The Illusive Chef of Erice

And now that I’ve spent so much time discussing a Chef whose food you will never have the opportunity to sample, I thought it only fair to tell you about another one of my favorites, one particularly close to my heart, still steadfastly practicing his craft...

In my beloved Sicily, mythic land of my forefathers, there is a town set high on a cliff above the far-reaching expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is called Erice and, in contrast to the dazzling whitewashed setting of the Moors you’ve visited in my blog on Mijas; Erice has the serene and resolute beauty of a medieval Norman installation. In Erice, the towers, fortress, homes, piazzas, and cobblestoned streets are carved from thick white rock which lends the city its characteristic shimmer as the sun reflects off its walls.

I am so enamored with Erice’s many charms, that I was married there. But that’s another story.

The very first time I saw Erice was on the approach to it from the road. Rising high above the sea in the distance, you could enjoy its splendor for miles, but as in all fabled lands of myth, the closer you got, the further away it seemed. I couldn’t help but think of ancient, weary travelers, making their way slowly up the arduous inclines. But once its summit is reached, Erice more than rewards the effort. The elegantly austere architecture, unchanged for centuries, envelopes the steep, narrow pedestrian pathways, now leading up, now down, following the natural curve of the mountain, then opening up to small, flower-filled piazzas, and stunning scenic overlooks.

I was traveling with my sister and nephew, and we immediately fell in love with the place. We took about a million pictures of the town from every small corner and every high tower, browsed the shops, and visited the Cathedral. Then we got really hungry. It was early for the local lunch time, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We peeked into the lobby of the tiny Hotel Elimo, the one place that looked like it might be open. It was filled with period furniture crammed around a grand piano against a backdrop of myriad pictures on an exposed stone wall – that ever-present, beautiful white stone.

The host responded with a characteristic Sicilian grimace when we asked if they were serving yet. And after checking on their readiness and giving us a look up and down, he invited us in to the magnificent dining room. Yet more exposed stone walls, unadorned and dramatic in their simplicity, framed the row of windows at the end of the room with an unobstructed view of the city; its rooftops, uniform in their ancient sun-baked colors, steadily giving way to the epic Sicilian countryside far below. Beyond that, the mystical Egadi Islands gracefully floated on the blue, blue sea. This is the kind of room and the kind of view one does not easily forget.

The waiter brought the menu, which was rich with Sicilian specialties: pasta alla norma, a hearty pasta with ricotta salata, fresh tomato, and eggplant; -- eggplant, the ever-present Sicilian staple so indelibly linked with the island’s history (and Sicily is the only place in the world where they know what to do with it); -- swordfish involtini, a delicately sliced fillet of swordfish, stuffed and rolled in breadcrumbs and cooked to a tender perfection in a sauce of white wine, butter, and lemon; and of course, as is necessary for any self-respecting Sicilian restaurant, a veritable bounty of the freshest fish just out of the sea.

We ordered an array of dishes (remember we were really hungry) and ate family style (not that the restaurant serves in this way; but when I’m with family, it’s just understood that everyone will share). The Chef made the simplest, most ubiquitous Sicilian staples extraordinary. We were stunned with our good fortune as we went from a mixed antipasto of perfectly grilled vegetables and my sweet caponata (another Sicilian variation of the esteemed eggplant, slowly simmered with olives and vegetables and caramelized by balsamic vinegar); to a mix of pastas, some highlighting the freshest fish while others accentuated local meats in a rich tomato base; and finally on to the exalted catch of the day, some grilled simply so that you could appreciate their delicate flavors, and others that were bathed in sauces that melted in your mouth. Nowhere in the world do they prepare fish like in Sicily; and nowhere in Sicily had I tasted the local cuisine prepared with such startling and succulent subtlety. This was not only a more decent meal than we had expected, but we had stumbled on a gold mine. Without knowing it, we were in the skilled hands of the much acclaimed local celebrity chef, Carmelo Tilotta, who is renowned for his mastery of Sicilian cuisine and his wondrous creativity with the island’s endless bounty.

