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.
Then Santo asked if we still wanted pizza.
The next morning was bright with the glorious Sicilian sun. It filled our room at the country inn, Donna Giovanna, carrying with it the sounds of country life—sheep bleating, cocks crowing, goat bells tinkling.
The inn, located down the hill from Polizzi, in what centuries ago had been a Jesuit monastery—and, more recently, the home of the nobleman’s daughter after which it was named—is owned by Franca and Franco D’Anna. Franca had grown up in Brooklyn and could speak to Andrea in rusty English. She was sweeping the already immaculate patio as we emerged for breakfast: toasted semolina bread with butter and homemade green tomato preserves. Rich black coffee was served with a pitcher of hot milk.
Franco is a thin, wiry man with dark hair and sharp, handsome features. His serious expression makes him look like a tough guy, but when he smiles his face reveals a gentle soul. He carried two orange plastic baskets into the room, handed one to Andrea, and beckoned him to follow. Andrea did. In a nearby zucchini patch, they picked the largest zucchini flowers I have ever seen. Franco gave instructions, uselessly in Sicilian, more effectively by demonstration. The two laughed as their dance to avoid stepping on delicate shoots turned into a game of hopscotch. Andrea, who had never seen a zucchini patch so lush and large, returned proud of his harvest. Zucchini-flower picking with Franco would become a daily activity for the rest of the trip.
Polizzi Generosa was bustling that morning. Our first stop was the city hall, where I hoped to introduce Andrea to the mayor. His Honor was locked in conference, but we waited for a time in the hall of the grand Renaissance structure. Finally, Andrea needed to use the bathroom. After a few minutes, he did not reappear. Spotting the captain of the three-person Polizzi police force, I said excitedly, “I lost my son!” With a calm, wistful smile, he said, “Vicenzu, here in Polizzi you cannot lose anyone.”
The captain was right. Andrea assumed I had left and went out on the street to find me. He thought I was lost.
We brought flowers to Zia Pasqualina and, after a brief visit, were back on the streets again. At one point Andrea stopped and asked, “Did Bruculinu look like this?” Somehow my stories of Polizzi and the Brooklyn neighborhood of my childhood had become confused. I gently explained the difference, keenly aware of his disappointment at my answer.
By late morning the day was turning hot. We stopped in Gasparinu’s coffee bar for a cold drink, and Andrea sampled a uniquely Sicilian sandwich: his first gelato on brioche. With the hands of an artist, Gasparinu piled hazelnut and chocolate gelato, then whipped cream, into a brioche roll. Andrea and I moved to the grand stairway next to the shop and sat down. We licked around the creamy edges and bit into the cold, sweet-savory piece of heaven.
We wandered the city and I pointed out centuries-old churches and other monuments. We stopped often to chat with paisani, who seemed proud to welcome a fourth-generation American returning to the city of his ancestors. By 1:30 we were back at Donna Giovanna’s crowded dining room for lunch.
Andrea went into the busy kitchen to find Franca. I could hear only bits of their conversation above the clatter:
“… and then we saw the Commenda. You know, it was built by the Knights of Malta a thousand years ago…. And do you know the story of the old abbey and the new abbey?”
“Tell me all about it,” said Franca, assisting Franco in the kitchen.
“Well, once there were these two noblemen, La Matina and Signurino…”
Franco understood not a word of their conversation but seemed respectful of the growing confidence between his wife and the boy. I was gratified to hear how much my son had taken in.
We sat down to a magnificent lunch—in this part of the world the main meal of the day. Franco presented his delicate, ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers and announced to the room that they had been picked that morning by Andrea. Everyone cheered, “Bravo, Andrea!”
When we returned to Polizzi, as we were parking in the piazza in front of the Byzantine fortress, a group of children appeared. Mariangela, the beautiful teen-age daughter of Pino Agliata, master pastry chef, came forward to greet us. I introduced her to Andrea. She spoke to him in her high school English. Mari was a good student. The other children crowded around, eyeing Andrea, and he them. Domenico, Mari’s ten-year-old brother, came through the group holding a soccer ball. His question in Sicilian was obvious in any language, and Andrea’s answer was easy: “Sì.”
