially the volcanic area around Mount Etna (where the mythological Cyclops lived), all the way down the plain of Catania to Pachino where they produce the tomatoes that taste like no others, and the arid groves that produce the most beautiful olives and grapes. And then there is the profusion of fish and shellfish that throughout most of Sicily is prized above meat. Especially swordfish and tuna, which were once abundant around the Straits of Messina but are now sadly overfished, and the beautiful red prawns that come from the cold waters off Mazara del Vallo.

The quantity of traditional recipes that the Sicilians have is enormous, but they are all based on the same set of ingredients. As always throughout Italy, a dish with the same name will be made in a slightly different way in every town, every village and even every house, with everyone claiming the authentic version, but in Sicily these are only small variations on the same simple but beautiful combinations: broccoli and anchovies, capers, sultanas and pine nuts, olives and lemons, oranges and fish, almonds, pistachios and wild fennel, aubergines and breadcrumbs, and in desserts fresh ricotta, candied fruit and peel, and chocolate. Somebody, some day, a long time ago, put certain combinations of these ingredients together in a way that the Sicilians found pleasing, and, like the ancient Saracen olive trees that have stood resolutely on the island for thousands of years, the people have remained resilient in the face of any influences that feel false to the flavours they love.

The whole production of food has a harmony and a natural seasonal rhythm, but above all, there is this idea that what comes from the same land and sea can be put together on a plate. What grows together, goes together, as my grandmother used to say about the vegetables and herbs in our garden in Corgeno. I find it very inspiring as a chef to understand the way ingredients like swordfish, sultanas, breadcrumbs, capers and cheese can come together in something that tastes fantastic – particularly as in most of Italy we have an unwritten rule that you never put fish and cheese together, something that the Sicilians happily do all the time, and that works. The dishes are not about clever transformations, they are about conducting and expressing the taste of the ingredients to the maximum, in the simplest way.

We talk a lot about fusion these days, but in a city like London or New York, fusion means you can have ingredients from different cultures all over the world brought to you, so you can put them together on a plate. In Sicily, that idea of fusion is turned upside down, in that it is the different cultures that have come and gone over the centuries, but the ingredients have stayed still.

Salt, pepper and a knife …

This idea of simple meal-making with a limited set of incredible ingredients has had a big influence on the way I cook. I have always valued simplicity – and anyway the nature of Italian food is to be less complicated than other cuisines – but in Sicily you encounter a true simplicity that I have never experienced anywhere else.

After my visit to Planeta I returned in the summer with the family and we rented a house near Menfi, where we have been spending Easter and summer holidays ever since, close to the sea and the ruins of the Greek temples at Selinunte. Plaxy remembers seeing the place for the first time: dusty roads and tumbleweed; it was like stepping back in time, but we feel so at home there. Everyone has been so sweet and welcoming; and whenever you arrive, people are really happy to see you; and if you don’t go around and say hello to everyone they will be offended. It reminds me so much of Corgeno, because everyone knows the business of everybody else. The first time I went into the butcher’s shop the butcher already knew who I was and where I was staying.

On the first morning I went for a walk into the village in search of ingredients, because when we are there I cook lunch every day, and some times dinner, though mostly in the evening we go out to eat. That walk has now become my daily routine in Sicily. I buy a newspaper and stop for a coffee and maybe a pastry in the local bar, then I buy some vegetables, and usually some meat for Margherita, because she is allergic to fish. I go to one of the ten or twelve bakers to buy some of the beautiful local bread, and then home.

On that first holiday I had no preconceptions about what I was going to cook, and I was in that relaxed holiday mood of not having to organise a restaurant kitchen, or prepare dishes according to a menu. I had no time to build up a larder with spices or condiments, but I had a kitchen full of fresh ingredients – of course, I bought way too much, because I couldn’t resist the boxes of artichokes and tomatoes and peppers – and I had some salt and pepper and a knife. That was it.

In London we live in such an organised way, with so many ingredients at our fingertips, but in a Sicilian village you don’t leave home with a list, you just have to go out and see what there is. It limits you in a way, but it also makes you feel so free and inspired, because it is such a natural way of cooking, and it has become something I look forward to every time I go there. The ingredients are in charge. You see what ingredients you have, and they decide what it is that you are going to cook. This is the Sicilian way.

Very little in this book is complicated, because in Sicily the ingredients are so special, they speak for themselves. If you have been to Sicily you will understand. If you haven’t been to Sicily, then you must go …

Antipasti

Insalata di mare

Insalata di gamberi ai pomodori

Insalata calda di polpo

Calamari fritti

Fritto misto alla piazzese

Polpettine di tonno o pesce spada

Chiocciole a picchi pacchi

Arancini

Arancini al sapore di mare

Arancini di carne

Pane

Pangrattato

Cáciù all’argintéra

Ramacché

Pizza alla siciliana

Pizza arrotolata

Torta di sambuco

Schiacciata con salsiccia

Prezzemolo e aglio, oli e condimenti

Prezzemolo e aglio

Olio all’aglio

Olio di limone

Olio di peperoncino

Giorgio’s dressing

Salsetta, salmoriglio e pesto

Salsa salmoriglio

Zogghiu

Salsa verde

Mandorle

Pesto trapanese

Salsetta di mandorle e acciughe

Salsa di pomodoro

A city that leaves you breathless

… soon a saucer of green olives and anchovies was sitting on the table, and some bread, and some mineral water. A small woman with dark hair and dark eyes and precise features whirled up like a woodland bird. She perched lightly at the table and rattled off a long list of antipasti, first courses and seconds, and every single one of them came out of the sea. This was Palermo in summer for you.

– Peter Robb, Midnight in Sicily

The best way to have a good meal in a restaurant in Sicily is not to ask for the menu; just let them bring you whatever the guys in the kitchen want to prepare for you, which of course will begin with the antipasti.

Everyone everywhere in Italy eats antipasti, the plates of shared food that arrive with the bread, before the pasta. They are the signal to relax, eat, discuss and enjoy, and the quality of the antipasti is a sign of what is to come. If the antipasti sets a high tone, you can be hopeful that more good things will follow with the pasta course, the fish or meat, and finally, the fruit or dessert. But what I see in Sicily, which marks it out from other regions of Italy, is that the abundance and the kinds of dishes that are put down also owe something to the influence of the Arabs who occupied the island from the ninth century. When the antipasti comes out I am reminded of a mezze: suddenly the table is full of little plates, and people hate the idea that they have not put out enough food. Whenever I have eaten out in Lebanese restaurants, if there is some food left at the end of the mezze, the waiter says nothing, but if all the plates are empty, they are anxious to know if they can bring you some more, and the same philosophy seems to apply in Sicily.

That generosity carries over into the Sicilian home. Even if you don’t have as many dishes to share when family and friends are around the table, if a little bit of food is left over you can congratulate yourself that you made enough. And nothing will be wasted. Whatever is left over will be used again, maybe in a different way, for the next meal.

The production of food, in the Sicilian mind, never seems to be a problem; I never felt that anyone was thinking, ‘I have to cook for all these people’, perhaps because there is no pretension to Sicilian food. Instead there is an understanding that you will feed people with whatever you have, which is summed up by the Sicilian word companatico, which translates as ‘what you have to go with the bread’. And since most of Sicily is a vast garden, what you have most abundantly is vegetables, and, because it is an island, there is a greater emphasis and pride in fish, rather than meat.

As someone who comes from northern Italy, where the antipasti is much more about cured hams and salami, it feels very different to sit around a table filled with bowls of caponata, the sweet and sour vegetable dish that you find made slightly differently everywhere; plates of beautiful gamberi rossi (red prawns, eaten raw with just a little olive oil and salt), sarde a beccafico (stuffed sardines), perhaps some polpettine (little balls of tuna or swordfish), deep-fried squares of maccu (the most delicious paste of broad beans and wild fennel), baked aubergines with sultanas and pine nuts, chargrilled artichokes under oil, octopus salad, parmigiana di melanzane, served at room temperature, or perhaps fried courgette flowers, stuffed with ricotta, again served cold.

Because verdure (vegetable dishes) feature so strongly in Sicilian eating, I have given them a chapter all on their own, which follows this one; however, all of them are fantastic served as part of the antipasti.

Insalata di mare

Seafood salad

This is a typical antipasto all over the island, and will reflect what has been fished at any one time, so there might be more, or less, mussels, squid and octopus. Sometimes there will also be pieces of tuna or swordfish. Any fish goes, as long as it doesn’t have any bones. I have seen people adding things like apple, or carrot, or spring onions, to add a bit of crunch, but I think the best insalata di mare is this simple one, just with celery, which is very important to the flavour, parsley, garlic, lemon and oil. If you only have one kind of fish, you can make the same salad. One day we had boxes and boxes of seppia (cuttlefish) come into the kitchen at Locanda, too much to use up in the pasta, so we made this salad, but with cuttlefish only. Serve it at room temperature, not chilled, or something of the flavour will be lost.

Ask your fishmonger to clean the octopus and squid for you, and to give you the body and the tentacles.

Serves 4

1 octopus (about 330g), fresh or frozen (and defrosted), cleaned, with tentacles

330g squid, cleaned, with tentacles

450g medium prawns

600g mussels, clams or both

80ml white wine

2 celery stalks (preferably with leaves), chopped

50ml lemon oil

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon parsley and garlic

If the octopus is fresh, beat it with a meat hammer to tenderise it and rinse it very well under cold running water, with the help of a clean sponge, to remove any excess saltiness. If it has been frozen, you don’t need to do this, as freezing has the effect of tenderising it.

Bring a large pan of water to the boil and add the octopus, but don’t season it, or it will toughen up. Cover with a lid, turn down the heat and let it simmer gently for about 20–30 minutes, or until tender.

While the octopus is cooking, bring another pan of water to the boil and drop in the squid bodies and tentacles. Simmer for about 10 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon and drop the prawns into the same water for about 2 minutes, until they have changed colour and are just cooked. Peel most of the prawns, reserving a handful for decoration. Drain and keep to one side with the squid.

Scrub the mussels and/or clams separately (pulling any beards from the mussels) under running water and discard any that are open. Put the mussels and/or clams into a large pan with the white wine over a high heat, cover, and cook, shaking the pan from time to time, until all the shells have opened. Remove from the heat, strain off the cooking liquid and reserve this. Discard any mussels and/or clams whose shells haven’t opened. Take the rest out of their shells and throw the shells away.

Remove the octopus from its cooking liquid and cut it into small pieces. Cut the squid bodies into strips.

Arrange the octopus, squid, mussels and/or clams with the celery in a shallow serving dish. Whisk 50ml of the strained cooking liquid from the mussels and/or clams into the lemon oil, season to taste and drizzle over the seafood. Scatter with the parsley and garlic and serve.

Insalata di gamberi ai pomodori

Warm prawn salad with sun-dried and fresh tomato

This is a Sicilian dish that we refined a little for the menu at Locanda. The bread dressing is something I first made a long time before I fell in love with Sicily, when I started out cooking with Corrado Sironi at Il Passatore in Varese – but the use of breadcrumbs, lemon juice and olive oil has a very Sicilian feel to it, and when you combine it with tomatoes and sun-dried tomatoes, I feel it brings a little bit of the island to our menu at Locanda.

Serves 4

120g sun-dried tomatoes

olive oil

4 large tomatoes

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon parsley and garlic

12 big prawns, unpeeled

a handful of lettuce

2 tablespoons Giorgio’s dressing

For the prawn cooking liquor:

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 carrot, chopped

1 onion, chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

½ leek, chopped

450ml white wine

300ml white wine vinegar

10 peppercorns

2 bay leaves

For the bread dressing:

2 handfuls of breadcrumbs

juice of ½ lemon

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon garlic oil

a little white wine vinegar, to taste

To make the cooking liquor for the prawns, heat the olive oil in a large pan and add the chopped carrot, onion, celery and leek. When they start to colour, add the white wine, the vinegar and 500ml of water, along with the peppercorns and the bay leaves. Bring to the boil, then turn the heat down and let it simmer for 15 minutes.

