Snacks

Pasta

Soups and Stews

Fish

Meat

Vegetables, Salads, and Sides

Breads

Desserts

Cocktails, Liquers, and Wines

Appendix

Introduction

85 authentic recipes and 120 stunning photographs from the sunbaked beaches, coastal villages, and rolling hillsides of Sicily, Sardinia, and beyond.

Italian

Rice Croquettes filled with meat sauce and Mozzarella

Snack

Frying

Called arancine (or arancini, depending on what part of Sicily you’re in), these rice croquettes may be the most famous Sicilian food outside of the island. The name, which is similar to the word for orange, arancia, reflects the food’s saffron-tinted color and sometimes its shape (they are either spherical or conical); mine are spheres about the size of a medium orange. In Sicily, these often reach the size of softballs, so they make for a very hearty snack, or even a full-on meal. Arancine are made in a variety of “flavors” but saffron-infused rice packed around a heart of ragù (meat sauce) is the most classic and you’ll find them served blazing hot at the island’s cafés and rosticcerie (casual joints, kind of like delis, serving hot food). The technique for preparing the rice—adding small doses of broth to toasted rice until it is absorbed and the rice is al dente—is similar to how you make risotto. You can totally make these with leftover risotto and the fillings of your choice. Get creative! And to make arancine al burro, another classic, replace the ragù filling with 3 ounces each of ham and mozzarella (cut into ¼-inch cubes), then mix with ¼ cup of béchamel and divide evenly among the arancine. 

Arancine al Ragù

Sautéing

Braising & Stewing

This recipe makes more than you need for arancine—it’s a shame to make a small amount of ragù—but you can also simply serve it with the pasta of your choice.

Ragù di Carne

Mediterranean

Vegan

Vegetarian

Dairy-Free

Gluten-Free

No-cook

In the summer, I love hosting aperitivo (pre-dinner drinks and snacks) on my terrace overlooking Monteverde Vecchio’s pastel colored apartment blocks in Rome. It’s no sea view, but I love it. Plus, I always have herbs, oil, salt, and capers from my island travels, and plump green olives from Sicily are sold in the market near my apartment.

Create your own island-inspired happy hour with this snack and a cocktail like a Martini Sporco al Cappero (see page 226). And don’t forget to put out a little dish for the pits!

Olive Condite

Nut-Free

If, like me, you have dedicated your life to #carbpositivity, then have I got a city for you. Palermo, Sicily’s capital, is all about starches in their many forms. The most classic example of this is panelle, or chickpea fritters, a street snack served layered on a vastedda roll with a couple of cazzilli (potato croquettes). It’s all smashed into a sandwich, a beautiful, beige, carby snack. You can make panelle sandwiches here with Palermo’s classic vastedda, or just snack on them plain. In the latter case, I like to make 1-inch squares for one-bite servings at aperitivo. The set batter stores well, so you can prepare it a day or two before you plan to fry it.

Serve alongside arancine (see page 33) and caponata (see page 153) for a proper Sicilian apertivo spread.

Panelle

Baking

Popular in the Bay of Naples, this mashed potato pie is serious fuel for a summer swim. At cafés and rosticcerie, creamy potatoes are layered with little bits of cheese and ham, then sold by the slice and stuffed into plastic containers for taking to the beach. It’s a great way for those businesses to use up scraps, and you can, too, if you’ve got odds and ends in your cheese and cold cuts stash. When it comes to either, you can be as fancy or as trashy as you want. The cafeterias of the islands use pretty cheap cheeses, so if you have scraps of Kraft singles lying around, feel free to tear those up and add them to the mix. It’s all about using up leftovers, so anything goes, really.

Gattò di Patate

The Aeolian Islands, a chain off the northern coast of Sicily, are inundated in the summers with visitors from Sicily, mainland Italy, and beyond. While the islands’ pricey restaurants generally leave much to be desired, their bars, bakeries, and cafeterias offer beach-ready island food that won’t break the bank. The most quintessential of these is pane cunzato, or rusk, hard durum wheat bread or rusk that has been cunzato (dialect for the Italian condito, meaning “dressed”) with toppings much like an open-faced sandwich. Ingredients like juicy tomatoes season and soften the hard bread. For a more portable version, toast another 1/2 loaf of sliced bread and make a full-on sandwhich. Wrap in aluminum foil and head for the closest beach.

Pane Cunzato

When you walk around the neighborhood just east of the Ballarò Market in Palermo, brown street signs (as opposed to the standard white stone) list the street names in Italian, Arabic, and Hebrew. The special signage is a reminder that the neighborhood was the Jewish quarter, which thrived during the Middle Ages when Palermo was a cosmopolitan place. This all changed with the Spanish Inquisition, which demanded that non-Catholics convert or leave the Aragon kingdom. The signage is one of the few tangible vestiges of the Jewish community that thrived there. But the community’s culture is still present in other ways, including in the foods that have been fully absorbed into the city’s culinary canon. Among these is 

, a sliced spleen sandwich. It’s one of Palermo’s most beloved street foods today and is sold from stalls and stands throughout the city. It’s virtually synonymous with the Sicilian capital, and though the idea of eating spleen might put some off, the flavor and texture are like that of a tender steak. You can order spleen in advance from some butchers. 

Pane cÂ Meusa

I’m partial to this savory parcel not only because my mother’s maiden name is Cipollina (“little onion”!), but also because it’s really delicious. Cafés and rosticcerie in Catania cook onions until they are soft and sweet, spike them with a dash of tomato, then combine them with other fillings, fold puff pastry around the mixture, and bake it into a flaky treat. A popular combo—and my favorite—is mozzarella and olive.

Cipolline Catanesi

 is one of the many dishes that uses pane carasau, Sardinia’s famous flatbread, as its protagonist. You can either make pane carasau (it’s a fun dough to make and the baked flatbread lasts forever) or buy it at Italian specialty stores, then soften it with broth and layer it with tomato sauce and cheese. Like many island breads, pane carasau is dried to ensure it stays fresh longer, so dip it in seasoned liquid to make it pliable and infuse it with flavor before using it. Serve the pane frattau on a big communal platter like lasagna, letting everyone take their share.