As we sat and raved, we garnered the attention of the stern waiter, who swelled with pride, slowly but surely warming to us as most Sicilians will; wary at first of foreigners, undoubtedly a characteristic defense long ingrained in a people with a history of invasion. As the granddaughter of Sicilian immigrants, this is perfectly normal to me; but my nephew, a generation removed, was taken aback. I told him to hang in there; Sicilians don’t open up to just anybody, but once cracked, they have a warmth and affection that are genuine and overwhelming. In Sicily, you are either a foreigner, or family.

By the end of the meal, we were happily full, and a cast of characters surrounded our table wanting to know us better, our dour waiter smiling broadly as he learned of our Sicilian grandparents -- from this region no less, -- and he laughed heartily, slapping my nephew on the back when I translated his jokes. They bid us farewell with the bittersweet yearning of friends who want to see more of you, yet know that the pleasure will be reserved for the far distant future. We left without meeting the illusive Chef Tilotta, whose acclaim we wouldn’t learn of until later, and who is surprisingly shy despite his success.

That day and that meal would stay with me. So a few years later, when my husband first proposed and we were deciding where to have the wedding, we chose Erice. Of course, the choice for the reception was obvious. It had to be the spectacular room at the Hotel Elimo and the extraordinary talents of Chef Tilotta. But as I’ve already told you, that would be for another time and another story...

Ode to the Paella Goddess

And now that I’ve opened the subject of Spain, let’s continue with the memory rush…

Mijas (pronounced mee’ – haas) is a delightfully small hilltop town in Southern Spain, in the region of Andalucia; a region marked by the utterly spectacular confluence of Spanish and Moorish cultures divinely expressed throughout its architecture, art, culture and cuisine.

Mijas, in the Moorish tradition of city planning, has quaintly beautiful whitewashed houses dizzyingly arranged around the city’s center with sweeping views of the mountain and coast below. The Moors certainly knew how to pick their settings. To meander through the streets of Mijas, is to take a little journey up in the clouds. You can spend a perfectly pleasant day enjoying the main square, scenic overlooks, and small, characteristic shops. (I love the ceramics there -- a personal obsession of mine -- with some of the best examples in all of Spain).

The first time I visited Mijas was on a brilliantly sunny day when the light made the city shine; and my friends and I immediately fell in love with it. So we decided to extend our stay with a late lunch. We had read about a little restaurant on the cliff right off the main square where the Chef was known for paella. Paella --- the king of Spanish dishes – the perfect marriage of fish and meat on a succulent bed of rice – how could we possibly resist?

The restaurant was not easy to find, hiding behind a cover of trees blocking the edge of the cliff; the only entrance forebodingly situated at the top of a steep, unmarked, and unwelcoming staircase. Thankfully, the guide book warned us of this. But the restaurant didn’t look open, so I told my friends I would brave the stairs and take a look to see what I could find.

At the top of the stairs was indeed a restaurant and the door was indeed open; but there was no one inside. Tables were arranged around the dining area, but no lights were on and there was no sign of life, until I called out, “Hello?”

First I heard the shuffle, the belabored approach of dragging feet; then around the bend, out of a Hitchcock movie, slowly and deliberately, came an old woman, small of stature with short, straight, mousy brown hair, wearing a worn house dress, white Dr. Scholl’s sandals, and a stern look on her face.

“Si?” she barked at me.

So in my rudimentary Spanish, I asked if she was open for lunch. To which she again replied, no more warmly than the first time, “Si.” I looked around a bit incredulous, given the barren dining area, and I told her I had 2 friends and that we wanted a table for 3; to which again, nothing more than, “Si.” Then I mentioned, “We would like to have your paella, would that be possible?” Now paella is not an easy dish. It takes time for the flavors to blend, and it is a labor-intensive meal with all its ingredients, so not all restaurants offer it and when they do they might not have it every day; and if they do, very few actually take the time to properly prepare it. You can find plenty of paella in Spain; but truly great paella is rare.