With a pestle and mortar, or using a blender, blend the sun-dried tomatoes with a tablespoon of olive oil until creamy.

To make the bread dressing, mix the breadcrumbs with the lemon juice, extra virgin olive oil and garlic oil. Taste, and if you like a little more sharpness, add the wine vinegar.

Cut the tomatoes into wedges, put them into a bowl, season and toss with the bread dressing and the parsley and garlic.

Bring the cooking liquor for the prawns to the boil, put in the prawns and cook for 3–4 minutes. Lift out and peel them while hot. Add them to the bowl of tomatoes, mixing well.

Spoon the tomatoes and prawns on to plates. Dress the lettuce with Giorgio’s dressing and arrange on top, and drizzle some of the sun-dried tomato dressing around each plate.

Insalata calda di polpo

Warm octopus salad

Serves 4–6

1kg octopus, fresh or frozen (and defrosted), cleaned, with tentacles sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon white wine vinegar

750g potatoes, cut into 2.5cm cubes

75g whole green and black olives in brine

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus a little extra for finishing

1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley, plus a little extra for finishing juice of 3 lemons

1 chilli pepper, finely chopped (optional)

1 carrot, cut into matchstick pieces

1 celery stalk, chopped

If the octopus is fresh, beat it with a meat hammer to tenderise it and rinse it very well under cold running water, with the help of a clean sponge, to remove any excess saltiness. If it has been frozen, you don’t need to do this, as freezing has the effect of tenderising it.

Bring a large pan of water to the boil and add the octopus, but don’t season it, or it will toughen up. Cover with a lid, turn down the heat and let it simmer gently for about 20–30 minutes, or until tender. Remove, drain and chop into pieces about 2.5cm long.

While the octopus is cooking, bring a pan of salted water to the boil, add the white wine vinegar, add the cubed potatoes and cook until tender, then drain.

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can.

Pour the extra virgin olive oil into a bowl. Add a good pinch of salt and pepper, the chopped parsley, the lemon juice and the chilli, if using. Mix well, then add the octopus and potatoes.

Finally add the olives, carrot and celery and toss everything together. Finish with a little drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and some more chopped parsley.

Calamari fritti

Fried squid

One day when I was in the kitchen of my friend Vittorio’s restaurant in Porto Palo, he said, ‘Do some calamari fritti for me,’ so I dutifully sliced up the squid, dusted it in flour and put it in the fryer, got some kitchen paper ready in a container, and when the calamari was golden I lifted it out on to the paper to drain off the excess oil, as we always do if we fry anything in Locanda. Vittorio looked at me as if I had landed from another planet:

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m drying them, so the people don’t eat so much oil.’

‘This is not a Michelin-starred restaurant,’ he said. ‘People like oil. That’s why they eat fried fish.’

And then he throws Trapani sea salt, which is a little moist and a bit grey, over the top, literally throws it – fingers into the pot and bang – so you can see the grains. But his food never tastes over-salted, because the quality of the salt is so high; it really makes all the difference to a calamari fritti.

Serves 4

about 400g plain flour

500g calamari, cleaned and cut into rings or strips

vegetable oil for deep-frying

sea salt

finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

Have the flour ready in a shallow plate. Dip the calamari rings into the flour and shake off the excess. Heat the oil in a deep pan, making sure it comes no higher than a third of the way up the pan. It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, put in a few breadcrumbs, and if they sizzle straight away the oil is ready. Fry the calamari until golden, and drain, season with salt and scatter with chopped parsley.

Fritto misto alla piazzese

Mixed fried vegetables, with anchovies or sardines

Sicilians love fritto misto, so much so that in the summer people set up stalls or park vans or three-wheelers with gas burners and big pots on the back, and deep-fry vegetables or fish for you there and then.

Serves 4

4 baby artichokes

juice of 1 lemon

1 tablespoon salt

1 small cauliflower, cut into florets

500g cardoons, tender heart only

1 apple, peeled and cored

vegetable oil for deep-frying

500g fresh anchovies or small sardines, cleaned

For the pastella:

250g plain flour

150ml water

1 large egg, beaten

10g fresh yeast

Peel the tough outer leaves from the artichokes, stopping when you reach the tender leaves, then cut in quarters vertically. With large artichokes, you need to cut out the hairy choke, but with baby ones, the choke will not have developed properly, so there is not much to remove. Put them into a bowl of water with a little lemon juice squeezed into it, to keep them from discolouring, until you are ready to use them. Drain, and dry.

Bring a pan of water to the boil and add the salt. Put in the cauliflower and cook for a couple of minutes, until just tender, then lift out and drain. Put the cardoons into the same water and cook for about 7–8 minutes, until they too are just tender, but still retain some bite. Drain and keep to one side.

Combine the flour, water, egg and yeast to make a pastella (batter) with a fluid consistency. Slice the apple, and cut the cardoons into strips. Heat several inches of oil in a high-sided pan (make sure it comes no higher than a third of the way up the pan) to 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, put in a few breadcrumbs, and if they sizzle the oil is ready.

Immerse the artichokes in the pastella and deep-fry until golden. Lift out and drain on kitchen paper. Repeat with the cardoons, cauliflower and apple, then the anchovies or sardine fillets, and arrange everything together on a warm serving plate.

Polpettine di tonno o pesce spada

Tuna or swordfish balls

As well as putting these out as part of an antipasti, you can also add the tomato sauce (Salsa di pomodoro) and serve them with pasta.

Serves 4

olive oil

400g yellow fin tuna, bonito or swordfish, cut into cubes

50g pine nuts

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon dried oregano

a handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped

200g breadcrumbs from stale bread

50g pecorino cheese, grated

2 eggs

zest and juice of 1 lemon

a little vegetable oil, to oil the tray

Heat a good couple of tablespoons of olive oil in a large frying pan and add the fish and pine nuts. Season lightly and sauté for a minute or so, until the fish is coloured on all sides and the pine nuts are golden.

Remove from the heat and transfer to a bowl. Leave to cool for 5 minutes, then add the oregano, parsley, breadcrumbs, pecorino, eggs, and the lemon zest and juice. Mix everything together well, then moisten your hands with water and form the mixture into smooth balls, slightly bigger than a golf ball. If the mixture is very sticky, add a few more breadcrumbs.

Lightly oil a baking tray with vegetable oil, lay the fish balls on top, then put into the fridge for an hour to rest and firm up.

Heat a little more olive oil in a clean frying pan. Add the fish balls and fry in batches, shaking the pan to move them around, until they are golden brown all over.

Chiocciole a picchi pacchi

Snails in tomato and chilli sauce

When we go to Castelvetrano in the spring and early summer, we usually see the old guys who sell land snails in the square outside the walls of the old city. The snails come out after the rain, and are best around May, when there is a chance of eating green grass that hasn’t yet been burnt in the heat. Because of the association with rain, there is a belief that if there is an abundance of snails in the spring it will be a good year for crops.

If it has been very wet, the old people will go out and if they are lucky they might collect up to ten kilos of snails, some to cook themselves, and the rest to put into boxes and sell to anyone who wants to buy them. Even if families no longer need to gather and eat snails to survive, they are still a big thing in Sicily, and sometimes you can choose between snails that have just been gathered, and those that have been collected a couple of days earlier and have already been purged for you. Snails always have to be purged, or purified, before cooking, in order to remove any dirt, grit or chemicals that get into their system from the leaves they eat.

In Italian we call snails chioccole or lumache, but in Sicily they are sometimes known as munachedde (after the sisters in a closed convent, who never come out!). The Sicilians also distinguish four different types of snail, and each of them has a string of different names in dialect. Ciocco or vaddareddi are the small, light brown ones. The white ones that have a brown line running around the shells are babbaluci, and these are the ones that are used in this recipe – the smaller ones are often known as picchi pacchi, which is a kind of sweet, kind of rude kids’ expression for ‘little bottoms’. The third type are dark brown, found on the branches of trees, and because the snails always seem to be closed inside the shell they are mainly called ntuppateddi, which means ‘corked’. The fourth category are the wine snails. These are the biggest, with browny-green shells with brown circles on them, and they live near vines. These ones are known throughout Sicily, so they have even more names, but the main ones are barbaniu, crastuni or muntuni.

Traditionally snails would be purged, then blanched in boiling water, then put into a fresh pan of boiling water and simmered for an hour. Then they would be drained and eaten either with zogghiu, a light sauce of garlic, mint, lemon juice and olive oil (zogghiu), or alternatively just with olive oil, parsley and garlic; or olive oil with lemon juice or vinegar, seasoned with sea salt, freshly ground black pepper and a little oregano.

The whole Sicilian pleasure seems to come from sucking the snails from the shells, and licking the greasiness from the shell. I remember when some English people were sitting in Vittorio’s restaurant, delicately trying to eat with toothpicks and forks. Ever the showman, he went over and said, ‘no, you don’t do it like that’. He picked up a snail, cracked a little hole with his teeth on the other side of the snail from the opening, so that the air would come through, then sucked the snail straight out. He was so proud of his trick and everybody loved it. But I did see him behind the restaurant afterwards spitting out bits of shell!

This recipe is originally from Palermo, where snails are the traditional street food served on the feast day of St Rosalia, the patron saint of the city.

Serves 4

a little flour, wheat or oats

900g small edible land snails (Helix aspersa)

4 ripe plum tomatoes

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium onion, thinly sliced

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

a pinch of dried chilli flakes (optional)

2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley or basil

If the snails have not already been purified, put them into a large basket with a net over the top that will let them breathe, but stop them escaping. Put some flour, wheat or oats into the basket. The snails eat this, and if you leave them for 24–36 hours, anything from the ground they have been eating will pass through their systems and they will excrete all the impurities. Wash them carefully, then put them into a pan, cover them with cold water and bring to the boil. Once they have boiled, take the pan off the heat and drain the snails in a colander.

Put the tomatoes into a pan of boiling water for 10 seconds, then drain them under cold water and you should be able to peel them easily. Cut them in half, scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon, and chop the flesh.

Heat the olive oil in a pan and cook the onion gently until soft but not coloured. Add the snails, still in their shells, and stir them around a little, then add the tomatoes, salt, black pepper, chilli flakes if using, and parsley or basil. Stir carefully, cover with a lid and cook for 30 minutes.

Arancini Rice balls

Northern Italians pride themselves on producing the rice that feeds Italy; however, rice was actually introduced to Europe through the Arabs in Sicily and Spain. There were paddy fields around Sambuca and Sciacca, where the river Verdura gave good swampy conditions, until the Spanish transferred the major production to northern Italy where there was more water and the perfect habitat.

The paddy fields are not there any more, and there is very little rice in Sicilian cooking. Risotto, the staple of northern Italy, with its technique of making a base of onions, toasting the rice, adding wine, stirring in the stock ladleful by ladleful, then beating in cheese and butter, doesn’t really figure at all, perhaps because rice cooked in this way is more of a warming food against the colder weather in the north. The only traditional kind of risotto you are likely to see in Sicily is a seafood one (Risotto alla marinara). However, Sicilians love arancini: balls of rice, made golden with saffron, moulded around a filling of fish or meat and peas, and deep-fried. The name, which means ‘little oranges’, comes from their shape and golden colour, and they have that sturdiness and self-contained look of an orange that conceals its beauty inside.

There is an idea that arancini reflect the Arab influence, in that this is the way they would have eaten, taking some rice with their hands, and using it to scoop up some meat or fish, but I can also imagine that as time went on the arancino fulfilled the same function as the Cornish pasty: it was a meal inside a casing, one that was easy to transport with you when you went to work in the fields or on the fishing boats, and it was easy to eat too … so these arancini would have been quite big. However, if you are making them at home, especially as an antipasto, you don’t want to spoil everybody’s dinner, so it is best to make little ones.