Serves as a starter while you prepare porceddu sardu (see page 141).

Pane Frattau

For around ten thousand years, many Sardinians ate close to no fish and the fish they did eat was rarely fresh. Instead, it was dried, salted, or marinated to preserve it as long as possible. Marinated and pickled fish dishes evoke Spain’s fish escabeche or Venice’s sarde in saor, a testament to the way in which certain preparations spread across wide areas thanks to trade, migration, and necessity. Sardinia’s most beloved dish in this genre is burrida a sa casteddaia, pickled dogfish with walnuts and its own liver, a classic of the southern port town of Cagliari. Unless you’re doing a whole lot of fishing off the Jersey Shore, where you’ll catch dogfish by accident, they’re pretty hard to come by. They’re also super bony, so if that’s not your thing, I suggest replacing the dogfish with another sweet, firm-fleshed fish like monkfish or grouper. Prepare the burrida a day or two before you plan to serve it so the flavors have plenty of time to marry.

Burrida a Sa Casteddaia

During the nineteenth-century gilded age in Sicily, the gulf between rich and poor was clear in every facet of life, from clothes and housing to transport and cuisine. Peasants made the most of what they had and got creative with ways to mimic aristocratic dining. While nobles would visit private reserves to hunt game birds like quaglie (quail), rural peasants did not have the time, means, or access to such an upper-class pastime. Instead, they made their own cheap version, assigning the name to whole eggplant cut into long segments attached at one end, that separate like a bird spreading its feathers as the eggplant is fried. The same aspirational impulse also drives sarde a beccafico (see page 109), “sardines dressed like songbirds.” 

If you want to go for the full-on quaglia experience, serve with a few panelle (see page 39) layered on a vastedda (see page 186).

Melanzane a Quaglia

Dinner

Cast-iron skillet

Pasta alla Norma

Lunch

Food processor

Drawing on Sicilian produce in general, Aeolian pesto combines pistachios from Mount Etna, almonds from Noto, and the islands’ own salted capers. 

Pesto Eololiano

Pasta cu l’agghia is a dialect phrase from western Sicily that means more or less “pasta with garlic.” It’s not quite that simple, as the ingredients list confirms. It was likely born as an enriched version of a peasant dish made from grated or chopped tomatoes marinated with garlic. In Italian, the dish is called pesto alla trapanese, “pesto in the style of Trapani.”

Pasta cu l’Agghia

Made from herbs and ground pistachios from around Mount Etna, this has become a modern classic and is served all across the island and even on the mainland as an ode to Sicily. The pistachios are the star here in the absence of tomato and the bright green hue is as alluring as Sicily itself.

Pesto di Pistacchi

Pesto pantesco embraces the wonderful, savory flavor of Pantelleria’s most famous export, salted capers.

Pesto Pantesco

Inspired by my pesto-oriented island travels, I like to give cooked vegetables the pesto treatment, subbing them for the herb component. Broccoli and cauliflower and any of their relatives are great for making a sweet, creamy condiment with wonderfully layered flavors reminiscent of the islands’ winter vegetable recipes. Cook the pasta in the broccoli water to maximize flavor and minimize waste.

Pesto di Broccoli e Mandorle

O’ pistu linusaru, also called pesto paesano (country pesto) locally, mixes two types of herbs and two kinds of nuts, delivering a pleasant complexity to a frugal dish.

Serve with pesce all’acqua pazza (see page 101)

O’ Pistu Linusaru

RIcotta and Mint Ravioli with Tomato Sauce

Sugo povero (“poor sauce”), or sugo finto (“fake sauce”), is a simple, uncomplicated tomato sauce. Both monikers imply that sauces made without even a hint of meat are somehow inferior to their meat-based counterparts. This stems from the fact that in many island cultures, eating meat was a luxury reserved for holidays and special occasions. A meatless pasta condiment made with tomato was no cause for celebration. Today, however, simple tomato sauces are pure comfort food, and for families who still grow and bottle their own tomatoes, they are an expression of their commitment to the land. The simplicity of this recipe demands excellent ingredients. The closest I get to reproducing sugo povero with canned tomatoes (as opposed to homegrown and canned) is with an American brand, Bianco DiNapoli, and Italian brand Gustarosso. These tomatoes, grown in California and Campania, respectively, add beautiful structure, brightness, and acidity. You can really serve sugo povero with any pasta shape you like—it is one of the truly universal sauces—but I love serving it with ravioli panteschi (see page 242). The tomato enhances rather than challenges the delicate flavor of the ricotta-and-mint filling. The sauce also pairs beautifully with potato-and-herb-filled culurgiones (see page 245) 

Ravioli Panteschi al Sugo Povero

Thumbprint Pasta with Tiny Meatballs and Pecorino

When I moved to Italy, the spaghetti and meatballs I had grown up eating—and loving—in New Jersey were nowhere to be found. I chalked up their absence to their identity as strictly an Italian American thing. Imagine my joy when I found an exception to the rule at Il Rifugio in Nuoro in Sardinia: flat disks of pasta served with marble-size meatballs in a tomato-basil sauce. In classic Sardinian style, the sauce is seasoned with a generous quantity of sharp sheep’s-milk cheese, which adds an earthy depth and a savory note to the sweet and acidic tomato. For what it’s worth, spaghetti-and-meatball lovers will find another exception on the mainland in Abruzzo, around Loreto, where fresh pasta strands are tossed with meatballs. In both cases, the dishes are so intensely local that most Italians outside the villages are skeptical of their existence. 

Maccarrones de Poddighe con Polpettine e Pecorino

Think of malloreddus as Sardinia’s answer to mainland Italian cavatelli: stubby little pasta made with durum wheat. Malloreddus are more elaborate than standard cavatelli, though; they are shaped by pressing the raw dough into the fibers of woven baskets. The resulting ridged texture makes them a perfect pairing for chunky sauces. In the Campidano area, a region straddling a high plain between Oristano and Calgliari, they are served with a rich sausage ragù, typical of the hearty diet of the farmers and shepherds there. You can make your own malloreddus or purchase dried gnocchetti sardi (the catchall Italian name used on the mainland instead of the many dialect names for the pasta shape). In Italy and at Italian markets in the US, fennel sausage is readily available. If you can’t get your hands on some, toast 1 teaspoon of fennel seeds in a separate dry skillet for 30 seconds, or until fragrant, then add with the sausage.

