After 8 hours of uneventful driving on the Autostrade (Leslie almost killing only two people), including a pleasant hop across the water to Sicily, we arrived in Taormina last night expecting to quickly find and check into the hotel. Instead, we spent an hour and a half caught in horribly narrow, contorted, unlabeled, and did I say narrow, streets. We were quickly lost, and getting loster by the second. It was very touchy-feely driving, as all of the streets are really one lane roads, on which two cars try to pass, with cars parked on the side. And then there are pedestrians and scooters streaming past, that you hopefully avoid (we feel fairly certain we maimed no one in Taormina). Although we are men (sort of), we stopped to ask for directions, which meant parking the car on a side street at something like a 45 degree angle, while I climbed out of the Spritz, headed up some slippery stones, past a boy disembarking himself and his doggy from his Vespa, and begged directions from a hotel clerk. In broken English, she saved us. In another 45 minutes of horrible driving, the car heaving and smelling like it was on fire, we found our hotel, the Fiorita.
It is a weird place, a villa house, decorated in Italian modern (think 1967), that climbs up the side of the mountain. The view from our room is spectacular, however, as we have a shot all the way up the northern coast. The cable car ride to the beach way, way below is across the street (which we plan to 'do' this afternoon).
We needed drinks badly, so we headed out for dinner (mediocre...what is it with the cuts of meat in Italy...fatty, gristly...although because a thumb size piece of gristle lodged in my teeth, I was able to enjoy my dinner long into the night). (More to follow in another post about the state of Italian food, or our utter inability to find anything spectacular). After dinner, we ran into two Irish gals, teachers both, who we tried to (and clearly did) impress with our knowledge of Irish literature and drinking songs. For some reason, they challenged me on my Irishness despite the roundness of my head, my proclivity to drink and bullshit, and my mother's maiden name (McLaffon, which they said sounded Scottish. Scottish, my ass). Good chat and good laughs well into the night (accompanied by the furrowed brow of the proprietor who found us irritating...imagine that).
To the Greek amphitheater this morning (after a very tortured parking situation was remedied), and onto dinner with the Irish tonight...if we can find the restaurant (a bargain restaurant frequented by Woody Allen, it is said. Wheee. My goal is to finally eat a fried rice ball and to avoid gristle.
To Siracusa tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Some stuff on Siracusa from August's Travel and Leisure...you boys need a good meal and a comfy porch, methinks:
Just outside Ortigia, the island on which the ancient city of Siracusa is built, the Anapo River flows out of the mountains. Beside the river, about a half-mile from the port, is a boutique hotel called Caol Ishka, Gaelic for "sound of water." It falls loosely into the tradition of the masseria, or converted farm, as opposed to an agriturismo, or working farm. The young owners, Emanuela Marino and her partner, Gareth Shaughnessy, retained the skeleton of the farm buildings but redesigned the interiors to make 10 rustic-chic rooms with lofty wooden roofs, lavish showers, and stylish Italian lighting and bathroom fixtures. You can get Wi-Fi out on the veranda, as you walk around the papyrus and bamboo stands that ring the grounds, or sit by the river and watch the rowers go by in their shells. There's also an infinity pool.
At dinner at the hotel's Zafferano Bistrot—cooked by a spectacularly talented 21-year-old chef, Massimo Giaquinta, who is part Sicilian and part Kenyan—the couple elaborated on their vision for Caol Ishka: not so much a hotel for tourists who come to see the ruins in Siracusa as a quiet retreat for Italians and Europeans looking for privacy and seclusion. The dining room has a stone floor and a farm-style beamed ceiling. There are winking references to the Baroque in the gilded mirrors and the paintings of the Virgin Mary on the wall.
"These were painted by my brother," said Marino, gesturing around. She paused. "He is also in the paintings." Closer scrutiny revealed her brother, dressed as Mary, Photoshopped in.
Very New Sicily.
Giaquinta joined us at the table. Like many young chefs we met in Sicily, he points to Ciccio Sultano, of Duomo restaurant in Ragusa, as an inspiration. Sultano was the first local chef to receive two Michelin stars; more importantly for ambitious entrants like Giaquinta, he showed it was possible to achieve fame without having to leave the region.
But it's one thing to persuade the international food press of your talents; what's harder, Giaquinta said, was getting ordinary Sicilians to try something new. "In Sicily we don't have the tradition of experimenting—people eat to fill their bellies. If they go out, we have the trattorie, so that you can eat the way you do at home. It's hard—everyone just wants what their grandmothers made."
Giaquinta's tasting menu began with sautéed prawns, marinated in lemon and intensely flavored anchovies, offset with a little carrot juice. (Carrot juice is one of Ciccio Sultano's signatures.) This was followed by rare tuna with a balsamic vinegar reduction. (One of the great recent changes in Sicilian cooking in particular, and Italian cooking in general, is the acceptance of crudo, or raw, fish.) The next course was the highlight of my meal—grouper roe with ricotta and honey. It was as much a texture experience as a taste—the firm and cool roe with the soft ricotta, and the honey oozing out and enrobing the other ingredients. After that, Giaquinta made a traditional pasta with bottarga (tuna roe) and anchovy, again flavored with carrot juice. For dessert, he had prepared two traditional tortes—a white one with ricotta and a black one with chocolate.
Post a Comment