Teams were quickly formed, girls against boys. I’m sure Andrea fully expected to be transported with all the others to a nearby soccer field, but Domenico tossed out the ball and the game began, right in the hilly, cobbled piazza. Could it be that Polizzi is more like Brooklyn than I thought?
The children played and screamed until it was too dark to see the ball. Then they played mucciaredda, hide-and-seek. And what places there are to hide in a 2,500-year-old city. I left to go see Santo and returned to find the children laughing, sweaty and rosy-cheeked, enjoying a cold drink at the tables in front of Pino’s pastry shop. Mari asked, “Tomorrow you will bring Andrea?”
The next morning I dropped off Andrea as promised. When I returned at lunchtime, Mariangela said her mother wanted to know if Andrea could have lunch with them. Domenico added, “Andrea is with us now.” And he was. He played with the children every day. I began to hear him speak phrases in Sicilian as he played soccer. When we walked down the main street, always with at least four of his new friends, he greeted people in Sicilian, saying, “Buona sera, che si dice?” (Good evening, what do you say?) I’d never seen Andrea seem so free, or safe, in his life.
Early one morning we went out on our balcony to greet the dawn. We sat bundled in our bathrobes against the chill, watching Polizzi emerge from silhouette as daylight gathered and the streetlights went out. It was quiet. Then Andrea, in a clear, soft voice said, “You know, Dad, in Los Angeles people have a lot of stuff. Here in Polizzi, people don’t have a lot of stuff. But maybe you don’t need a lot to have a nice life.”
The days passed, and Andrea’s birthday was just a day away. Pino asked Andrea if he would help him in his pastry shop for a little while.
Mariangela dressed Andrea in a white apron and pastry chef’s hat. Andrea, standing at the massive marble work- table, watched attentively as Pino split a large rectangular spongecake in half. Then, with Pino’s guidance, Andrea sprinkled the bottom half of the cake with Strega, an Italian liqueur. As Andrea held the bowl, Pino spread the surface with a sure layer of hazelnut cream. He fitted the other layer on top and plastered the cake with whipped cream.
Using a fine-pointed pastry bag, Pino drew a map of Sicily on top. The island had only one city, Polizzi Generosa. All of us, children and adults, watching the demonstration laughed at this chauvinism. Pino and his new assistant covered Sicily with chopped-hazelnut mountain ranges. Azure-colored whipped cream formed the sea around the island. Then Pino began to write on the surface in Italian: “Welcome to Sicily, Happy Birthday &” The room grew especially silent as he began to spell out the last word, “A N D R E &” Andrea gasped, “It’s my cake!”
The next night, a surprise birthday party at Santo’s was a real surprise and a huge success. More than 30 of our family and friends assembled at a serpentine table in the restaurant courtyard. This time Santo really did prepare pizza—delicious, individual ones, Neapolitan style, with rustic Sicilian toppings.
At one point Gasparinu and five other friends marched into the courtyard playing musical instruments. Some were in traditional costume. The leader played a short, wooden flute to the accompaniment of a drum, two tambourines, a Jew’s harp, and a most extraordinary drone instrument called u cafuddu, whose base is a half-gallon-size sardine tin. The bottom and sides are covered in decorative cloth, and the open ends covered like a goatskin drum; embedded in the center is a long cane shaft. The tin is held under the left arm while the right hand is wet and slides up and down the shaft, emitting a droning sound. I still don’t know if Andrea understood what was making the adults giggle.
Everyone—children, Zia Pasqualina, all of us—danced together into the morning hours. The figures of the local dances were expertly called by Gasparinu, making the traditional steps easy for novice and expert alike. Watching Andrea prance around the courtyard, I thought of his question about Brooklyn from our first day. Holding him close, with my mouth next to his ear, I whispered, “You know, my boy, this is what Bruculinu felt like.”