Serve with porceddu sardu (see page 141) for a proper Sardinian pork-positive feast!

Malloreddus alla Campidanese

 is a blend of old and new. Fregula, a toasted pasta very similar to toasted Israeli (pearl) couscous, has been made in Sardinia for about one thousand years. Clams, on the other hand, only entered the mainstream island cuisine with the arrival of widespread refrigeration and rise of seaside tourism in the twentieth century. (Before that, Sardinians didn’t catch much fresh seafood, and fregula was paired with vegetable or meat stews.) Today, the clam variety you’ll encounter most frequently on the Sardinian coast is called arselle, or vongole veraci, a small, meaty, warm-water bivalve that can be substituted elsewhere with Manila clams or littleneck clams. Cook them as an islander would: just barely, so they retain their tenderness and fresh sea flavor without becoming chewy. And if you want to give this dish an additional Sardinian kick, finish it with a dusting of grated bottarga (see page 78)—but don’t you dare put cheese on it. Serving clams with cheese is a mortal sin in Italy.

Fregula con le Arselle

This is the simplest, most straightforward Sardinian dish out there. 

 (cured gray mullet roe; see page 78) has been a staple on the southwestern and eastern coasts of the island for millennia. Unlike fresh fish, it has a long shelf life, so it is a practical pantry item that also delivers a major flavor punch. The briny, savory note delivered by bottarga bloomed in oil has been fully embraced by Sardinians, and you’ll find sliced or grated roe lending flavor to beautifully slick oily pasta sauces throughout the island. High-quality bottarga di muggine is available online (Gustiamo.com carries the excellent Oro di Cabras brand), and I recommend purchasing the whole lobes rather than the pre-grated variety, as the bottarga is fresher and has a more intense flavor. Use what you need, then wrap the rest tightly in plastic wrap and store in the refrigerator for up to a few months or in the freezer, where it will keep for even longer

Spaghetti alla Bottarga

The Festa del Redentore takes place in Venice every third Saturday in July and it is the most epic party ever. It was originally established as a religious celebration to mark the end of a sixteenth-century plague, but it has morphed into a secular celebration that provides the hard-drinking Venetians an opportunity to party until dawn under the guise of tradition. It kicks off with locals filling their decorated boats with all the food and beverages they’ll need for the night’s festivities. Then they gather in the lagoon off Piazza San Marco to watch fireworks set off from floating platforms for the better part of an hour, toasting the pyrotechnics as their boats rhythmically bob. A fixture of the celebration is Tupperware containers filled with bigoli in salsa, pasta tossed with an onion-rich anchovy sauce, which soaks up the booze, keeps you drinking, and just might taste even better cold than hot out of the pan. Whether the Festa del Redentore is happening or not, bigoli in salsa is a fixture on my boat, Laura, during seaborne pinics. I add vinegar for a pleasant acidic counterpoint and although not everyone is on board with the idea (boat pun!), I can report that it is appreciated by nearly 25 percent of my Venetian passengers. Omit the vinegar to satisfy the Venetian traditionalist in your life.

Bigoli in Salsa

Lorighittas, intertwined strands of pasta, originated in the mountain village of Morgongiori in southwestern Sardinia. They were customarily made for All Saints’ Day, the first of two consecutive Catholic holidays commemorating the departed. Intricate pasta and bread shapes are typically crafted and baked for such somber events, and producing them is a labor intensive endeavor. The difficulty of the work is mitigated by the community it fosters. In the case of lorighittas, large groups of women gather to make thousands of twisted rings, setting them aside to dry on large baskets, exchanging stories and building friendships as they work. There are two main condiments for lorighittas; the sauce a family makes reflects their economic status with its abundance or presence of meat or saffron. These days, the holidays have declined in importance as the villagers age and young residents head to the mainland for work, and lorighittas are made (year round now) and served with a rooster ragù (one of the few examples anywhere in Italy of poultry accompanying pasta). 

Lorighittas con Ragù di Galletto

Sardinian Potato and Cheese Dumplings with Butter, Sage, and Candied Orange Peel

In typical Sardinian fashion, when dough is involved, cooks always go the extra mile. While in other regions, filled pastas are pressed flat to close, Sardinians crimp or cut theirs with brass tools that leave behind intricate patterns. Culurgiones, the island’s stuffed pasta parcels, aren’t simple rectangles or disks, or even half-moons like ravioli panteschi (see page 242). Instead, they are plump dumplings pinched closed in a way that creates a seam resembling a stalk of wheat. The closure, called sa spighitta, takes some practice, but once you get the hang of it and muscle memory takes over, making these dumplings is a wonderfully meditative process. Common fillings are fresh cheese, potatoes, and garlic. Here I have gone with the super cheese-heavy filling from Ovile Bertarelli, a working farm and restaurant in eastern Sardinia, and paired it with a buttery sage sauce—though you can pair it with sugo povero (see page 68) as they do instead. I’d love it if you tried making culurgiones, but if you’re not down, you could substitute 1¾ pounds of frozen potato pierogi or one batch of ravioli panteschi. 

Culurgiones con Burro e Salvia

Steaming

Western Sicily is known for its pasta culture, a fact that makes total sense when you consider that some of the first dried pasta in Europe was made there in the Middle Ages. At that time, Arab conquerors introduced their cooking and food preservation techniques to the island, including couscous (cùscusu in Trapani’s dialect). Developed by nomadic Berber tribes in Africa in the Middle Ages, this shelf-stable pasta was popularized in the ninth century in Sicily and remains a major culinary staple and point of regional pride. There’s even an annual festival in San Vito Lo Capo, a peninsula near Palermo and Trapani, that celebrates couscous and its cosmopolitan history. There, and elsewhere in western Sicily, you’ll find couscous served with a flavorful fish stew and its broth on the side. If you don’t feel like making your own couscous, simply prepare 1½ cups of instant couscous according to the cooking instructions to serve with the fish and broth.

