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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