As always all over the island you will find variations in the filling. Mostly you would just use whatever you had, such as chopped leftover roast meat and vegetables, but traditionally in Catania they like to use ragù, with peas and a little cheese – my favourite. In Enna, arancini might be filled with chicken livers in a white wine and tomato sauce, and in Ragusa they mix some tomato sauce into the rice, and then put cheese and peas inside – these are known as arancini rossi.

In my region of Italy, Lombardy, we have adopted arancini, but we make them with leftover saffron risotto, whereas the Sicilian way is to boil the rice in water with saffron added. It is just a different way of arriving at a similar result. When you make a risotto, you are constantly moving the grains of rice around the pan and by doing this you scratch the surface and help to release the surface starch, known as amylopectin, which makes the rice creamy and can sometimes change the shape of the grains. The way the Sicilians do it, the starch stays inside a bit more, and the rice retains its ‘soul’, its inner shape, but by boiling it in the right quantity of stock or water it will absorb all the liquid as it cools down gently, and by the time it is completely cold it will be very sticky – it is a similar idea to Thai sticky rice, made with jasmine rice.

The ‘due zie’, the two aunties in the Planeta family (our friends at the wine and olive oil estate), who are in charge of the cooking for big events, and are really accomplished, very knowledgeable and academic cooks, insist that it takes two days to make good arancini. You must cook the rice and the meat one day, and the rice must cool down naturally and rest for at least twelve hours so that it becomes glutinous.

One time when I was at Planeta I asked one of the aunties: ‘What is the right ratio of water to rice?’ She took down the big pan that is always used for arancini and, pointing at it, she said, ‘This much rice, and this much water.’ ‘But have you never tried to weigh it, so you know how much water you need?’ ‘No, why would I?’ she asked. ‘This is the only pan we ever use.’ What is more, sometimes they cook for 600 people when they are entertaining at Planeta, and if they are making arancini, do they use lots of pots? No, the same one, about twenty-five times!

Note: The Sicilian way is to dip the arancini into pastella (batter) before dusting them with breadcrumbs, which gives them a really crunchy outside once they are deep-fried. I know a kilo of breadcrumbs for coating the arancini seems a lot, and you won’t use them all, but you really need a big mound of them in order to roll the arancini in them and get them properly encrusted.

Arancini al sapore di mare

Seafood rice balls

Makes about 10

It’s best to cook the rice the day before you want to use it – once it has cooled, keep it in the fridge.

1.6 litres fish stock or water

500g arborio rice

5g salt

a pinch of good-quality saffron threads (about 15)

60g pecorino cheese, grated

about 1kg fine breadcrumbs

vegetable oil for deep-frying

For the filling:

5 plum tomatoes

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

½ medium onion, finely chopped

225g mixture of small pieces of white fish (swordfish, if you can find it, otherwise cod or haddock), pieces of cleaned squid or cuttlefish, and small prawns (or chopped larger ones)

120ml dry white wine

For the pastella:

350g plain flour

1 egg

Bring the stock or water to the boil in a pan, add the rice, salt and saffron, bring back to the boil and cook very slowly for at least 15 minutes, until the rice is tender and the liquid has been absorbed. Remove from the heat, leave to rest for a minute, then quickly beat in the pecorino. Set aside to cool completely.

Prepare the filling: put the tomatoes into a pan of boiling water for 10 seconds, then drain them under cold water and you should be able to peel them easily. Cut them in half, scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon, and chop the flesh.

Heat the olive oil in a large pan and cook the garlic and onion gently, until softened but not coloured. Add the seafood – the pieces of fish first, then the squid and lastly the prawns. Stir until the prawns change colour. Pour in the white wine and bubble up to let the alcohol evaporate, then add the tomatoes and cook for about 5 minutes. The mixture should be soft but not soupy. If it is a bit too liquid, cook for a little longer, to reduce and thicken it. Remove from the heat, then crush the fish lightly with a fork. Leave to cool.

To make the pastella, beat the flour, egg and water in a bowl. Have ready the breadcrumbs in a separate shallow bowl. Wet your hands to stop the rice from sticking, then take a tangerine-sized ball of rice mixture and press your thumb in the centre to make a hollow. Spoon in a little of the seafood filling, then close the rice around it and form it into a ball. Dip each one into the pastella and then into the breadcrumbs, making sure they are completely covered in crumbs and pressing them lightly, to make sure the crumbs cling.

Heat around 8cm of vegetable oil in a large pan, making sure the oil doesn’t come any higher than a third of the way up the pan. The oil must be hot, but not smoking, before you add the arancini (if you have a thermometer it should be around 170°C, otherwise test it by putting in a few breadcrumbs – if they sizzle gently the oil is ready). Working in batches (being careful not to crowd the pan or you will lower the temperature of the oil), fry the arancini for about 4–5 minutes, moving them around until they are golden all over. Drain well on kitchen paper and serve hot.

Arancini di carne

Rice balls with meat and peas

If you have any kind of leftover minced beef or pork in sauce, you can use it as a filling, rather than making it from scratch as in the recipe below.

Makes about 10

1.6 litres chicken stock or water

500g arborio rice

5g salt

a pinch of good-quality saffron threads (about 15)

60g pecorino cheese, grated

about 1kg fine breadcrumbs

vegetable oil for deep-frying

For the filling:

olive oil

1 medium onion, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

1 celery stalk, finely chopped

400g minced beef (not extra lean) or pork

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

120ml red wine

1 x 400g tin of chopped tomatoes

50g cooked peas

100g tuma (Sicilian unsalted sheep’s milk cheese) or mozzarella, cut into small cubes

For the pastella:

350g plain flour

1 egg

Bring the stock or water to the boil in a pan, add the rice, salt and saffron, bring back to the boil and cook for about 15 minutes, until the rice is tender and the liquid has been absorbed. Remove from the heat, leave to rest for a minute, then quickly beat in the pecorino. Set aside to cool completely.

While the rice cools, prepare the filling. Heat a little olive oil in a pan, add the onion, carrot and celery and cook gently until soft, but not coloured. Add the meat, season with salt and pepper, cook for few minutes, then add the wine and bubble up to evaporate the alcohol. Add the tinned tomatoes and cook gently for 1 hour. You need the sauce around the meat to be quite thick. Set aside to cool down, then stir in the peas and the cubes of cheese.

To make the pastella, beat the flour, egg and water in a bowl. Have ready the breadcrumbs, in a separate, shallow bowl. Wet your hands to stop the rice from sticking, then take a tangerine-sized ball of rice mixture and press your thumb in the centre to make a hollow. Spoon in a little of the meat filling, then close the rice around it and form it into a ball. Dip each one into the pastella and then into the breadcrumbs, making sure they are completely covered in crumbs and pressing them lightly, to make sure the crumbs cling.

Heat around 8cm of vegetable oil in a large pan, making sure the oil doesn’t come any higher than a third of the way up the pan. The oil must be hot, but not smoking, before you add the arancini (if you have a thermometer it should be around 170°C, otherwise test it by putting in a few breadcrumbs – if they sizzle gently the oil is ready). Working in batches (being careful not to crowd the pan or you will lower the temperature of the oil), fry the arancini for about 4–5 minutes, moving them around until they are golden all over. Drain well on kitchen paper and serve hot.

Pane Bread

‘Bread is life’

You cannot overestimate the importance of bread to Sicilian life; bread is life, it is right at the heart of society. There is an old proverb, ‘chi mi da il pane mi é padre’, which means, ‘who gives me bread is my father’. Even if the money that your father makes is blood money, he is still your father because he gives you bread. And bread is the most important thing. When I was staying near Mount Etna, where bread was so revered and so essential to the old diet of the mountain people, I heard a story about a brigand in the time of the Bourbons who was put in prison for contrabanding wheat, but there was a woman who set him free – this woman was described as very beautiful, but ‘a little overproved’, so even in describing the beauty of a woman a little past her youth, they use the terminology of bread.

What is exceptional is that even in the small villages you still have two, three, four bakers, and they all make a living. Where we stay, outside Menfi, we are down by the beach, with a few little roads – not even roads, really, more like tracks, leading up to a ‘square’ – not even a square, really, just where the roads meet. And even here, there is a fantastic bakery, run by an English woman who is married to a Sicilian. The first time we went in and heard her speak English, we asked her where she was from, and she told us she grew up in Norwood, in south London. It seemed so strange to find her there in the middle of nowhere, where the wind blows tumbleweed down the streets some days, as if you are in a spaghetti western. Yet here she was baking beautiful bread over the embers of olive branches in a wood-burning oven. Imagine how much it would cost you in London to make your barbecue with olive wood – but here, where there are olive trees all around that must be trimmed, it is readily available. The olive branches give a special aroma to the bread, and when you take it home and unwrap it, it smells incredible. In parts of Italy, such as Lentini, where there are almond trees all around, they use the shells of the nuts in the wood-fired ovens, which gives a different character to the bread.

Theirs is a lovely, well-organised little bakery where they bake more than 400 kilos of bread every day; and what is amazing is that they bake twice a day, in the afternoon as well as at dawn. The bread they bake is typically Sicilian, made with farina di semola rimacinata (semolina flour), which is milled from hard durum wheat, the wheat that is used to make dried pasta. When you break the kernel of the wheat it shatters into semolina, which is then milled again into flour for bread. Like sourdough, the bread is made without commercial yeast, using a criscenti, or ‘starter’, ‘ferment’, or ‘mother’, whatever name people prefer to call it, according to their culture. In northern Italy we call it a biga. The name criscenti means ‘something that is allowed to grow’. For the first bread you bake, you cultivate your own natural yeast by mixing flour and water with something sweet and sugary, such as a pear, or grapes, then allowing it to ferment and grow over several weeks. Then, when you make your first batch of dough, you keep back a piece, and this is added to the next batch of dough, and so on, building up the strength and flavour of the dough. Some bakeries have criscenti going back over generations.

The baked bread is a beautiful golden-yellow colour, from the semolina, and quite heavy. In texture you can compare it to soda bread, but with a thick crust that typically has sesame seeds embedded in it. It is a bread that if you were to rub a sweet juicy tomato across, and sprinkle with olive oil, it would hold up and absorb the juices without becoming soft and disintegrating.

In the days of the barons, as happened in most cultures throughout Europe, white bread became fashionable and was considered more refined among the wealthy. What everyone else ate, although it was looked down on by the aristocracy at the time, was far tastier and more nutritious, and it is the bread that is treasured today in most communities, especially the small towns and villages, even if people buy it these days instead of making it at home. At one time everyone made their own bread, and if you didn’t have your own oven you could take your criscenti and flour down to the bakery, knead the dough in wooden tubs, called madie, then shape it into loaves and carve your initials into them, so that you would know they were yours. Then the baker would bake them for you to carry home, wrapped in cloths.

Between Agrigento and Trapani lies Castelvetrano which is also famous for the round pane nero di Castelvetrano, the local black bread, which is one of the many, very particular Sicilian foods, including other breads, that are being supported by the Slow Food movement. It is traditionally made by mixing stoneground semolina (which is less fine than semolina flour) with tumminìa, an ancient, local variety of wheat, which must also be stoneground. Again, the bread is quite dense and yellow, but when it comes out of the oven it has a magnificent, thick, chewy crust that is very, very dark, almost black.

One day we were invited to see the bread being made by the Mulé family who have a farmhouse and a piece of land in the valley behind Menfi, where the father and the sons grow beautiful courgettes, artichokes, potatoes and other vegetables, which they bring to the local restaurants. Like a lot of the elderly people in the area, the mother and father also have a little house down by the beach, in what used to be the swamp. In the garden they have a shed, with a big chimney sticking out of it, and inside is a wood-burning oven, where, every so often, they make a bit of a ceremony of baking the black bread.

As always, they use all the branches and clippings from the olive trees, which they have in square bales, stacked up outside. The oven is made with refrattario (refractory) bricks, the ones that are used for pizza ovens, so when the branches are lit, it will reach about 480–500°F. When the roof of the oven turns white, they sweep out all the ashes but they don’t throw them away, they put them down in a different part of the garden, ready to grill some bacon and cheese and salami, to have with the fresh bread. The oven is capable of baking around twelve kilos of dough – about twenty-four loaves – so whenever they bake bread, inevitably all the brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends will turn up, to eat some, and take some away with them.