Cùscusu con Pesce

I fell in love with the food of Ponza, an island off the coast of Lazio, while on assignment for the New York Times—the article was a profile of the island’s food, sea, and culture, and it was my first byline in print for the paper way back in 2011. My intro to the cucina ponzese was at Da Gerardo, a very simple trattoria accessed via a steep hike up from Frontone beach across the bay from the main port. The place perfectly sums up the island’s food culture: close to the sea but reliant on the land. Perched above the water, this tiny, shacklike trattoria serves island classics that are almost exclusively land-based: braised rabbit, legume soup, simmered greens. The closest menu item to seafood is fried eel, which has been fished in Ponza since antiquity. The best thing served there is the earthy, vegetal, olive oil–enriched zuppa di cicerchie. Cicerchie (called grass peas in English) are tiny pods that resemble little beige fava beans or flattened chickpeas. They have grown on the island since at least Roman times and have a distinct nutty flavor. They also contain a neurotoxin, but don’t be alarmed! You’d have to eat a cicerchie-rich diet for a while before you suffered any grave consequences. If you want to be extra careful and eliminate any danger, simply blanch the cicerchie three times before cooking, discarding the water each time. Cicerchie are sold online, but you can substitute chickpeas if you wish.

Zuppa di Cicerchie

The approach to Ventotene is dramatic. Like its neighbor Ponza, it shows off its volcanic history immediately as you round high pumice walls to enter the port. The high-drama terrain makes it hard to imagine agriculture upon arrival, but once you disembark and venture into the heart of the island, a steep climb from the port, you reach a high plain that was once thriving farmland. Some light farming still goes on today, but most is for personal use or to supply Ventotene’s trattorie and cafés. One such farmer, Fulvio Marini, is keeping island traditions alive. He invited me to visit his farm one afternoon last year and served this soup, a totally flavorful but very detoxifying mix of his summer harvest.

Minestra Ventotenese

Owing to the fact that the islands off the coast of Lazio and Campania were once ruled from Naples, this Neapolitan dish has become a classic on the islands. On home tables, it’s as common—if not more so—than spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clams). Think about it: vongole are perishable, while potatoes and cheese can be stored for months or longer and are a much more affordable alternative to fresh seafood to nourish a family working the land. Due to its hearty and warming nature, however, pasta con patate e provola is decidedly a winter dish, so if you’re visiting the islands in the peak of the tourist season, you won’t find it easily. It’s one of the many joys of an out-ofseason visit; I love inviting myself to friends’ homes in Procida for the weekend to enjoy the foods they have cellared for their long but relatively mild winters. Make this recipe with a sharp provolone that melts nicely, and if you can track down a smoked version, you’ll love the warmth it adds to the dish.

Serve with salsiccia e friarielli (see page 131) on a cold winter night.

Pasta con Patate e Provola

Summertime Pasta with Chickpeas and Fresh Tomatoes

Pasta with chickpeas is one of those dishes that you can find in both island and mainland regions, though the aromatics and choice of pasta change from place to place. I love the versions that are served on the islands in the summertime, when a few plump, ripe tomatoes are added to the broth to give a hint of acidity to the earthy soup. This recipe is inspired by one I was served by my friends the Carfagnas, who make wine under the Altura label on the Tuscan island of Giglio. On Giglio, this dish is served with pasta all’uovo, pasta made with flour and eggs. Use the recipe for ravioli panteschi dough (page 242) and simply cut the rolled pasta into 2-inch diamonds, then cook them in the chickpea soup. Alternatively, give the soup a Bay of Naples flair by using dried pasta mista corta, the classic accompaniment to bean soups around the bay. Malloreddus (see page 236), ditalini, or any pasta shape that’s approximately the size of a chickpea work well, too. You can modify this dish for the winter by replacing the fresh tomatoes with 1 tablespoon of tomato paste that you fry with the herbs until it turns the color of terra-cotta, or with 4 ounces of canned whole peeled tomatoes, crushed by hand, that you add after the herbs.

Pasta e Ceci Estiva

Before visiting the Barbagia, the Sardinian subregion where su filindeu is made, I had read about the pasta. Sources were pretty much in agreement that su filindeu, which translates to “threads of God,” is the rarest pasta on the planet, and is made by just three women. As much as I enjoy the easy access to travel journalism in our modern information age, it’s important to remember to fact-check your sources, because writers and editors don’t always do that essential step for the reader. As with many articles about Italian food culture, the statement was false and hyperbolic. Su filindeu is a regional specialty, for sure. It was born in northeastern Sardinia, where each May and October it is made by hand, dried, and broken into a lamb or mutton broth, which is then spiked with a tangy melted cheese. The dish is distributed to pilgrims for the feast of San Francesco. But the traditional dish is also reliably on the menu at restaurants—Il Rifugio in Nuoro serves it year-round—and even local bars and cafeterias. It’s taught by a handful of food educators like Gianfranca Dettori, my teacher, keen on keeping Sardinian traditions alive. It’s even found in Japan, where Claudia Casu, an ambassador of culture for her native island, teaches classes on making su filindeu and other intricate Sardinian pasta shapes at her Sardegna Cooking School. This once hyper-regional pasta is hardly on the verge of extinction. The shape itself is spectacular, and emblematic of Sardinia’s ritual devotion to food. When dried, the pasta looks like woven textile, and cooked, it feels like velvet on the palate. Su filindeu is beautiful. Help keep it alive wherever you are and make it at home. 

Su Filindeu in Brodo di Agnello

Side

, a dish made from dried fava beans, takes a number of forms in Sicily. In some parts of the island, it’s a silky puree made from reconstituted dried fava beans. In others, it’s more of a minestra (brothy soup) with whole beans cooked in seasoned vegetable stock until they break apart. In southeastern Sicily, the richest version is made for the Feast of San Giuseppe (Saint Joseph), March 19, and features a medley of dried legumes cooked into a thick stew. Using many beans is symbolic of emptying the winter cupboard of preserved foods to make way for the bounty of spring and summer. I love this latter version, which I also enjoy on days that aren’t Saint Joseph’s Day, because it gives me an excuse to eat a fiber-rich assortment of ingredients that I always have in my pantry in odd leftover amounts, and a delicious way to use them up.