In response to my request, her eyes looked surreptitiously from left to right, as if checking to make sure she wasn’t heard; then she replied furtively, “Leave 10 pesos a person and come back in an hour.” At this point, I felt as if I had just asked her to reveal highly classified state secrets and I wondered if the restaurant was in fact closed and I was talking to a crazy person who sometimes stayed here; but the prospect of paella won out, so I gave her the 30 pesos and returned to my friends saying, “I’m not sure if we were just taken for a ride, but I had to leave a deposit for the meal.”

We continued to walk around for a while and came back in an hour, as instructed. Sure enough, the lady in the house dress and Dr. Scholl’s greeted us at the door – if you can call a jerk of the head in the direction of our table a greeting.

The restaurant was still completely empty, except for the 3 of us and our hostess. But there was a table at the far end of the dining room, set with glasses, fresh bread, olive oil, and that sublime variety of perfectly seasoned olives, as is customary in Spain. Situated against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, the table opened up to a dramatic scene of the mountain descending elegantly to the sea. The view alone was already worth the 30 pesos. I was just pleased she remembered we were coming and that we were actually going to have a meal. After taking our drink orders, with as little a word as humanly possible, she retreated, shuffling her Dr. Scholl’s, back to the kitchen.

So as we indulged in the olives and bread, we took in our surroundings a bit more. My friends were delighted that I had not exaggerated in my description of the woman or the condition of the restaurant. Upon further inspection, we saw that outside was a patio that in its day must have been magnificent, complete with a pool, unfilled and disheveled, and sun-faded patio furniture. What’s the story behind the lady of the Dr. Scholl’s? But whenever we got into discussing it, she would return with her inconvenienced expression to refresh our drinks or give us yet more olives.

Finally, she returned carrying an enormous traditional paella pan, stacked high with a mountain of rice and erupting with a bounty of fishes and meats, resembling a never-ending cornucopia. We had ordered paella for 3; this could have fed a hungry family of 8. Not the lightest of fare, either. You do realize this is a rice dish, so the task set before us was a big one.

For once, her face lost its scowl as she lovingly dished out our portions onto our plates, taking great care to give the right proportion of rice, to pork, to chicken, to shellfish, to peas, to tomato, etc. etc. etc. My friends and I looked on with the patience of a starving dog seeing its long-awaited meal. For the first 10 minutes of the meal, not a word was uttered among us, except the occasional “mmmm” and “oh my God.” Then, only when coming up for air, were we able to add, “Have you tasted the clams?” “I can’t believe how tender the pork is.” “And the chicken is so moist.” “Forget the chicken, the mussels are ridiculous.” “And the peppers…”

The flavors of the shellfish blended seamlessly with the tender meats, punctuated by the occasional appearance of peas and peppers; all against the backdrop of the soft, fragrant rice that quietly reflected the mix of flavors while balancing them at the same time; a perfect expression of what paella should be, with every bite different, and yet a variation on the same delicious theme. It was and remains the best paella I have ever had.

Our stern hostess watched and listened with great satisfaction as we demolished the entire over-abundant pan to raves of enthusiasm. And like the Grinch on Christmas morning listening to the Who’s celebration, I think her heart grew a few inches that day. The next time she returned to the table, did I see an upturned mouth, albeit awkward from muscles so unused to holding that position? Did she actually smile when we told her how superb her paella was? Yes, there was a little twinkle in her eye as we asked her for the recipe and there was a lighter step in her shuffle as she went to the kitchen for a piece of paper.

Upon her triumphant return to the table, recipe proudly in hand, she was absolutely congenial as she discussed her finely-honed paella skills. “The rice must drink,” she emphasized more than once as she painstakingly explained the long process of flavoring the rice with the succulent juices of the combined ingredients. And now that she was putty in our hands, we just couldn’t resist… “So, tell us about this place?”

Our newly-socialized hostess began to talk of her father, an immigrant to Spain from Germany, who built the restaurant with his own hands – in the days when restaurants were built with your own hands. She remembered the pool, lively with customers and the dining room full with people eager for her father’s wonderful dishes. We were amazed that the daughter of immigrants would master the art of a local dish and her smile became even broader. After her father died, she kept the business going but the years were weighing upon her and so more and more it was a burden. Her fate and the restaurant’s were indelibly intertwined; as long as she continued, she would keep the restaurant going; as long as the restaurant kept going, she would continue.