When the floor of the oven is swept out, the round loaves, scattered with sesame seeds, are put inside, and the smell from the olive branches is incredible. The door is closed, and after five or six minutes they check the bread, and from the way it looks, they are able to decide how long they are going to bake it for, which is about twenty to thirty minutes, as the oven slowly cools down.

As well as the semolina bread, in the local bakeries – around a dozen in my area alone – you can find pizza, topped with anchovies, olives and tomatoes (Pizza alla siciliana), and various stuffed breads made with a softer, focaccia-like dough, such as schiacciate (Schiacciata con salsiccia), which are like pies, made with a thick piece of dough underneath and a thinner one over the top, and inside all kinds of fillings, from cauliflower and sausage, to ricotta, sardines, anchovies, tomatoes, onion, eggs, ham and peas. You find them in the bars too, with a slice cut out of them so that you can see what the filling is, and you order a piece with your drink.

There is one baker who makes sfincione, which is more of a Palermo speciality. When I was there, outside one of the best bakeries, so many people were waiting for the sfincione that the baker spent all morning shouting, ‘Not till eleven o’clock!’ (when they would be ready). Even if the people just happened to be walking down the street, he would shout it anyway. Sfincione is like a pizza, but made with a quite deep, spongy dough and topped with ricotta and onions, sometimes sausage, sometimes anchovies or sardines. The famous one is the sfincione di San Vito, the one made by the nuns at the convent of St Vito in Palermo, which must have been such an incredible powerhouse of baking. It is topped with tomatoes, olives, potatoes, sausage and cheese.

The other thing that is done with bread dough is mpanata, another sort of pie, which takes its name from the Spanish empanada and is half-moon-shaped, like a Cornish pasty. The mpanate can be savoury or sweet – at Easter they are made with lamb – and on the west coast of Sicily they are often done with swordfish (Mpanata di pesce spada).

On special saints’ days and on the feast of San Giuseppe, which is Father’s Day, on 19 March, breads are made in elaborate shapes, and at Easter the shops are filled with special breads for children, shaped like little bags, or doves, which hold hard-boiled eggs: a reminder of times when people could not afford chocolate, and these, made at home for the children, would be a special treat.

Pangrattato Breadcrumbs

‘Every crumb is sacred’

Bread is sacred. If the people see you throw it away, they will really tell you off because the crumbs are so valuable in cooking – as a coating for fish, a thickener in things like polpettine (balls of meat or fish), or in stuffings. It is such a bad thing, that it used to be said that if you dropped even a crumb, you would spend hundreds of years in purgatory, picking up crumbs with your eyelashes. When times were harder and you had no cheese, you would sprinkle breadcrumbs over your pasta instead, with a little bit of garlic and parsley. I have even seen meat being grilled in the restaurants in Palermo, dusted with some very fine crumbs, garlic and parsley, just to give a little crunch to the outside.

In the old days families would have grated or crushed every piece of unused bread to make breadcrumbs in different sizes, because each size has its own purpose. Some would be left large, some sieved fine or medium, and then they would be kept in separate containers, in the way that my grandmother used to keep her breadcrumbs in big jars. Nowadays, most people don’t need to do this all the time, because when you buy your bread in the bakery, you can always pick up a kilogram bag of breadcrumbs at the same time. Whatever bread the bakery doesn’t sell in a day is put into the top of the ovens for two days to dry it out, then grated into breadcrumbs for people to buy. We make our own the same way at Locanda, with the michette, the puffed-up bread rolls ‘with five faces’, which are baked freshly every day in the kitchen, along with all our other breads. Those michette that are left over sit on top of the big bread oven overnight. Even when it is switched off, it retains enough heat to dry the bread and give us all the breadcrumbs we need.

At home making breadcrumbs is such an easy thing to do. If you have cooked something in the oven, when you switch it off, cut your stale bread into slices, put it on a baking tray and leave it in the oven overnight to dry out. Or you could just set your oven to 80°C and put the bread in for an hour. Of course, you need good bread, not the remains of a doughy, sliced loaf – those are only good for the ducks. When the bread has dried out, it is ready for grating. You could also put the bread into a blender and just press the pulse button very quickly, until you have the fineness you want, but I prefer to use a grater, which somehow seems to give an extra fluffiness to the crumbs.

What I also like about grating the crumbs is that they will all be different sizes, much less uniform than if you make them in a machine. These random-sized crumbs, which often have bits of crust mixed in with them, are what I call large crumbs, and are mostly used as a thickener, or in stuffings. If you put them through a fine sieve, they will become medium, and these are the ones that are used to coat fish or meat. If you want fine breadcrumbs, put them through a sieve yet again. Fine crumbs are used to give crunch to the arancini (Arancini al sapore di mare), or the timbales (Timballo di riso con pasta and Timballo di maccheroni.)

Medium breadcrumbs are also often toasted dry in the oven, or in a little olive oil in a pan, and these are the ones that are used to scatter over pasta. As I read in one Sicilian cookery book, they need to be toasted until they become ‘il colore di una tonaca di monaco’, the colour of a monk’s tunic, which helps you to understand how dark they should be – not just golden, but brown.

Cáciù all’argintéra

Fried cheese

This is very similar to a dish from Palermo known as formaggio all’argentiera, or the cheese of the silversmith. The story goes that the silversmith invented the dish because when it was cooking it smelt very like rabbit – although he was too poor to eat rabbit, he didn’t want his neighbours to know it.

When you read ‘fried cheese’, you might not think this sounds very enticing, but it is only when you make it that you understand how the typically Sicilian flavours work together to give you something really tasty.

Serves 4

25ml white wine vinegar

25ml white wine

50g sugar

200g breadcrumbs

½ tablespoon garlic oil

2 teaspoons chopped fresh oregano

450g caciocavallo or pecorino cheese (Caciocavallo cheese)

1 egg, beaten

vegetable oil for deep-frying

To make the sauce, put the vinegar and wine into a pan with the sugar and bring to the boil, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Take off the heat and keep to one side. Put the breadcrumbs, garlic oil and oregano into a blender and whiz until the herbs are finely chopped and the breadcrumbs are infused in the oil. Cut the cheese into pieces about 1cm thick. The thickness is important, otherwise the cheese won’t melt.

Have the beaten egg and herby breadcrumbs ready in two shallow bowls, then pass the strips of cheese through the egg and dip them into the breadcrumbs, turning to coat them. Repeat this three times for each strip, so that you end up with quite a thick coating of breadcrumbs.

Heat some oil in a pan (make sure the pan is big enough so that the oil comes no more than a third of the way up). It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, test that it is hot enough by putting in a few breadcrumbs. If they sizzle straight away, the oil is ready. Deep-fry the cheese strips, in batches if necessary, for 2 minutes, until golden on all sides, and serve with the sauce.

Ramacché

Prosciutto and cheese fritters

When you go to the beach on Sundays you see families with boxes of these little fritters, which are eaten cold, along with things like peppers or cauliflowers, dipped in pastella (batter) and deep-fried.

Serves 4

30g unsalted butter

a small pinch of salt

150g plain flour, plus more as needed

3 large eggs

150g prosciutto crudo, diced

100g caciocavallo or pecorino cheese, grated

2 tablespoons parsley and garlic

sunflower oil for deep-frying

Put the butter and salt into a pan with 220ml of water and bring to the boil, then remove the pan from the heat and stir in the flour with a wooden spoon. Put the pan back on the heat and work the mixture continuously with the spoon until it comes together in a solid ball of dough. Take off the heat again and let it cool, then put the dough into a food mixer with a paddle, add the eggs one by one and mix until they are all incorporated.

Add the prosciutto, cheese and the parsley and garlic, and continue to mix. The dough will be quite soft.

Heat several centimetres of oil in a pan (make sure the oil comes no higher than a third of the way up). It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, test that the oil is hot enough by dropping in a little bit of the dough. If it sizzles the oil is ready.

Moisten a dessertspoon with water, then scoop out little mounds of dough, slide them carefully into the oil and let them fry gently for about 2 minutes, turning them so they are golden on both sides, and reducing the heat if they start to brown too quickly. Remove the ramacché with a slotted spoon, drain on kitchen paper, and serve hot.

Pizza alla siciliana

Sicilian pizza

In every bakery all over Sicily, there is freshly made pizza, cut into pieces, ready for people to take home. I always buy some, along with the different breads, to have as an antipasto. And if you go into the local bar and have an aperitivo, they will give you a little pizza to eat with it.

The difference between these pizzas and the ones we are more familiar with elsewhere in Italy is that there is not much use of mozzarella. There are no buffalo on the island because they need to wallow in mud and water, so the mozzarella di bufala is always brought in from Campania, just outside Naples. There are also very few herds of cows, so the production even of cow’s milk mozzarella is fairly small. Instead, the concentration is on typical Sicilian ingredients, such as olives, anchovies and tomatoes, scattered with tuma, the local fresh, unsalted sheep’s milk cheese.

You need to choose good-quality black olives, with the stones still in, then pit them yourself – because the intense olive flavour is concentrated around the stone. You must remember that black olives aren’t actually black at all, but a deep purple-brown, depending on the variety. They are olives that have started out green but have been allowed to mature on the tree. As their colour darkens, their flavour becomes more intense and they become softer and more oily. Avoid the shiny jet black ones that you find on many commercial pizzas, or in jars in the supermarket, which are something different completely. These are actually green olives that have been put into a water bath with oxygen running through it, to turn them black, so that manufacturers can market them as a black olive that has the firmness of a young green olive. They just taste insipid, and nothing like a real ‘black’ olive.

The Sicilian black olives we use in the kitchen are mature nocellara and cerasuolo. These are the olives that are picked green and pressed to make our oil, but sometimes if a tree bears only a little fruit, the olives are left on the branches to ripen until they become ‘black’.

When you are making the pizza dough, the order in which you mix the ingredients makes a difference. It is best to dissolve the yeast in water and mix it into the flour before adding the salt, as the salt burns the yeast and makes it less effective. Once you have added the salt, the small quantity of sugar helps the fermentation. The oil is added last, as if you put it in at the beginning of mixing it acts like a skin, stopping the salt and yeast penetrating properly.

There are three stages that help get a great, crispy base to a pizza. First, rest the dough in the fridge but bring it to room temperature for three hours before shaping it. This is the system we have developed, because we are a restaurant not a bakery, so we have no proving room. If you can, rest it for twenty-four hours, as the longer it has to relax the more stretchy and pliable it will be, which makes it easier to get a good, thin base. Next, don’t overload the topping, as this will stop the base from crisping quickly; and finally, try to recreate the atmosphere of a dedicated pizza oven, in which the temperature is 260°C/500°F. The pizzas go straight on to the hot brick base and hot air cooks the topping at the same time. At home, have the oven at its highest temperature – usually 250°C/475°F/gas 9 – then put as many terracotta pizza bases, or upturned baking trays, as you can fit into the oven so that they get really hot, before carefully sliding a pizza on to each one. If you are making six pizzas, you will surely still have to bake them in batches, but as each one only takes ten minutes, no one will have to wait too long! Remember that leaving the door open lowers the temperature. In with the pizzas, as fast as you can, then shut the door.

Makes 6 pizzas (25–30cm)

7g fresh yeast

550g ‘00’ flour, plus extra for the bowl and rolling out

15g sea salt

6g sugar

60ml milk

30ml olive oil

For the topping:

24 good whole purple-black olives in brine

18 anchovies, either salted or in oil

2 tablespoons tomato sauce

1 medium onion, thinly sliced

100g tuma (Sicilian unsalted sheep’s milk cheese) or pecorino, grated

1 teaspoon dried oregano

freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

Dissolve the yeast in 300ml of water in a small bowl. Put the flour into a large bowl and mix in the yeast mixture. Add the salt and sugar, then the milk, little by little, followed by the oil, until all the ingredients are incorporated in a dough – this will take about 10 minutes. Scrape the dough into a floured bowl and fold it in on itself a few times. Cut it into 6 equal pieces and roll each one into a ball. Put the balls of dough on a tray, cover with clingfilm and leave to rest in the fridge for 24 hours.