Maccu di Fave di San Giuseppe

In the past, small and remote islands like Linosa, Lampedusa, Marettimo, and Ventotene had to be completely self-sufficient, as long periods of conflict—and just plain bad weather—made them even more isolated from Sicily than usual. I experienced this firsthand when ferries from the island were canceled for three days due to storms and rough seas, “trapping” me on Marettimo. (I was staying in a pensione a few blocks from the sea and ate every meal in a different adorable trattoria, so no one felt bad for me!) Accordingly, shelf-stable dried legumes like lentils were a staple—and still are on Linosa (see page 92). On that island, the lentil soup is thin and brothy, with tiny chunks of potato and carrot sharing space with tender lentils on the verge of falling apart. It’s exactly as delicious and restorative as it is simple. 

If you like a heartier soup, add fresh pasta like malloreddus (see page 236) or dried pasta like pasta mista corta (basically a package of mismatched pasta bits).

Zuppa di Lenticchie

One of the many things I love about spending time in kitchens in Italy is that you always walk away with a lesson in immigration. This was the case at Il Giardino di Candida, a trattoria on Ventotene (Ponza’s neighbor, off the coast of Lazio) that bears the name of its late chef, Candida Sportiello (who shares her name with the island’s patron saint, Santa Candida). In 2019, during our last encounter, she told me of a community of 1,500 ventotenesi that immigrated to New York and still sends money back to the island’s main church. Ventotenesi, Candida told me as she stood at the stove, tending to her legendary pesce all’acqua pazza (whole fish simmered in a flavorful tomato broth), have always been immigrants. As she swirled the olive oil–enriched, garlic-infused broth in a large aluminum pan, she recounted how her home island was settled in the 1800s by twenty-eight families from Naples, whose descendents settled in New York in the 1910s. Given acqua pazza’s popularity in Italian restaurants up and down the East Coast of the US, perhaps we have the immigrants of Ventotene to thank for exporting it from their humble volcanic island. 

Pesce all’Acqua Pazza

Pork and beans is a pure comfort food dish, and this classic country soup could be from just about anywhere—if it weren’t for the use of sun-dried tomatoes, which bring a little extra umami to the mix and evoke Sardinia where tomatoes are dried in the late summer sun, then cellared for winter. To shift island gears slightly, you could omit the sun-dried tomatoes and add 1 pound of kale (cut into strips and massaged to soften) 10 minutes after you add the beans, which is how they serve pork and bean soup on Elba.

Zuppa di Fagioli e Pancetta

This old-fashioned bread casserole is a classic of Gallura in the northeastern part of Sardinia. I don’t totally endorse a visit there in the high season (though I love every single other part of the island), because it is totally inundated with tourists thanks to the development of the nearby Costa Smeralda (Emerald Coast) by Aga Khan IV and others in the second half of the twentieth century. For lack of a better word, they decimated the local culture to make way for tacky nightclubs and posh resorts. The coastal restaurants don’t offer much in the way of traditional Sardinian flavors, catering instead to an international palate, but there are a few remaining pockets of inland rural areas and working farms where you can find the simple peasant food of the zone. This suppa cuata (called zuppa gallurese in Italian), a sheep’s-milk cheese and bread casserole, is one regional dish that has been persevered, and it brings together the traditional cornerstones of gallurese cuisine: shepherding and baking. Unless you’re making this in Sardinia, you’ll have to replace the typical cheeses, panedda or casizolu, with another good melting cheese like provolone.

Serve with another Sardinian classic, agnello brasato (see page 149).

Suppa Cuata

Appetizer

Roasting

Sarde a beccafico roughly translates to “sardines dressed like songbirds.” The name is a reference to the shape of the sardines when they are rolled, with their pointy tails like feathers protruding from a plump bird body. I love this dish for its medieval feel: it hearkens back to a time when sweetness was a major component of protein dishes. Here the sweetness comes in the form of currants or raisins and orange juice. Sarde a beccafico are often cooked with lemon leaves between them. If you’ve got a lemon tree, go ahead and pluck some leaves. Otherwise, very thin orange or lemon wedges on their own are great. 

These make a great appetizer before pesce grigliato (see page 117).

Sarde a Beccafico

There is something deeply twisted about stuffing an animal’s body with its own legs, then cooking it. But in this case, it’s also extremely delicious. Stuffed calamari are part of virtually every Italian island culture; the seasoning and components of the bread crumb mixture change slightly from place to place, but the concept is the same. I have chosen the Bay of Naples and Pontine Islands as inspiration, as their versions are all quite similar. To make the recipe more Sicilian, use ¼ cup toasted pine nuts and 2 tablespoons currants or raisins, soaked in water to plump them up, instead of, or in addition to, the olives and capers. 

Calamari Ripieni

Grouper with Capers, Olives, and Tomatoes

Lampedusa, a small Italian island in the Mediterranean that sits closer to Libya than to its current governing body, Sicily, is a beautifully windswept place. The arid land has been whittled by weather and time, creating spectacular beaches that draw enough tourists to sustain the economy. Accordingly, agriculture has waned over the past few decades, and today not much is grown on the island. There are plenty of capers, olives, and tomatoes, however, and this combination appears in seemingly every local dish. Here these ingredients provide a savory and acidic counterpoint to the buttery flesh of the grouper steaks. 

Serve with pasta dressed with o’ pistu linusaru (see page 67) or pesto pantesco (see page 63).

Cernia alla Lampedusana

Have you ever visited a place that’s really famous for one food and felt excited about that, but also pretty sure that by the end of your stay, you’ll be ready for a change of pace in the food department? That’s what my mom and I expected when we visited the village of Carloforte on the Isola di San Pietro, a small island off the southwest coast of Sardinia. The place has been famous for catching, canning, and cooking tuna for centuries, and its tuna industry is one of its defining features (see page 122). But we ate tuna for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and never suffered a moment of tuna exhaustion. This is one of Carloforte’s tuna specialties (the recipe’s name kind of gives that away!)

