The Alchemist of Ibla

December 23, 2009

Happy Holidays, dear Reader. If you’re in southeast Sicily at the moment, the Duomo Restaurant in Ragusa Ibla would be a memorable place for a holiday splurge. It’s formal, festive and fun. Calme, luxe et volupté.

Chef Ciccio Sultano—the only chef on the island with two Michelin stars—is a humble genius.

Il Duomo is just behind Ibla’s curlicued Baroque cathedral and so close to my house I could lob a fat olive from my balcony and hit it. I’ve eaten da Ciccio four times and have always emerged elated, sated.

My sister and I celebrated her birthday there in 2007 with one of the prix-fixe tasting menus. I’ll never forget a plate called Earth, Sky, and Sea—a lemon-sauced antipasto of rare pigeon and plump oysters on a bed of whipped potatoes. Astounding. I felt a little sad about the pigeon and wondered if he was related to the flock of pink-eyed birds that nest in my roof tiles. Chef Himself made an appearance bearing a vibrant tomato sorbet “to cleanse the palate.” Next up: ricotta cheese ravioli in a pasture-green puddle of puréed fava beans. A long parade of goodies ended with carob mousse swimming in ricotta cream and, finally, sorbetto di mandorla, almond sorbet.

In June 2009 I celebrated there with two friends, Rosamund and Roberta. We guzzled a bubbly prosecco so fast that the details of our feast are a bit fuzzy, but who could forget the starter: Sicilian truffle gelato—with black truffles from the Nebrodi Mountains south of Messina—on crostini. I laughed out loud as I picked it up and nibbled it like an ice cream sandwich—crusty-soft and savory-sweet (sounds odd but it was heaven). What kind of a man invents this? Here’s a photo—can you see the gelato peaking out from the crostini and truffle slices?

A few hours into the meal, these gorgeous goat chops stuffed with chickpeas, liver and parsley appeared in front of me:

This was Rosamund’s seafood dish:

My latest meal there, in October, was equally amazing. The grand-finale nearly killed us—a bianco mangiare alla mandorla served together with a sorbetto di pera con mosto.

Chef Sultano is known for his innovate approach to Sicilian cuisine, but the creations are not random. “Sperimentare ma nel solco della tradizione,” he says. Experiment, but within the groove of tradition. His dishes change according to the seasons.

You can find cooking videos (in Italian) on his website, ristoranteduomo.it, including one for pistachio couscous.

Look at this. I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was, but don’t you think it’s an abstract/painterly/sculptural masterpiece?

Closed all day Sunday and Mondays at lunch.  Tel. ++39 0932 651265

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Sicilian Stallions?

December 12, 2009

Girls, would you let this fellow…?

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Well, I did. Not only did I let him sell me a melon far bigger than I could ever eat, I let him feed me some. Its November flesh was pinky-orange, perfumed, and so overripe and juicy that I was dribbling like a love-struck fool.

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The man could have sold me just about anything—rotten apples, stinking fish, whatever.

When my sister, an Angeleno, arrived in Sicily for the first time several years ago, she took a look around and said,  “Very pretty men. We should be Hollywood scouts.”

They’re like stallions, Sicilian men—tossing thick manes and flashing wild black eyes, putting out cigarettes as if they’re pawing the ground with a hoof.

Not everyone is impressed. Seated at a cafe on a Sunday afternoon, while my sister and I murmured our approval of the preening Antonio Banderas-types trotting up and down the street, my Sicilian friends Giò and Rosaria, 30-something divorcees, pulled sour faces. “Horrid!” they cried. “Horrid!”

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Baarìa

December 7, 2009

Sicilian director Giuseppe Tornatore’s new autobiographical epic, Baarìa, has been out here for a few months. I haven’t seen it yet but love the poster, which looks great in the context of Sicily.

Below are shots of Teatro Garibaldi in Piazza Armerina and a wall in Modica.

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An American friend saw the film first in Bologna and then in Palermo. She said there was much more laughter in Palermo—the audience was apparently picking up on the director’s “in” jokes.

Baarìa, by the way, is dialect for Bagherìa—a town on the coast just east of Palermo where Tornatore grew up.

Here’s a short review of the film in the Guardian.

Fannuloni and Chocolate

Jann Huizenga

December 3, 2009

For a year my showers were icy, my radiators cold. The new Renzo Piano stovetop just sat there, shiny and useless. I’d filed a dichiarazine and oodles of other papers, had a friend fake signatures and make phone calls when I wasn’t in town, shelled out €450 in utility fees at the post office, lost hours in grouchy mobs hoping for face time with a bureaucrat. I fawned, flirted, cajoled, and sobbed. After each trauma I self-medicated with chocolate.

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Then one fine day in October, Enelgas—like God Almighty—said Let There Be Gas.

The experience soured me on bureaucrats, known here as fannuloni, slackers.

But I could no longer put off a visit to the dreaded water office, l’ufficio idrico. It was time to fess up that I hadn’t paid a centesimo for water since buying the house in 2007, nor even reported a change of ownership.

I take a number, A30, and wait. The slip of paper in my fist bears no relation to what’s flashing on the wall monitor, F6.

Non funziona,” says a farmer in from the countryside. The crowd swells. We take matters into our own hands and politely number off.

Finally seated at the sportello, I’m shooed away. You must, says the woman, purchase a marca di bollo at the tabacchaio, then proceed to the post office to pay another fee. Which I do. Back at the water office, my bureaucrat pulls out a form from a cracked blue folder and writes the date. “Friday the 13th!” she says. “A lucky day!”  (Just goes to show how topsy-turvy things are here.) The clock above her head is running ninety minutes fast.

I hand over my passport, my codice fiscale, and my water meter reading. Clickety-clack goes her keyboard.

“Our computer does not accept your name.”

Perché?

“There is no key for J.” She fusses and gripes and stares at the screen. “And no key for H.”

She calls over the boss. After much ado, he locates the problematic letters. The printer whirrs, spitting papers onto the floor.

The name is spelled wrong; the date of birth incorrect. Corrections are made; the printer whirrs again. More signatures required.

“Are things the same in America as here?” my bureaucrat asks.

“Well, there’s less paperwork there.”

This produces a sudden outburst. “O, siamo maestri della bureaucrazia!” We are the maestros of bureaucracy.

An understatement, seems to me. I slink out of the office across Piazza San Giovanni to Caffè Italia, where I calm myself with a chocolate eclair and hot chocolate thick as pudding.

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