Bring the dough out of the fridge and into room temperature 3 hours before you want to use it.

When ready to make the bases, preheat the oven to 250°C/475°F/gas 9, or as high as possible, and put in one or two terracotta bases or upturned baking trays (or however many you can fit in your oven).

Lightly flour a work surface, then, using your fingertips, press each ball of dough lightly into a thin round, about 25–30cm. You want the base to be about 3mm thick, but with a slightly thicker rim. If the dough feels too hard to shape easily, leave it to rest for 5 minutes and then come back to it.

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, and then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can and roughly chop.

If using salted anchovies, rinse and dry them. Run your thumb gently along the backbone to release it, then you should be able to easily pull it out. If using anchovies in oil, drain them.

Chop the anchovies roughly and put some of the pieces on to each round of dough, pressing them in so they don’t get burned and bitter by being on top of the pizza. Spread some tomato sauce over each anchovy-studded base, then scatter with onion, cheese, olives and oregano, season with pepper and drizzle with a little extra virgin olive oil.

Slide the first pizza(s) on to the preheated base(s), and bake for about 10 minutes, or until the dough is golden and crunchy underneath. Repeat until all the pizzas are baked.

Pizza arrotolata

Rolled pizza with sausage

These rolled pizzas are made with the same dough as in the previous recipe, but rather than being floured, it is oiled at various stages, to keep it pliable enough to roll. Traditionally, the filling would be made with strutto, pure pork fat, but you can substitute olive oil.

Makes 4 rolls

7g fresh yeast

550g ‘00’ flour

15g salt

1 teaspoon sugar

60ml milk

30ml vegetable oil, plus more for oiling

For the filling:

4 tablespoons melted strutto or olive oil

450g fresh sausage meat, crumbled

6 tablespoons chopped pancetta

2 medium onions, chopped

120g pecorino cheese, grated

freshly ground black pepper

Dissolve the yeast in 300ml of water in a small bowl. Put the flour into a large bowl and mix in the yeast mixture. Add the salt and sugar, then the milk, little by little, followed by the oil, until all the ingredients are incorporated in a dough – this will take about 10 minutes. Scrape the dough into a bowl that has been lightly oiled with vegetable oil, and fold it in on itself a few times. Cut it into 4 equal pieces, shape each one into a rough square shape and rub with a little more oil. Put the squares of dough on a tray, cover with clingfilm and leave to rest in the fridge for 24 hours. Bring the dough out of the fridge and into room temperature 3 hours before you want to use it.

When ready to make the pizzas, preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/gas 7 and put in one or two baking trays to get hot. Lightly oil a sheet of baking parchment and roll out the dough into squares measuring roughly 25–30cm, and 3mm thick. If it feels too hard, leave it to rest for 5 minutes.

Spread each square of rolled-out dough with 1 tablespoon of melted strutto, or olive oil. Scatter the sausage meat and pancetta over the top, followed by the onions and cheese, season well with black pepper, then roll up and place on the baking tray/trays. Bake in the preheated oven for 15–30 minutes, or until golden. Cut each roll into thick slices and serve.

Torta di sambuco

Meat pie with elderflower

This is another unusual ‘pie’ which is made in the spring, when the elderflowers are blossoming, and which is cut up and served with the antipasti. Guanciale is a bacon made from pork jowl, cured in wine, herbs and black pepper. If you can’t find it, use some good lardons or cubed pancetta.

Serves 6

For the dough:

30g fresh yeast

500g semolina flour, plus more as needed

500g ‘00’ flour

1 teaspoon sugar

20g sea salt

80ml olive oil

1 egg, beaten, for brushing

For the filling:

4 tablespoons olive oil

300g guanciale, chopped

400g rustic salame, roughly chopped

300g tuma (Sicilian unsalted sheep’s milk cheese) or pecorino, chopped

50g elderflowers, chopped

Mix the yeast with 400ml of water. In a food mixer with a dough hook, mix the flours and sugar, add the yeast and water, and mix. Add the salt and when it is incorporated, add 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Mix until soft and elastic, then emulsify the rest of the olive oil with another 50ml of water and add it to the dough a little at a time, with the motor turning, until the dough is soft. Turn out into a bowl and leave to rise in a warm place for at least 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas 4.

To make the filling, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a pan, put in the guanciale and cook until golden brown all over, then lift out and drain on kitchen paper. Mix, in a bowl, with the salame, cheese and elderflowers.

Rub the dough with another tablespoon of olive oil. Cut in half, and roll one half into a sheet large enough to line a tart tin. Scatter with the guanciale mixture and drizzle with the remaining tablespoon of olive oil. Cover with the other half of the dough, pressing around the edges to seal. Brush the top with the beaten egg and bake in the oven for 40 minutes, until golden. Slice and serve hot.

Schiacciata con salsiccia

Schiacciata with sausage

This is typical of the area around Agrigento, another very rich pie that is cut up and served as an antipasti … very moreish, but also very filling.

Serves 6

4 whole black olives in brine

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 head of cauliflower, cut into small pieces

2 tablespoons olive oil, plus a little extra for greasing and finishing

200g 100 per cent pork sausages

1 large potato, peeled and cut into large chunks

1 medium onion, sliced

60g caciocavallo or pecorino cheese, diced

For the dough:

500g semolina flour, plus more as needed

500g ‘00’ flour

30g fresh yeast

80ml olive oil

20g sea salt

5g sugar

1 egg, beaten, for brushing

First make the dough. In a food mixer with a dough hook, mix the flours, yeast, 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, 400ml of water, the salt and the sugar. Mix until soft and elastic, then emulsify the rest of the olive oil with another 50ml of water and add it to the mixer bowl a little at a time, with the motor turning, until the dough is soft. Turn out into a bowl and leave to rise in a warm place for at least 2 hours.

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can.

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Put in the cauliflower and blanch for a minute then drain.

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas 4 and brush a baking dish with olive oil. Remove the skins from the sausages and break the sausage meat into pieces.

Heat the olive oil in a pan and brown the sausage meat. Lift out and drain on kitchen paper. Add the potatoes to the pan in which you cooked the sausages, season, and sauté until golden and just tender. Lift out and drain on kitchen paper, then put the onion into the same pan and cook gently until soft but not coloured. Add the cauliflower and season with salt to taste.

Put the sausage and potatoes back into the pan of onion and cauliflower, along with the olives, and season well with black pepper. Stir everything together for a minute or so, then take off the heat.

Dust your work surface with flour, and roll out the dough to about 6mm thick. Divide it into two: you need one piece big enough to line a shallow baking dish, and the other to put over the top. Line the dish with the bigger sheet of dough, then spoon in the sausage mixture. Scatter the cheese over, then cover with the other sheet of dough and seal the edges all round. Brush with a little more olive oil.

Put into the preheated oven and bake for 20–30 minutes, or until the top is golden.

Prezzemolo e aglio, oli e condimenti

Parsley and garlic, oils and dressings

Prezzemolo e aglio

Parsley and garlic

This is just a way of preparing parsley and garlic that brings out the maximum flavour in both, and is something I’ve always done. Every morning in the restaurant we prepare it. To 1 garlic clove we use about 4 handfuls of flat-leaf parsley. We put the garlic cloves on a chopping board and crush them with the flat of a kitchen knife, so that they become a paste. Then we put the parsley on top and chop it finely, so that we are chopping through the garlic at the same time, and the two flavours mingle.

Olio all’aglio

Garlic oil

It is a very Sicilian thing to make fresh garlic oil; I don’t remember going into anyone’s house and seeing a bottle that had been bought from a shop. Make it in small batches and use it up quickly.

Makes about 50ml

2 garlic cloves, finely chopped

50ml olive oil

Mix together and leave for a day in the fridge before using. It will keep, refrigerated, for up to 3 days.

When you spoon it out, you should have about 75 per cent oil and 25 per cent chopped garlic.

Olio di limone

Lemon oil

This is the simplest combination of oil and lemon juice, but when it is made with the juice of Sicilian lemons the flavour is brilliant. It should be used immediately after making, otherwise the flavour of the lemon will change, so adjust the quantities according to how much you need.

Makes about 200ml

a pinch of salt

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

150ml extra virgin olive oil

Put the salt into a clean, screw-topped bottle or jar, then add the lemon juice and leave for a minute until the salt dissolves. Add the oil and shake really well to emulsify. Use straight away.

Olio di peperoncino

Chilli oil

Like all the countries that face the Mediterranean, Sicily favours the chilli pepper, much more than the rest of Italy, especially the north. As well as fresh chillies, you will find little strings of dried ones that are often just crumbled into dishes.

I like the kick of spice that chilli brings to a broccoli and almond salad (Insalata di broccoli, mandorle e peperoncino) or some green vegetables, simply blanched and tossed in olive oil with chilli and garlic. How hot Sicilian chillies are is a bit of a lottery; they can be quite gentle and sweet, or they can be explosive.

Makes about 50ml

½ fresh red chilli, finely chopped

½ fresh green chilli, finely chopped

50ml olive oil

Mix together and leave for a day in the fridge before using. It will keep, refrigerated, for up to 3 days. When you spoon it out, you should have about 75 per cent oil and 25 per cent chopped chilli.

Giorgio’s dressing

As I explained in my previous book, Made in Italy, there is nothing mysterious or special about this, it is just the label we used to put on the bottle of vinaigrette in the kitchen when I was cooking at Zafferano, to help out a young chef who otherwise could never remember which dressing was which. I like a high ratio of oil to vinegar, but you can vary it as you like. Naturally, since we started making our own oil in Sicily, that is the one we use, and now we also add some white wine vingar. You will find that Sicilian oils are generally very fresh, grassy, fruity and fragrant. Make up a bottle of this and keep it in the fridge.

Makes about 375ml

½ teaspoon sea salt

3 tablespoons red wine vinegar

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

300ml extra virgin olive oil, preferably Sicilian

Put the salt into a bowl, then add the vinegars and leave for a minute until the salt dissolves. Whisk in the olive oil and 2 tablespoons of water until the vinaigrette emulsifies. Pour into a clean bottle and store in the fridge for up to 6 months. It will separate out again, but just shake it well before you use it.

Salsetta, salmoriglio e pesto Light sauces and pesto

Sicilians are not keen on heavy cooked sauces; however, light, fresh salsette and salmoriglio – a dressing made with oil and lemon or vinegar, plus garlic and herbs – along with pesto are at the base of their cooking and eating. I like the idea of putting a few of these out in bowls with the antipasti, so that they can be spooned on to vegetables or fish or seafood.

If you say pesto to most people, they think of pesto genovese (named after Genoa), made with Parmesan, pine nuts and basil; but if you say pesto to a Sicilian, they think of pesto trapanese (named after Trapani), made with almonds and tomatoes (Pesto trapanese). The word ‘pesto’ comes from the verb pestare, which just means to crush or grind, and it simply refers to a sauce that is traditionally pounded with a pestle and mortar, so the combination of ingredients can be very localised.

As well as working well with vegetables, meat or fish, the pesto-style sauces are obviously perfect tossed through pasta. Of course, you can make pesto by putting all the ingredients into a blender and pressing the pulse button, rather than working it in a pestle and mortar, but doing it by machine will give you a smoother, more refined texture than the more rustic sauce that is the result of using a pestle and mortar.

Salsa salmoriglio

Oil, lemon and herb sauce

Salmoriglio is almost always on the Sicilian table, ready to spoon over vegetables, grilled fish or meat, and there are many different variations: sometimes chopped, sun-dried tomato might be added, sometimes lemon zest along with the lemon juice, or different herbs. You could vary the one below by using 40ml of white wine vinegar in place of the lemon juice, or substituting marjoram for the oregano. Marjoram is a herb that is used a lot in Sicily – our friends at Planeta grow it in huge pots on their terrace. It is the same family as oregano, but a little lighter and slightly more bitter.