Tonno alla Carlofortina

Grilled Whole Fish Stuffed with Lemon and Herbs

Low Carb

BBQ & Grilling

Italian fishmongers and supermarkets sell whole fish with the heads on. This is not only so you can look into the fish’s eyes to ensure they are clear and the fish is fresh. It’s also because islanders love the cheek meat in the head. If headless fish are all they’ve got where you shop, that’s fine, too—you’ll just miss out on the delicious fish cheeks. And if you can’t get your hands on branzino, use sea bream or trout instead. Either way, be sure the fish is gutted before you head home. Making bundles of herbs with kitchen twine helps keep them from slipping out of the fish. As soon as the fish goes on the grill, its proteins react with the heat and the skin sticks to the grates immediately. To prevent sticking, brush both sides of each fish with mayonnaise before placing them on the grill. Unlike olive oil, it won’t slide off!

Pesce Grigliato

A small disclaimer to anyone who has never ordered this dish in Italy: Fried seafood with a side of marinara sauce is not a thing here. Islanders are purists when it comes to seafood, especially when it’s fried; it is seasoned with salt and served with a wedge of lemon, and that’s it. If you can stand it, I recommend you follow the island custom, because it really lets you appreciate the freshness of the seafood. I like to use a mix of wheat flour and rice flour for dredging, a trick I learned in Sicily, which results in a slightly crispier crust than all-purpose flour alone. You can also use rice flour on its own for a gluten-free option; just double the quantity

Serve with spaghetti alla bottarga (see page 76).

Frittura Mista

A classic of Procida and Ischia in the Bay of Naples, this brothy black-pepper-spiked dish is a satisfying starter when served on its own and can even be a heartier meal if served over a thick piece of toasted bread rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil. To best re-create the Naples Bay version, hold out for big, plump mussels and take care to cook them just until their flesh is cooked, not rubbery. 

Impepata di Cozze

Linosa, situated between Tunisia and Malta, is an island with a population of 400 that sustains itself with traditional agriculture and small-scale fishing. While big fleets hunt prized fish like tuna and swordfish, linosani eat smaller local fish like lampuga, also known as mahi-mahi. Here in the warm African waters, the fish only get half as big as ocean-dwelling members of its species. Fillets of firm lampuga are breaded with an almond-enriched crust, which complements the sweetness of the meat. 

A wedge of lemon brings a touch of acid, which can also come in the form of a side salad like insalata di foglie di capperi (see page 164) or insalata pantesca (see page 163).

Lampuga Panata

The islands are all about balls: dough balls, meat balls, eggplant balls, fish balls. Fish balls aren’t unique to Italy—they’re common in Southeast Asian cuisines—but the Italian version doesn’t have the snap that one floating in pho might. These are actually quite flaky, just bits of fish bound loosely with bread crumbs and egg, then sautéed. They are popular at seaside trattorias, where they are made from the scraps from butchering fish like swordfish or tuna; this recipe calls for a whole piece of swordfish, though you could certainly use any fish scraps you have, or substitute tuna for swordfish to make polpetle di tonno. 

Polpette di Pesce Spada

Spiny lobsters abound in the craggy coves of northwestern Sardinia. The entire area was intermittently under Catalan rule since the fourteenth century, hence the modifier catalana in this dish’s name. The Spanish presence is hardly ancient history in and around the city of Alghero, where residents speak a Catalan dialect that sounds closer to the language of Barcelona than that of Cagliari, a city on the island’s southern coast. Aragosta alla catalana is a popular dish during Christmas Eve festivities, when algherese tables are filled with a pescatarian feast. The lobsters they use are more like the Caribbean spiny lobster than those that dwell in the cold waters of New England. That said, you can use Maine lobster as a substitute if spiny lobster isn’t available in your area. The tangy vinegar note is nice in this dish, but don’t let the lobster marinate for too long, or the tender meat will seize up. Instead, dress the lobster just before serving.

Aragosta alla Catalana

Seasoned pork sausage and bitter greens is a classic combination of the Bay of Naples. The pair makes an appearance as a pizza topping, pasta condiment, and savory pie filling. Pork and greens are great on their own, too, and make a quick and easy weeknight dinner. If you’re cooking them on Procida, Ischia, or Capri, you can simply ask the butcher for sausages flavored to your liking, as a wide array is always available at their butcher shops, from garlic-and-chile-spiked to merely salted. Italian butchers in the US tend to offer similar flavor options, too. 

Salsiccia e Friarielli

Grilled Horse Steak with Chile and Oregano

There are many wonderful things about Catania, a buzzing city at the foot of Mount Etna in eastern Sicily. One of them is that the airport is only 10 minutes away from the city center by car (a little longer by bus). Whenever I’m on that side of the island, I always budget an extra hour before my flight to pop into town for a quick bite on Via Plebiscito. The street is lined with trattorie like N’ta Za’ Carmela that specialize in meat—horse and beef, mainly—and the outdoor seating provides a window into the raucous street life of Catania, where double and triple parking is the second most popular pastime, after soccer. Wide grills on the sidewalk are packed with rows of massive steaks and sausage links. My favorite is carne di cavallo, a huge portion of horsemeat that overflows the plate, simply seasoned with a dusting of red pepper flakes and oregano and drizzled with olive oil. Horsemeat isn’t available in the US (that I know of... HMU if you know a guy!), but a thinly sliced lean cut of beef tastes about the same and is nearly as popular in Catania.

Carne di Cavallo alla Griglia

The first time I visited Ischia, back in 2004, I was traveling with my mom and grandfather and I was in charge of the meals. My plan was to eat at a few of the fish restaurants near our accommodations in the Castello Aragonese, a fortress with ancient origins perched above the eastern part of the island. We enjoyed one particular place so much that we went back two days in a row. I’ll never forget the lecture we got from the chain-smoking proprietor, basically telling us we were doing it wrong. Sure, he was happy to have us, he explained, but we weren’t getting the full effect of Ischia if we stuck to the coast. He directed us to a restaurant in the center of the island, about a 20-minute taxi ride from the castello, and there we feasted on rabbit, which he had kindly reserved for us in advance. Ischia has been famous for rabbits since antiquity. In the past, farmers built trenches or caves for breeding and raising rabbits, which they would feed a diet of fruit tree trimmings, herbs, flowers, and hay. The custom is rarely practiced any longer, though you will find rabbit served at most restaurants and in every home on the island. Now most are raised commercially (though plenty of restaurants will lie and tell you they raise their own in caves) to meet demand.