We left her restaurant with the fullness and contentment that only a great meal with great company can bring. Our hostess was absolutely warm and glowing as she bid us goodbye. And I can tell you that her paella brought me back more than once to her wonderful restaurant, even on the same trip; each time happily paying my deposit.

And I have sent many a friend to Mijas, of course for its delightful atmosphere, but mostly for the paella. I would tell them that no matter what their course or purpose in Southern Spain, if they were anywhere near Mijas, they should go for the ultimate paella experience. I had friends who were going to Andalucia on a demanding business trip; one filled with bad hotels, pitiful food, and long hours. They had one break in their schedule and made it to Mijas. They saw our hostess and were happy to find that I had not exaggerated in my description of the experience or the sublime perfection of the paella. They sent a postcard in which they depicted my wonderful, reluctant hostess clad in her fabulous house dress accented by her trademark Dr. Scholl’s accoutrement. It was in this postcard that our protagonist was first and so aptly dubbed, “The Goddess of Paella.”

Just writing about her now makes me yearn to go back to her restaurant in the clouds for a taste of her ambrosianic dish; but alas, we lost our goddess to the heavens. The last time I was in Mijas, some years ago, I skipped happily up the stairway, newly renovated and trimmed, much to my surprise. I found the restaurant updated and redecorated with sturdy tables and bright, colorful tablecloths. If not for the preservation of the window overlooking the sea, I would have doubted I was in the right place. I eagerly asked for my wonderful Goddess and her unforgettable paella, wondering if I still had to make a deposit; she’s obviously doing very well. The spruced-up waiter in his crispy white shirt and perfectly ironed black pants informed me that the old woman who owned the place had passed away and that the restaurant was taken over by new management. He assured me that they served paella and that it was prepared authentically and would impress; so we gave it a shot – much to my complete disappointment. The paella was lifeless, with meats that were overcooked and dry; a Spartan array of shellfish; and rice that was thirsty and could not drink. Everybody knows, “the rice must drink.”

I write this blog as an ode to her and all great chefs in the world. Their craft is no less an art form than a great symphony or a master painting and can make for a life-changing experience. Take advantage of them while you can.

Many thanks to Peggy Bernstein, friend, blog follower, fellow Goddess worshipper, and sender of the postcard pictured above, in which she first named our Goddess.

Sometimes the best laid plans are no plans at all…

My husband is clearly descended from nomads. No matter where in the world we plan a trip, his first thought is where else we can get to from there. This usually results in a lot of time spent wandering long, scenic drives on an endless quest for the undiscovered. (Maybe he’s descended from Magellan too – it’s all very confusing).

On one particular trip to northern Italy, graced by its sublime placement at the foot of the Alps, we decide to see where the road will take us… Asti, a small town known in the States for an unfortunate spumante, but actually a destination rich in culture, and in fact, a source of some truly great wine.

One of Italy’s foremost medieval strongholds, Asti was a thriving center of activity in its day and has the landmarks to show for it: the prerequisite Roman walls, the countless medieval churches, and the coveted historic palaces. But my husband and I happen upon it on a Monday when, as anyone who’s ever visited Italy knows, sites and museums are closed. So we content ourselves with meandering through the winding streets and graceful inclines of this noble city, when as if seeing an oasis rise in the desert, we come upon a towering structure with dated stone walls and an inviting open archway, leading to an even more inviting inner garden.

Upon further investigation, we see a placard that identifies this place as the medieval home of a nobleman, now converted to the city’s historic archives. It’s not open to the public today, but the door’s open and we’re beyond curious – so we go in; after all, we’re explorers. The perfect solace of the garden leads to an obstacle: an imposing and decidedly closed doorway. Perhaps the faint of heart would be turned away, but not us; we have to knock and see if anyone will let us in.

A meek, young woman opens the door and reiterates that they are officially closed, but then instructs us to come inside as she goes to find the director to make an exception. We’re ushered in like traveling emissaries and are left to our own devices in the impressive entry hall, lined with period tables and chairs, and decorated with historic maps, antique paintings and inestimably important artifacts.