Makes about 150ml

120ml olive oil

juice of 2 lemons

30g flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

10g dried oregano

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice and a dessertspoonful of warm water. Gradually whisk in the parsley, garlic, oregano, salt and pepper until thickened slightly.

Zogghiu

Garlic, mint and lemon sauce

This is another light sauce used for grilled fish, or traditionally for dipping boiled snails into, or spooning over grilled meat.

Makes about 150ml

2 garlic cloves, chopped

sea salt

50g mint, chopped

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

6 tablespoons olive oil

Using a pestle and mortar, crush the garlic into a paste with 2 pinches of salt, add the mint and continue to crush, then finally work in the lemon juice and the olive oil, a little at a time.

Salsa verde

Green sauce

Again, this is a great sauce for grilled fish.

Makes 300g

1 salted anchovy

3 whole green olives in brine

1 garlic clove

100g flat-leaf parsley, chopped

30g pine nuts

15g salted capers, rinsed and well drained

1 slice of good white bread, soaked in vinegar

yolk of 1 large hard-boiled egg

120ml extra virgin olive oil, plus more as needed

15ml white wine vinegar, or to taste

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Rinse and dry the anchovy. Run your thumb gently along the backbone to release it, and you should be able to easily pull it out.

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, and then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can.

Grind the garlic, anchovy and parsley using a pestle and mortar until you have a green paste, then add the pine nuts, capers and olives and pound for a few more minutes. Add the bread and pound again. Work in the hard-boiled egg yolk, and finally add the oil, a little at a time, working it in well as you go. Taste and add vinegar, and/or salt and pepper as you wish. If you like a thinner, creamier sauce, add a little more extra virgin olive oil.

Mandorle Almonds

‘A symbol of good fortune’

Almonds are so important throughout Italy, in cakes, amaretti biscuits and amaretto liqueur, and are a symbol of good fortune: sugar-coated almonds, known as confetti, are traditional at Italian weddings and baptisms. In Sicily they are also used in savoury dishes, in pestos (Pesto trapanese), and in salads (broccoli, almond and chilli salad), but what is sad is that whereas the pistachios of Bronte (Il pistacchio verde di Bronte) have been recognised as special, and command high prices, almonds have been left behind.

Many people in the countryside have an almond tree in their garden. However, where once you would see almonds being grown commercially all over the island, the nuts have had to fight in the market place with cheaper ones produced around the world, and have ended up being priced out. So many people have pulled up their almond groves, and planted grapes and olives instead, and while almonds are used as much in Sicilian cooking as ever, especially in the beloved almond paste, or marzipan, the nuts are often not home grown, but cheaper imports.

However, there is hope for the most famous almond groves, in the Siracusa area, between Noto and Avola, where Slow Food are now championing three old varieties of almond: the squat-shaped, perfumed and quite intense Romana, the longer, more elegant, pointed Pizzuta d’Avola, and the Fascionello, which is a good all-round almond.

Pesto trapanese

Tomato and almond pesto

Use this with fish or meat, or toss through pasta.

Makes about 600g

75g almonds

500g plum tomatoes

4 garlic cloves

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

40g fresh mint, shredded

50ml olive oil

Heat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas 4. Lay the almonds in a single layer on a baking tray and put into the oven for about 8 minutes. As long as they are in a single layer you don’t need to turn them. Keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t burn, and when they are golden, take them out and chop them.

Put the tomatoes into a pan of boiling water for 10 seconds, then drain them under cold water and you should be able to peel them easily. Cut them in half, scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon, and chop the flesh.

Grind the toasted almonds with the garlic, using a pestle and mortar, until you have a paste. Add the tomatoes, salt, pepper and mint and pound again very briefly, just to crush the tomatoes a little. Then add the olive oil a little at a time, working it into the paste.

Salsetta di mandorle e acciughe

Almond and anchovy sauce

The touch of cinnamon in this is a reminder of the Arab influence in Sicily. Use this like a pesto, with vegetables, fish or pasta.

Makes about 350g

6 salted anchovies

90g almonds

60g breadcrumbs

10 mint leaves, chopped

a pinch of ground cinnamon

1 tablespoon white wine vinegar

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

140ml olive oil, or as needed

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/gas 4.

Rinse and dry the anchovies. Run your thumb gently along the backbone to release it, then you should be able to easily pull it out.

Spread the almonds over a baking tray and the breadcrumbs over a separate tray. Put both in the oven to toast for about 8 minutes until golden, keeping an eye on them to make sure they don’t burn, then remove and chop the almonds.

Using a pestle and mortar, pound the toasted almonds, then add the breadcrumbs and anchovies and pound some more. Add the mint leaves, cinnamon, vinegar, lemon juice, and enough olive oil to pound to a creamy sauce.

Salsa di pomodoro

Tomato sauce

I was staying in a small, very simple hotel in Piazza Armerina in the province of Enna, and in the morning the woman asked, ‘How was the food last night?’ I said that it was fantastic, very natural in its flavours, especially the tomato sauce, and she was so happy. She told me, ‘I can cook tomato sauce like no one else. My cousin even steals my tomatoes, but she can’t make the sauce as good.’ Everybody in Sicily is so proud of their sauce, which gets passed from grandmother to mother to daughter. Usually people are also sworn to one kind of tomato, whose acidity and sweetness they understand.

In Vittorio’s kitchen, every morning, one of the women comes in, peels a whole case of tomatoes, and starts the sauce. Then at 9.30am Vittorio’s son-in-law, Ignazio, arrives and the sauce is bubbling away, so he tastes it, adds a bit of salt and puts the lid on the pan. At 10-10.30am Vittorio arrives, tastes it and puts in a bit of salt and sugar. At 11am Vittorio’s son, Michelangelo, arrives, and says the sauce needs something else. It is like a son with a thousand fathers, that sauce.

The sauce below is the one we make at Locanda with very ripe tomatoes, but tinned tomatoes are fine when you can’t find good fresh ones. Remember, when you use fresh tomatoes, don’t be scared that the sauce is going to be too dry. Tomatoes are about 70 per cent water, and only 30 per cent fibre, so you have to let them cook slowly and the liquid will come out. Don’t panic and add half a litre of water, because then you will have soup.

The olives give a little bitterness and edge, and you can add a pinch of dry oregano if you like as the sauce cooks. In Modica, around Easter time, I had some quite sweet tomato sauces balanced with wild fennel, that went with ravioli di ricotta – this was one of the few times I ever ate filled pasta on the island, as dried pasta is much more typical. That Sambuca-like flavour is something I never thought would work with tomato, but it goes perfectly.

10 whole black olives in brine

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium white onion, finely chopped

1.5kg ripe, fresh tomatoes or 1kg tinned chopped tomatoes

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

a little sugar if needed

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, and then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can.

Heat the olive oil in a pan, add the onion and cook until soft but not coloured. Add the olives and cook for 2 minutes, then add the tomatoes and simmer for 30 minutes. Season to taste, adding a little sugar if the tomato is too acidic, and pass through a fine sieve.

‘A city that leaves you breathless’

At the heart of Sicily’s history is its food, and at the heart of its food is its history, but what comes through it all is a character that is only Sicilian. Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa wrote, ‘Sicily is Sicily – 1860, earlier, forever’ (1860 was the year of the unification of Italy), and that is what I feel. Sicily is Sicily, and like nowhere else, even though it is an island of great contrasts: in the way it looks, from the humble to the baroque, and in its food, so full of different, bold and vibrant flavours that you expect to be discordant, but somehow they come together and bowl you over.

In Palermo I love the street food: the guys outside the restaurants grilling fish for people to take home, the vendors selling sea urchin with lemons, panelle – fantastic little fritters of chickpea flour (Panelle di ceci) – and all kinds of tripe, such as quaruma (veal or beef entrails) or mascellato (pieces of jaw); stigghiola, intestines of sheep or goat, soaked in wine, then wound around sprigs of parsley and barbecued; or pane con la milza – sandwiches filled with beef spleen, which is boiled, and kept warm in a big pot like a wok. The pieces of spleen are put inside soft white focaccia-like buns, known as guasteddi, with a sprinkling of salt and a squeeze of lemon, and the flavour is delicious. Sometimes fresh ricotta and grated caciocavallo cheese are added, and the sandwich is called maritatu – it is said that this is what Garibaldi ate when he landed in Palermo in 1860.

Palermo doesn’t feel like a European city. It leaves you breathless from the noise and the beauty of the Arabic sense of colour and abundance in the markets, the bakeries and crazy cake shops, the gelaterie, bars and cafés full of every shade and flavour of ice cream and granite.

It is so different to the south-west coast, only an hour and a half’s drive away, where you see more of the ancient, classical influence. If you go out with the fishermen and look back to the Valley of the Temples, further around the coast, between Sciacca and Mazara del Vallo, you can see where once there was a Greek city on the flat plain above the swamps, where people were scared of malaria.

In the villages the shops are sometimes so small, they are little more than holes in the wall; there is no heavy industry, and everyone is dedicated to fishing, or the production of grapes and olives. Old men sit around on their chairs in the village square, as if the street is just an extension of their houses, just sitting and talking and watching. The first time we went on holiday, Jack was saying: ‘Why are they sitting on the street? Don’t they have houses?’ Sometimes, if the men have an affiliation to a political party, they will put their chairs outside their office, or maybe outside the confraternity of olive pickers. And when they are talking, I am sure it’s about food, because everyone talks – or argues – about food: who makes the authentic version of a pasta, whose mother had the best recipe.

Dramatically different again is the eastern side of the island, where Noto was rebuilt after Mount Etna erupted, and Modica was rebuilt after the earthquake of 1693. Everything is very elaborate, very baroque. Then, as you travel upwards through the plain of Catania, towards Mount Etna, you meet people who speak in a different dialect to the people who face the sea, and they seem to talk in proverbs. If anything, they appear to be even more resilient, even more Sicilian, because they live in the shadow of the mountain the ancient people called the monster with a hundred heads. It is not just one volcano, but a series of them, and every so often it shoots up its ‘bombs’ of molten lava, and when people find them, they write their names on them.

When you go up the mountain you see the fields of lava and the hills it formed when it erupted and fell and hardened like honeycomb, and it is incredible to think that the mountain both kills and nurtures … whole communities have been destroyed by it, but there is nothing that won’t grow in the soil enriched by the volcanic ash.

In Palermo you can see the layers of history in the buildings – churches, synagogues, Arabian mosques – and like most of the world’s cities, you see the extremes of rich and poor, though slowly they are reclaiming the poorer areas. And in the late night eating you see the Spanish and Arab influence. The shops open late, people work until the early evening, go home, relax a bit, then come out for dinner, or eat at home, and then meet friends at a bar or café. I like to sit outside on a hot night at one of the places overlooking the sea, where you can eat pasta con le sarde, or involtini di pesce spada, and ice cream. Always ice cream.

In so many places you see the old ladies preparing food in the way they have done for centuries, with the same ingredients, but there are also some young chefs who are taking the same ingredients and combinations, but interpreting and proposing them slightly differently; not only in Palermo, but in the cities on the other side of the island: Noto, Modica, Messina … In one Michelin-starred restaurant, La Gazza Ladra in Modica, the chef, Accursio Craparo, makes artistic creations such as watermelon salad with sea urchin sorbet; ‘linguine’ with a cream of anchovies, candied orange and wild fennel flowers; and a clever little mini ‘burger’ of beautiful tuna: some of the ventresca (the fat belly) is mixed with some of the back and formed into little ‘buns’ that are part steamed, then fried, and filled with a slice of raw tuna, and a ‘mayonnaise’ of anchovies, lemon, sea urchin and fish liver, with herbs scattered on top.