Coniglio all’Ischitana

In Messina, a city in northeastern Sicily just opposite Reggio Calabria on the mainland, the word braciola denotes a meat roll; in other parts of Italy, they are called involtini. In the Messina version, thinly pounded meat is breaded, wrapped around a piece of locally produced cheese such as scamorza or tuma, then grilled until the meat is browned and the cheese is gooey and melted. Some butchers in Messina sell premade braciole filled with Galbani cheese, Italy’s answer to Kraft Singles and the furthest thing from a natural formaggio I have ever encountered—but damn, is this processed cheese good. Use scamorza if you can get it, but you don’t really need quality stuff here, just something meltable. 

Braciole alla Messinese

Sicilians are all about polpettoni. The literal translation is “big meatballs,” but they’re really more like a meatloaf. Thanks to the Sicilian penchant for visually arresting food, they don’t waste an opportunity to make an ornate cross-section by packing ground meat around vegetables, hard-boiled eggs, and other fillings that contrast with the browned meat. The Sicilian approach to hard-boiling eggs is to simmer them until their yolks are chalky, with gray halos. As the descendant of many Sicilians, I like such criminally overcooked eggs. But if you prefer a yellow, just-set yolk, place the eggs in a small pot with about ½ inch of water. Bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered, for 6 minutes. Run under cold water and peel carefully.

Polpettone

This dish, more than any other in this book, elicits a visceral reaction. I get it. A baby pig carcass is, for lack of a better verb, impaled, then spit-roasted for hours at a distance from the flames that ensures slow, even cooking. Some Sardinian traditions call for a horizontal turning spit, while others lean the animal diagonally, turning it at regular intervals. Some butterfly the pig, others leave it whole. Given that you’re cooking the entire animal, head and all, over an open fire, there’s no way to ignore the fact that you are preparing a piglet. Sardinians are keenly aware of this, and are highly reverent of the butchered piglet, reserving its slaughter for special occasions and holidays, because it’s a big deal to eat an animal before it matures and becomes even more economically valuable. In Sardinia in particular, pigs provided families with food and income, so no part was ever wasted, not even the blood, which was used as a thickening agent for sweets, or the bristles, which were used for making brushes. Because the porceddu meat is so precious, the roasting process is entrusted to a pitmaster experienced in the art of roasting, who will ensure maximum flavor and tenderness. Cooking must happen slowly over indirect heat to properly break down the piglet’s abundant collagen while cooking the meat. The final product is tender and savory and loaded with flavor. Suckling pig is a luxury, both in Sardinia and in the US. A single maialino sardo weighs 12 to 15 pounds, while most American suckling pigs range from 15 to 50 pounds and could run you $200 or more. I’ve included a variation for roasting a quarter of a suckling pig in the oven, so it’s more approachable price- and portion-wise, but if you have the equipment and means to roast a whole piglet, go for it. Just know that the more you practice the better the results will be. Order it from a specialty butcher a week or more in advance.

In Sardinia, porceddu is sliced after resting, then served on a cork platter lined with myrtle branches. Improvise with whatever large platter and aromatic herbs you have in your garden. I like to serve it with a bright and acidic salad like insalata pantesca (see page 163) to cut through the fat.

Porceddu Sardu

This thin breaded veal cutlet is western Sicily’s answer to the north’s more famous cotoletta alla milanese. But unlike that version, in which the breading is adhered with egg or butter, this one uses olive oil, so the coating is lighter, more like just a hint of a crust around the meat. Instead of frying, the cutlet is grilled, so not only is it good . . . it’s good for you. (Although, for the record, I believe fried food is good for you, too!) 

Serve with insalata di agrumi (see page 158)

Cotoletta alla Palermitana

I could watch flocks of sheep move in their undulating patterns across the hills of Sardinia all day. Lucky for me, it’s a pretty hard sight to miss, as the island has twice as many sheep as people. Accordingly, lamb is a popular protein and a feature of every holiday feast except the Catholic holidays that prohibit meat. During celebrations, you’ll find whole animals on the menu, while on regular days, Sardinians eat small cuts, roasted or braised. This recipe is straight from my friend chef Antonio Demuru’s playbook, a fun marriage of lamb and beer from his hometown of Ìsili about an hour north of Cagliari. He braises the lamb in Allenta, a hefeweizen brewed with indigenous yeasts by Arbareska Lab, until the meat is tender and its juices have reduced into a savory gravy with the beer. It’s one of the greatest things I have ever eaten. Use a sour wheat beer if you can’t get your hands on Allenta.

Serve with pomodori gratinati (see page 157).

Agnello Brasato

Sweet-and Sour Eggplant with Celery, Capers, and Olives

Sicily’s famous sweet-and-sour relish may be most associated with eggplant—it is the main ingredient—but when I was learning to make caponata, my teacher Giacomo reprimanded me for not giving the celery its due. I didn’t take it personally. One of the main ways I have learned about traditional cooking in Sicily (and everywhere else in Italy) has been through being shamed about not knowing the exact way to make something according to that particular family’s traditions. Celery delivers so much more flavor and structure to the caponata than the eggplant, so I was listening. Next, he admonished me for using too much tomato, which he told me was a recent addition dating back only a century and a half, at most. And he had read a theory that the original recipe featured fish and that eggplant was used as a substitute by peasants (not unlike in the melanzane a quaglia recipe on page 55), giving us the now common eggplant version. This recipe uses very little tomato, relying on vinegar for an acidic note. I prepare caponata at least a day ahead to ensure all the flavors have married and mellowed.

Caponata

Pleasantly bitter shaved artichoke layered with thin slices of sticky, savory bottarga is a tribute to Sardinia, where sheep graze across rolling terrain, artichoke fields encircle the Lago del Cuga near Alghero, and gray mullet roe reaches tangy, cured perfection in Cabras. Choose young artichokes—that’s when the thistle is at its most tender. 

