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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.