My grandparents and their fellow emigrants from the small Sicilian town of Polizzi Generosa replanted the day-to-day life of their mountaintop city, like ancient pine trees, in the tenements of Brooklyn—“Bruculinu,” as they called it. The culture of their Sicily surrounded the world of my American childhood.
Andrea, my 12-year-old son, is growing up in Los Angeles, which couldn’t be farther from the Bruculinu of my youth. When I was a boy, if you wanted to go out and play, that’s exactly what you did. There was always a game of stickball or cowboys and Indians in the street. Play for Andrea involves appointments, a barrage of phone calls, a car ride. He rarely meets with more than one friend at a time.
I maintain as many Sicilian-American traditions as I can, but the foods I prepare meet no fellow travelers in my neighborhood, and the guests at our table are mostly Americans with roots in other places. Yet since Andrea was a small boy, his imagination has been sparked by my tales of Bruculinu and of Polizzi Generosa, which I first visited as an adult, about ten years ago. I always regretted not getting there when I was younger. When Andrea was 8, I promised to take him to Polizzi Generosa when he was 11. He didn’t forget.
Last summer, as his 12th birthday approached, it looked as if the trip would have to be postponed because of my work schedule. I was too mortified to speak of it, and he too noble. Then, toward the end of August, the job was postponed; suddenly, I had three free weeks before Andrea had to return to school. Four days later we boarded a plane.
As we collected our baggage in Palermo, Andrea tugged at my sleeve, asking, “Dad, are we really here?” I was so excited all I could manage was, “Yes, son, I think we are!”
It was dark as we turned off the highway from Palermo onto the state road that winds its way 3,000 feet up the Madonie mountains to Polizzi. After ten miles of impossible switchbacks, we arrived just at dinnertime. The city was quiet; the streets empty. A gentle, warm, low fog was rolling in. Antique street- lights barely dispelled the darkness as Andrea and I walked up the via Roma. The only sound was our feet on the cobblestones; the only signs of habitation were the delicious cooking smells emanating from every house. We passed the great Palazzo Gagliardo, still inhabited by its hereditary owners, and the impressive Chiesa Madre, the main church, which has parts dating back to the 14th century. The street suddenly opened on the left to a piazza in front of the ruins of the Byzantine fortress.
These places were familiar to me, but for a kid from Los Angeles, these were sights from movies or dreams. Again, Andrea asked, “Dad, are we really here?”
We turned down the steps of the alleylike via dei Cappuccini and into the courtyard of my friend Santo Lipani’s restaurant, Orto dei Cappuccini, on the site of a 14th-century monastic kitchen garden.
“Oooh!” Santo bellowed to us from the kitchen, “You are here!” Santo and I hugged, with a kiss on each cheek. Andrea followed suit. Then Santo firmly pinched Andrea’s cheek and said, in Sicilian, “What a handsome young fellow you are! You must be hungry.” Trying to be a good sport about the cheek-pinching, Andrea looked to me for translation. We were both, in fact, starving, but for sleep as much as for food. I called after Santo as he headed toward the kitchen, suggesting that it would be best if we ate just a little something. “Of course,” Santo called back. “I’ll just make a simple pizza.”
First, Santo brought out bruschetta—“to munch on while you wait,” he said. Semolina bread, toasted in the wood-burning pizza oven, was topped with the ripest chopped tomatoes, fragrant basil, and a drizzle of local extra-virgin olive oil. Andrea’s appreciation of this simple delight did not go unnoticed by Santo.
A few minutes later, with great nonchalance, Santo sauntered over to the fig tree next to our outdoor table. He picked a half dozen of the ripest figs, went into the kitchen, then returned with the cleaned, halved figs wrapped in paper-thin slices of prosciutto. Andrea had never before eaten this combination. I had never eaten it so close to the tree.
A plate of pungent salami arrived next, accompanied by slices of young Pecorino cheese, known locally as primitivu, and a bowl of green-black olives. A basket of semolina bread took its place next to carafes of mountain water and young wine from the nearby Regaleali winery. Then, more food: eggplant alla parmigiana topped only with grated Pecorino cheese and a dollop of tomato sauce; blanched oyster mushrooms with olive oil and a drop of vinegar; zucchini with eggs and ewe’s-milk ricotta; sweet rice cakes fried in olive oil & Santo was unstoppable.
Most of the diners were people I knew, and as news spread of our arrival others appeared, including my dear friend Nino Gianfisco and my 84-year-old cousin, Zia Pasqualina (we call her “aunt” out of respect). Each person came up to reenact the cheek-pinching ritual. Andrea’s face grew rosy. Our group grew to 12. Santo, his work mostly done in the kitchen, joined us, bearing an enormous bowl of linguine with garlic, oil, and anchovy. He smiled at Andrea’s enjoyment of this strongly flavored dish, not one designed to please an American boy. A toast seemed in order. We lifted our wineglasses (Andrea’s filled with water and a stain of wine) to my son’s first night in Polizzi.
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