Serve with porceddu sardu (see page 141) or agnello brasato (see page 149).

Insalata di Carciofi e Bottarga

Roasted Cauliflower with Lemon, Anchovies, and Breadcrumbs

This is the ultimate island winter pantry vegetable dish. I’m not even sure it’s part of any particular tradition, but it’s been served to me in some form or another by friends and in trattorias from Ponza to Pantelleria. It features lemony tang, savory anchovies, and crispy bread crumbs as seasoning for a classic island winter vegetable. Of course, no one in Italy serves cauliflower “steaks.” That’s just my approach, which makes it feel more like a meal if I’m preparing it as a main on a cold night. If you prefer, separate the cauliflower into florets or substitute broccoli or broccolo romanesco.

Cavolfiore Al Forno con Limone, Alici, e Pane Grattugiato

Some of my greatest summer memories are from Ponza, where I learned there’s no such thing as an overcooked tomato—just perfectly pulpy, falling-apart juiciness. On one long weekend visit, my arrival was delayed due to a transport strike, so I ordered a takeout dinner from a rosticceria near the port. It was late, and there wasn’t much food left, just some potatoes that had seen better days (I passed) and roasted tomatoes that were practically bursting at the seams, topped with seasoned bread crumbs (yes, please!). You absolutely must use in-season ripe tomatoes here to do the Ponza original justice.

Pomodori Gratinati

Fennel and citrus salad is one of Sicily’s greatest exports, to the point that it has reached cliché status. But it’s also really good. It’s a fun way to contrast a lot of winter citrus, and it pairs extraordinarily well with classic Sicilian mains. I prefer to omit the shaved fennel entirely. Fennel is too often watery, diluting the natural acidity of the citrus. All this salad needs is a hint of saltiness from the olives and pistachios, which enhances the citrus flavors

Serve alongside braciole alla messinese (see page 138) as an acidic counter-point to their cheesy filling or with breaded dishes like sarde a beccafico (see page 109) and cotoletta alla palermitana (see page 146).

Insalata di Agrumi

Forget about the eggplant parm you’ve had on subs at pizza joints or at your grandma’s table in the United States. Italy’s parmigiana di melanzane is lighter, brighter, and only gently fried, so the spongelike eggplant absorbs the flavors of the basil, tomato sauce, and cheese with which it is layered. This version is particularly light, as the eggplant is not floured and the tomato sauce is not cooked in advance. This is a super popular dish in the summer when eggplant is in season and island kitchens are so hot, you just want to throw a tray of something in the oven early in the day and be done with cooking until the next morning. In fact, you can cook this eggplant parm pretty far in advance and it keeps well. Contrary to popular belief, the name parmigiana may not denote a provenance from the northern Italian city of Parma or the inclusion of its eponymous cheese. Two other likely theories: It may be a reference to the word petronciana, another word for eggplant, or to parmiciane, the wooden slats you find on window shutters, which the dish’s layers resemble

Parmigiana di Melanzane

The little island chains surrounding Sicily are culturally diverse, but their cuisines do share some things in common. Among them: substantial salads that are a far cry from the two lettuce leaves that pass as “salad” on the mainland. Insalata pantesca, like its close relative insalata eoliana, features a robust mix of island produce. In Pantelleria and the Aeolian Islands, such salads are side dishes served with or after a main course. To transform this side salad into a full lunch or light dinner, add high-quality canned tuna (cured ventresca di tonno, tuna belly, is the best)! Pantellerian cooks use unpitted olives, but feel free to use pitted. La Nicchia brand capers from Pantelleria (see page 168) are available in the US from my friends at the Bronx based importer Gustiamo.

Serve with lampuga panata (see page 124) for a glorious collision of Sicilian island flavors.

Insalata Pantesca

Caper plants are hardy survivors and they grow wild everywhere in the islands, thriving in unlikely places like crevices, high up on brick walls, and stony areas devoid of soil or nutrients. Pantelleria is a major producer of capers, where farmers cultivate massive caper bushes on terraced fields that follow the craggy volcanic terrain. Islanders mostly eat the plant’s flower buds (the capers) and fruit (known as caper berries), but La Nicchia, Pantelleria’s premier producer of quality capers, has recently started salting the caper leaves, too. They taste just like capers and make a great protagonist or accent in a salad. They are sold online or you can make your own following the method below!

Insalata di Foglie di Cappero

Paleo

Keto

Pickling & Preserving

In order to eat any part of the caper plant, you have to get rid of the bitter mustard oils naturally present in the plant’s buds, berries, and leaves. Once cured, the various parts of the caper can be preserved. 

Foglie di Cappero Salate

In the winter, Sicilian produce stalls are piled high with enormous heads of broccoli and its cousins romanesco and green cauliflower. All are served as contorni (side dishes) all winter long, providing nutrient-rich vegetal goodness to tables everywhere. A common preparation is to sauté the broccoli almost to the point of falling apart with garlic, pine nuts, and raisins. The result is a delicious sweet-and-savory side that can be made with any winter greens, really, or even with peeled and seeded delicata squash.

Serve as a side dish to polpettone (see page 139).

Broccoli con Pinoli e Uvetta

Caprese salad, featuring tricolored layers of fior di latte (a kind of cow’s-milk mozzarella), sliced in-season tomatoes, and basil leaves, is hands down the most famous dish from Capri. Plop yourself down in any café anywhere on Capri or its island neighbors Ischia and Ponza, and you’re going to find it on the menu. Observe how capresi season their signature salad: a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, perhaps a little sea salt. Basta. No one would dare pour balsamic vinegar, or any other dressing, for that matter, on their insalata caprese and live to tell about it. I would seriously not be surprised if one day I saw a server slap a bottle of vinegar out of a patron’s hands to prevent them from violating the purity of the island’s sacred salad. After extensive taste-testing of mozzarella brands in the US, I found that not many were even remotely passable, and most of what arrives from Italy is subpar quality, not to mention way past its prime by the time it arrives. So why not make your own? This recipe gives instructions on how to pull your own mozz from mail-order curds; I suggest you order them from Caputo Brothers Creamery, which get shipped frozen from York County, Pennsylvania, right to your door.

Food of the Italian Islands

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