Palermo is a loud city; from the swallows that wake you up in the morning to the sellers in the market, everyone seems to be shouting. No wonder tourists get scared – and these guys are only trying to sell snails! People say Palermo is dangerous, but I don’t see it as threatening; I find it warm and welcoming. And I like the hustle and bustle and noise. But of course there have been times when, unseen by the outsider’s eye, it has been a dangerous place, because the city is in the heart of Mafia territory.

‘Nobody sees; everybody knows’

If you look hard enough in Palermo, you can still see some of the white stickers that appeared one night all over the city, with a message that translates as: ‘there is no dignity in a people that pays the pizzo’ – the protection money demanded by the Mafia. The stickers were an invitation to join the newly formed addio-pizzo movement, an alliance of restaurants, bars, shops and businesses that display the addio-pizzo sign in their windows, which tells you they are refusing to pay.

You cannot talk about food without talking about the Mafia, because the roots of the Mafia are in the land, and when you control the territory, you can control the production of the food, its transportation, and its price. But food also brings people together, and slowly, slowly, a change is happening in Sicilian society and it is being determined by a young generation of restaurateurs and bar owners and food producers who are finding strength in numbers and the courage to stand up to the might of the Mafia.

In the late 1980s, when I was already cooking in England, the Mafia seemed to be always in the newspapers and on the TV news: the wars between the rival families, the drug trafficking, the money laundering, the murders of anti-Mafia politicians, judges and the investigating magistrates Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, the kidnappings, the trials. I was fascinated by it all, but I never seemed to see any explanation as to ‘why?’ For a northern Italian it was difficult to understand the power of the Mafia, the way it had infiltrated every organisation, so much so that during the trials, it was said that the only safe place to talk in the Palace of Justice was in the lift. So for an Anglo-Saxon person, I imagined, it would be almost impossible to understand.

Then I read Cosa Nostra, A History of the Sicilian Mafia, by John Dickie, Professor of Italian Studies at University College London, a brilliant, compelling, but also very scholarly work, which had a very big impact on me. Dickie told the story in a way that had nothing to do with folkloristic Godfather images of ‘Men of Honour’, the kind of glorification that brings busloads of tourists every year to Bar Vitelli in Savoca, near Taormina, where they filmed the wedding festivities of Michael Corleone in Francis Ford Coppola’s movie of the Mario Puzo novel.

Since then I must have devoured a whole library of books on the Mafia, and every time a new one is written, I have to read it. So I have done a lot of searching over the years, to try and understand. You have to think about the history of Sicily: the Greeks and Romans came and left, the Normans came and left, the Spanish came and left, then suddenly Garibaldi arrived and everyone was Italian. But the promises that were made, that the land would be redistributed, didn’t happen. Instead the balance of economic power shifted to the north of Italy, where industry and production increased, and in the south and in Sicily many people just became more poor. So in the vacuum between rich and poor, the state and the people, rose the Mafia.

The roots were already there in agriculture under Spanish rule, because the barons who owned the big estates were away in Palermo and in their absence they appointed managers, middle men known as gabelotti, who took a foothold of power, and whose ruthless henchmen were known as campieri. Out of this grew the Mafia, tapping into the Sicilian idea of Cosa Nostra, the sense of family, of looking after one another, all bound up with a sense of fate, maybe inherited from the Greeks, that somehow made the people trust in the Mafiosi, because they were their own, even though they ruled by fear and brutality.

What is interesting is that in the east side of the island the Mafia didn’t take hold in the same way, because there, under the Spanish, the land was allowed to be inherited by a son, and so there were small tenements, rather than baronial estates, and not the same need for the powerful ‘middle men’.

It is only when you spend time in the western side of the island, and get to know the people and the way the place is run, that you can begin to understand that the Mafia is everywhere, but there is no way you can tell who is the Mafia. It is an undercurrent. It is there, and it is not there. Nobody sees; everybody knows. The prices are controlled, and the territory is controlled, centimetre by centimetre.

For a long time, the existence of the Mafia as a structured organisation was denied, right up to the trials of the eighties. Even now there are people who will say it doesn’t exist or, ‘They are good people. They make things work.’ Yes. But it has been proven that the mafia is bad for business, because its presence has slowed down the development of Sicily in comparison to other regions of Italy.

What I feel is that Cosa Nostra is inside the people; you cannot defeat it on the streets, or in the courts of justice alone; you have to do it in heads and minds. In Midnight in Sicily, Peter Robb quotes the writer Leonardo Sciascia, who summed up perfectly the complicated relationship that exists between the community and the Mafia: ‘Take this Sicilian reality I live in: a lot of things that make it up I disapprove of and condemn, but I see them with pain and from inside … It hurts when I denounce the mafia because a residue of mafia feeling stays alive in me, as it does in any Sicilian. So struggling against the mafia I struggle against myself. It’s like a split, a laceration.’

I see some pessimism, but a lot of optimism. Pessimism because not everyone believes in change, and because some say that when the Mafia appears quiet it is at its most dangerous; and optimism in a new-found strength and pride among restaurateurs and food producers, boosted by organisations like Slow Food, which is helping the people to understand that there is a different way to market their food. And then you see the Libera Terra farming projects, in which land confiscated from convicted Mafia bosses is being given to co-operatives of young people to grow crops or make wine. The most famous is the Terre di Corleone, where a vineyard has been planted on the land of the imprisoned Salvatore ‘Toto’ Riina, near the town whose name Mario Puzo borrowed for his family in The Godfather. Ironically, he chose it just because he liked the sound of the name (which means Lionheart), with no idea of how notorious Corleone was to become as a Mafia town a decade later. When you see these agricultural projects, you have real hope that at last the people will begin to accept that they can work this beautiful land for themselves, and come out from under the cloud of Cosa Nostra.

Verdure

Vegetables

Insalata di olive verdi schiacciate

Menta

Panelle di ceci

Finocchietto selvatico

Panelle di fave

Maccheroni nel ‘maccu’ fritto

Carciofi

Carciofi ripieni

Frittedda

Stufato di verdure primavera

Insalata di rinforzo

Insalata di broccoli, mandorle e peperoncino

Insalata d’acciughe, fagiolini e mandorle

Insalata di fagioli verdi

Insalata d’estate

Insalata di Natale

Asparagi selvatici in umido

Cardi fritti

Caponata

Caponata d’estate

Caponata d’inverno

Caponata di carciofi

Caponata di Natale

Melanzane

Melanzane a beccafico

Involtini di melanzane

Parmigiana di melanzane

Zucchine fritte

Peperoni in agrodolce

Peperoni ripieni

Peperoni con aglio e basilico

Cicoria e aglio

Polpettine di cavolfiore

Torta di bietole e ricotta

Olives and oil

Olives in the mountains

Liquid gold

Sicilian Samurais

Olives for the table

‘What did you eat?’

Then he understood. Livia was trying to be there with him, at his house in Marinella. She was imagining him the way she had seen him so many times before, trying to annul the distance by picturing him as he performed the customary acts he did every evening. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by a feeling that was a mixture of melancholy, tenderness, regret and desire.

‘Caponata,’ he said in a choked-up voice.

How on earth was it possible to get a lump in one’s throat simply by uttering the word ‘caponata’?

– Andrea Camilleri, The Wings of the Sphinx, an Inspector Montalbano mystery

The first time we stayed in Sicily on holiday I got up early one morning and walked to the square, where I found all these old guys with their little three-wheeler Ape Piaggio trucks parked up. In the back were boxes of tomatoes, aubergines, artichokes and all kinds of other vegetables. The way things work is that if a local family has a small piece of land, the men get up at about five in the morning, pick their produce, then pack it into boxes and drive to the square. Then at about 7.30 a.m. a bigger truck comes along from the greengrocer’s in town and the driver buys one box from this guy, two from the next … and that is how the local people make a living.

Later in the day, you see these same guys driving around the village with more vegetables in the back of their Apes, tooting their horns, so you can come out of your house and buy them in your street. Sometimes when I drop in on my friend Vittorio, in his restaurant kitchen in Porto Palo, he will say to me: ‘Drive towards Menfi, and just before you get to the village, on the corner of the last road on the right, you will see a box of tomatoes.’ He will have called someone he knows and said, ‘I need more tomatoes,’ and the guy will have said, ‘OK, I’ll leave them on the corner of the road for you.’ Such a funny, fantastic way to run a restaurant.

But what it shows you is the freshness of the ingredients, always. That’s what strikes me every time I go to Sicily. Even if you don’t grow your own vegetables, every day you can buy ones that have been harvested by someone else in your village that morning – each vegetable seems to have many different seasons, which keeps them going almost all year round. And the flavour! You can see why Sicilians don’t elaborate their dishes, when a tomato or even celery delivers so much taste all by itself. I remember picking up a head of celery in the market, to put into a chicken stock, and the guy selling it said, ‘No, have this one, it is much better’ – and gave me a very woody-looking one instead. Back at the house I put about two stalks into the pot, as I would usually, and the stock turned out to taste only of celery – that aniseed flavour you get from celery, which is usually quite subtle, was huge – so sometimes you have to balance what you do, because of the unexpected strength and richness of flavour in the vegetables.

What I see everywhere is a great love of greens: so many recipes with broccoli, especially with anchovies and pasta, but the broccoli is different. Known as sparaceddi or sparacelli, it is bigger, quite leafy, with greeny-gold heads, the colour of the sprouting broccoli we see in the UK when it flowers, and with a sweeter, less grassy flavour.

Also, they have something I never saw in Italy before: tenerumi, which is the curly tendrils, stalks and leaves of the zucca trombetta, or trumpet pumpkin. This is a long, curvy, pale green kind of cross between a courgette and a squash or pumpkin that is hard on the outside and soft inside, with seeds. It is one of the squashes that is often candied and used to decorate cassata and other desserts.

The first time I saw tenerumi, which tastes of courgette, but is somehow ‘greener’, I was embarrassed that I didn’t know what it was. Fortunately the guys in the market didn’t know I was a chef when I asked them what to do with it! They told me blanch it briefly, then heat some olive oil in a pan, add some garlic, chilli and chopped tomatoes, put in the tenerumi, let it wilt like spinach and serve it with pasta, and it was so good. Traditionally, tenerumi was also just boiled and then some broken-up bits of spaghetti were added to the pan, along with some sautéed garlic and tomato – so the dish ended up more like a brodo (soup). Or it was put into a fish soup, with clams, calamari and mussels.

This simple way of blanching and then sautéing is used for every kind of greens, such as chard (which are smaller and less aggressive in flavour than the ones we get in the UK), cardoons and chicory – not spinach so much, because it is too fragile. They prefer the sturdier greens with stalks, which can be chopped up and blanched first, followed by the leaves. When the drained leaves are quickly tossed in oil, garlic and chilli, they can be put out as antipasti, cold or hot, or eaten with fish or meat. If the greens are to be eaten with pasta, when they are lifted from their boiling water to drain, the pasta goes straight into the same cooking water, so that it takes on some of the colour and flavour of the greens. When the pasta is drained it is just mixed with the sautéed greens, and the flavour of the vegetables is so intense you don’t need anything else.

The Sicilian use of cauliflower is amazing, too, especially the purple ‘bastardu’ cauliflower that grows in the volcanic soil below Mount Etna, and has its own sweet, delicate flavour. What do we do in Britain with cauliflower? Cover it with cheese, and that is about it. There, they use it in so many sweet and sour combinations of vegetables, or make a fantastic salad with cauliflower and black olives (Insalata di rinforzo). In the bakers’ shops you can buy schiacciata (Schiacciata con salsiccia), which is a kind of baked pie made with a focaccia-like dough that is rolled out into two rectangles, one thicker than the other. The thicker one is covered with pieces of cauliflower, together with the likes of sausage meat or anchovies, raisins, olives, caciocavallo or pecorino cheese, oregano, and sometimes tomatoes. Then the thinner rectangle is put on top, pressed down to seal, and the whole thing is baked, then cut up into pieces.

