Читать книгу Made in Sicily - Giorgio Locatelli - Страница 6

‘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 …