While we wait, my husband and I start to rethink our plan. As bold as we are, we are torn between the great luck to have gotten this far inside, and the regret of causing a disturbance for the director for no other reason than our gluttonous curiosity. We decide it’s best to thank them graciously and quickly go on our way. At that very moment, the director arrives in a flurry of harried activity. She is small in stature, but makes a huge impression with her long, blond, completely disheveled, yet utterly fabulous hair that moves with her as she flies into the room. Clearly she’s a busy woman, so I explain in my most courtly Italian that it was never our intention to disturb her – we were merely lovers of history who were irresistibly drawn to this place.

The Signora Direttrice, part Italian supermodel and part nutty professor, immediately explains that she is far too busy and couldn’t possibly attend to visitors today. In fact, she points out, all visitors are seen by appointment only. With that, she turns and beckons us to follow, dashing through the main reception room. My husband and I strive to keep up with her as she describes the organization: a resource center for scholars, historians, and restorers to research historic texts and preserve priceless antiques from the city’s esteemed history. The Signora Direttrice turns once again and leads us to the next room. My husband and I look at each other in a moment of confusion – do we follow or is this our cue to leave – but she’s still talking; so we follow, hoping she doesn’t come out of her trance to find us still there.

The Signora then proceeds to lead us from room to room on an all-access, grand tour -- all the while telling us she has no time for it – as she points out the priceless treasures of the collection: ancient maps (my husband’s obsession, probably another indication of his nomadic heritage); historic documents and seals of the city; original furniture, impeccably maintained; the restoration room with its secret tricks for resurrecting what is lost; and finally, she talks of the prized possession of the collection: the Codex – a medieval manuscript with illuminated text and pictures, chronicling Asti’s long, revered history. It is the holy grail of artifacts, but the Signora explains she is just too busy to show us. In the same breath she takes a key from her skirt pocket, unlocks an armoire, and pulls out the heavy, rich, but unassuming old box containing the Codex, along with a smaller, simpler box from which she pulls a pair of white gloves; it is only with these that she can handle the manuscript.

As she describes the history of the Codex, she begins paging through the stately old book, indicating points of interest: important moments in Asti’s long past, written in the elegant letters of a millennium ago; a description of the ancient skills of bookmaking and the pains of preservation; and the most interesting of all: the recent discovery that 3 separate and distinctive artists collaborated on the book’s decoration. She meticulously points out the details of their individual styles: richer colors here, stronger lines there, and still more stylized forms in another. The text had just been returned from being on loan at an exhibit, where thousands of enthusiasts lined up to see it on display, opened to one page, behind thick, protective glass; and here we are, leaning inches from the book as we study page after page, relishing in each and every succulent detail. The more questions we ask the more time she spends on the work that is obviously her life’s passion. Each time we thank her and remind her that she really doesn’t need to spend so much time with us, she states again that she is indeed too busy, and goes back to the subject of the book, showing us more. My husband and I look at each other, wondering if we’re in a collective dream.

When the Direttrice finally drags herself, and us, away from the Codex, she does so with regret for breaking the spell. Downstairs, in the main reception area, she seems to want to console us for our recent loss and makes gifts of every keepsake she can find: postcards with pictures from the Codex and reproductions of historic posters of the city, which we have since framed and which now hang in our house; leaving us blissful memories of that exceptional day, and forever grateful for her extraordinary hospitality.

The moral of the story is that sometimes, it pays to have no plan at all and to wander into an area you may not know anything about -- just to see what treasures lay there. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, like the Sunday afternoon in Locarno with nothing to do but shop in a second rate flea market with old cassette tapes of oom-pah bands, but that’s another story. Usually, the smaller the town, the more appreciative the locals are of outside visitors, and the more willing they are to share their passions. I’d like to think that the director of the archives found kindred spirits that day and was as delighted by our attentions as we were by her city. Sometimes Magellan, and yes even my husband, are right to explore (but don’t let them know I told you).