The other vegetable that is synonymous with Sicily is the aubergine (Melanzane). One of the most famous dishes is pasta alla Norma, that brilliant, vivid combination of aubergine, tomato and salted ricotta (Reginette alla Norma), and most of the aubergine dishes are variations on similar combinations of ingredients. In one restaurant I ate a beautiful dish of pan-fried aubergine, which was rolled up around a filling of ricotta, marjoram, ricotta salata (which is the hard, aged, and quite salty ricotta that can be grated), then covered in tomato sauce, topped with caciocavallo cheese, and baked. In another place they served something similar, but the slices of aubergine were layered on a big plate, with tomato sauce, basil and ricotta salata, then cut up in slices, and you ate them just as they were, cold, as an antipasto.

Equally famous outside of Sicily is caponata (Caponata), the mix of fried aubergine and other vegetables in a sweet and sour sauce, made with vinegar and sugar, that owes much to the Arabs, who introduced the growing of sugar cane to the island. Until then honey was the only sweetener. As always, you would make caponata with whatever vegetables you had, and there are so many different recipes, four of which I have included in this chapter.

When you look at old books on Sicilian food, no mention is made of what a recipe would be served with; there is just a feeling that you would make it and put it on the table with whatever else you had, so all of these vegetable dishes would make a great addition to the antipasti, but they would also be brilliant with grilled fish or meat.

Although the dishes in this chapter are predominantly made with vegetables, this is the food of Sicily, so it is inevitable that anchovies manage to find their way into many of the recipes!

Insalata di olive verdi schiacciate

Salad of crushed olives

When you look at the ingredients of this salad, you will probably think, as I did, that it is too simple to be very exciting, but it is unbelievable the way the celery takes up the flavours and combines with the olives and mint, so that the whole thing tastes really fresh and fantastic.

Serves 4–6

450g good whole green olives in brine

about 6 celery stalks, with leaves if possible, all finely chopped

the leaves from about 10–12 stalks of mint, finely chopped

40ml Giorgio’s dressing

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Drain the olives and pat dry. With a sharp knife, make three or four cuts in each olive from end to end, then cut each segment away from the stone as carefully as you can. Put the pieces into a bowl and add the celery, the celery leaves, and the mint leaves. Toss with the dressing, season and serve.

Menta Mint

‘A herb that people would love forever’

Mint is a very Sicilian herb, and something you rarely see in other regions of Italy. The story is that Mentha was a Greek nymph who was loved by the god Pluto. His wife, Persephone, was so jealous of Mentha that she crushed her into the ground, but Pluto turned her into a herb that people would love forever.

There is an incredible number of different mint varieties, but the one that is most often found in Sicily is Mentha viridis (spearmint), which grows everywhere. It is one of the herbs that is said to stimulate the appetite, so it is often used in dishes that appear with the antipasti: in an olive salad (Insalata di olive verdi schiacciate), or with fresh peas and artichokes. Coming from the north of Italy, where basil is the beloved herb, I have been surprised and entranced by the way a few leaves of mint can change the whole nature of a simple salad; and whenever I am in Sicily, I also make tea out of it. The important thing to remember with mint, though, is that it must always be freshly picked and used immediately, as it is a herb that loses its flavour the moment it is cut.

Panelle di ceci

Sicilian chickpea fritters

Panelle is the quintessential street food. In Palermo you see vendors frying the thin fritters of chickpea flour in oil on street corners, or in the Vucciria market, and in the smaller towns and villages you see guys driving around in their little three-wheeled Ape Piaggios, with a gas burner on the back. They stop where they feel like it, fire up the burner underneath a big wok-like pot of olive oil, and start frying.

Serves 4

250g chickpea flour

a pinch of salt

a handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, finely chopped

a little olive oil

vegetable oil for deep-frying

sea salt

Pour 500ml of cold water into a heavy pan, then add the chickpea flour in a steady stream, whisking constantly to avoid lumps.

Add the salt and cook over a medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the mixture thickens and pulls away from the sides of the pan. Add the parsley.

Rub a cold surface (marble if possible) with olive oil, spoon out the mixture, and spread it out thinly (about 3mm) with a rolling pin or spatula. When it cools down, cut it into squares or triangles.

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep pan, making sure it comes no higher than a third of the way up the pan. It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, put in a few breadcrumbs, and if they sizzle straight away the oil is ready. Deep-fry the fritters until golden, about 1–2 minutes. Drain on kitchen paper, sprinkle with sea salt and serve warm.

Finocchietto selvatico Wild fennel

‘A flavour that feels only Sicilian’

If I had to identify a flavour that feels only Sicilian, then it is wild fennel. If basil represents the north of Italy, then wild fennel represents Sicily.

There are three types of fennel: the bulb, or Florence fennel, that Sicilians use in caponata and raw in salads; then there is the sativa, which is the intensely flavoured one that makes the seeds that Americans put in everything Italian. You go to America and you have to say, ‘Can I have something to eat that is without fennel seeds, because not all Italian food has fennel seeds in it!’ In Sicily the seeds are used in some sauces and breads. But mostly, they use wild fennel, because it grows everywhere.

Sometimes it is called finocchietto di montagna, fennel of the mountains, but you don’t need to go near a mountain to see it. When I walk out of the house where we stay in Sicily near the sea, it is growing all along the path. So I might go into the village and buy a big fish, maybe a branzino (sea bass), or a gilt-head bream, then I will take some sliced potato, a couple of slices of lemon, put in some wild fennel, and maybe some mint, with the fish on top, add a little olive oil and bake it in the oven. When it cooks the fish takes on the fantastic aniseed flavour, which is more aromatic and grassy and less overpowering than the seeds can be: it just seems to produce a very fine note in the background to whatever you are cooking. It is a key ingredient in one of the island’s most famous dishes, pasta con le sarde (pasta with sardines, pasta con le sarde), it is put into the cooking water for broad beans, and picked fresh, it really helps the flavour of a tomato sauce and gives it another dimension, if you put it in at the last minute.

You can’t come back from Sicily without big bunches of wild fennel. It is impossible. The boys in the kitchen at Locanda would never forgive me. On the road towards the airport it grows all along the verges, so the last thing you do before you come home is get out of the car and pick some, and when you arrive to check in you see you are not the only one with the idea!

Panelle di fave

Broad bean fritters

These are similar to the panelle made with chickpea flour, but this time they are made with dried broad beans. Broad beans have a big significance in Sicily. The ancient Greeks believed the souls of the dead lived in fava beans, and they are still associated with All Souls’ Day on 2 November, when special biscuits are made in the shape of the beans. They are also meant to be a good omen, especially on Good Friday. When I was in Ragusa over the Easter holiday, we ate at a restaurant and we were each given three cooked (dried) beans, with a little salt and olive oil, to represent the Trinity, before the start of the meal.

The best are the beans of Leonforte, now supported by a Slow Food Presidium. When the young beans are harvested they are eaten fresh with spring onions and cheese, or added to frittedda and spring stews (Stufato di verdure primavera), but the dried beans are equally popular. They have a very different flavour to the fresh ones. You can buy them whole with the skins on, or already skinned and split, in Turkish and Jewish stores. If they are whole, once cooked put them through a sieve to lose the rough skins.

The beans are cooked with wild fennel (Finocchietto selvatico), but you could use a teaspoonful of fennel seeds, soaked for an hour or two in a tiny bit of water.

Serves 4

900g dried broad beans

½ medium onion, sliced

a few fronds of wild fennel, or 1 teaspoon of fennel seeds soaked in water

a pinch of dried chilli flakes (optional)

a little olive oil

vegetable oil for deep-frying

sea salt

Soak the dried beans in water overnight, then drain. The next morning put them into a pan with the onion and fennel, and the chilli flakes, if using. Add enough unsalted water to cover and bring to the boil. Turn down the heat and cook gently for 2–3 hours, adding a little water if necessary until the beans break down to form a very thick purée, then season to taste with salt. Keep stirring to avoid sticking, then pass through a sieve. Grease a work surface, preferably marble, with olive oil and pour the mixture on to it. Roll out to a thickness of about 5mm and allow to cool. Cut into 5cm strips.

Heat a few inches of vegetable oil in a pan, making sure it comes no higher than a third of the way up. It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, put in a few breadcrumbs and if they sizzle the oil is ready. Deep-fry the strips until golden, about 1–2 minutes. Drain on kitchen paper and serve warm.

Maccheroni nel ‘maccu’ fritto

Pasta and fava (broad bean) cubes

This is another of those surprisingly delicious dishes born out of cucina povera. Maccu comes from the old Italian word maccare (to crush) and this is a simple purée of dried fava beans that you would make to eat on its own, with pasta or thinned down with water, to make a soup. If any purée was left over, you could leave it to harden, then cut it up and fry it the next day. In Palermo they traditionally mixed the purée with cooked squash, instead of fennel, and in the Madonie mountains, south-east of the city, they would add chopped tomato.

I also like the purée just served with onions, sautéed in olive oil, then mixed with a little salt, sugar and vinegar, on top, or some chicory, blanched quickly in boiling water, drained, then sautéed gently in olive oil with a little chopped garlic and chilli. The sweet and sour of the onions, or the bitterness of the chicory, make a great contrast with the maccu, which is quite sweet.

Serves 4

360g dried fava or broad beans

1 sprig of wild fennel or 1 teaspoon of fennel seeds, soaked in a little water

400g small macaroni

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

extra virgin olive oil

4 tablespoons plain flour

vegetable oil for deep-frying

Soak the dried beans overnight. Next day, drain and put them into a pan with enough unsalted water to cover, bring to the boil, then turn down the heat, add the fennel and cook gently for 2–3 hours, stirring regularly to stop the beans from sticking, until they form a thick purée. Season with salt.

Cook the macaroni in plenty of boiling salted water for about 6 minutes, or until al dente. Drain and season generously with pepper. Mix with the broad bean purée. Grease a rectangular baking tray with extra virgin olive oil and spread the bean and macaroni mixture in a layer no more than 1.5cm thick. Put into the fridge overnight to solidify.

Next day, slice the maccu into small squares and dip them into the flour, shaking off any excess. Heat 2.5cm of vegetable oil in a deep pan, making sure it comes no higher than a third of the way up the pan. It should be 180°C. If you don’t have a thermometer, put in a few breadcrumbs and if they sizzle the oil is ready. Deep-fry the squares until golden on all sides. They can be eaten hot or cold.

Carciofi Artichokes

‘Black from the ashes, smoky, tender, delicious …’

The truly Sicilian way with artichokes is to bury them in the ash of a wood-burning stove after the bread has been made, or in the embers of the barbecue, and roast them slowly until they are black on the outside from the ashes, but smoky, tender and delicious inside.

In Sicily there is a big production of artichokes. It is not unusual for me to drop into Vittorio’s restaurant and find him and his wife, Francesca, or one of the women who helps him, working their way through five boxes of them, brought in that morning.

In spring and summer, if you buy artichokes from the local guys or in the stalls in the market, they come in bunches, some big, some small, usually with one or two baby artichokes attached. They are put into everything from frittedda and spring stews (Stufato di verdure primavera), made with fresh peas and broad beans, to caponata (Caponata), or they are simply blanched, then put under oil, perhaps with a little chilli, as an antipasto; or chopped and tossed in a salad with some olives and slices of lemon.

But my favourite way is this roasting in the ashes, usually of olive branches. There is even a special kind of graticola, an iron grill, enclosing a series of ‘cones’ for the purpose. Instead of peeling the tough outer leaves as you would normally do before cooking the artichokes, what you do is lay each artichoke on its side on a table and roll it, pressing down gently, to loosen the leaves; then you hold it by its stalk and press the tips down on the table, just enough to open out the leaves a little, so that the hot air can circulate through the artichokes as they cook.

Next you put them, stalk first, into the iron cones and push the grill into the ashes, leaving the tops of the artichokes showing, sprinkle them with salt and oil, and leave them for about forty minutes, so they boil from the inside, but char on the outside. Then you simply peel off the blackened leaves and eat them just as they are.

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