To my relief, nothing has changed on Filicudi—its rocky beaches and hills terraced with ancient stone walls are still there. After a quick coffee at the port restaurant, we hire Giovannino and his blue and white boat for a tour around the island. As someone who makes his living from foreign tourists but would rather not, he is happy to speak Italian and regale us with stories—though Giovanna has to keep translating his dialect into my schoolgirl Italian. He tells us he was born on the island, pointing to a limestone ruin by the beach—“in that house.” After World War II, when most of the inhabitants emigrated to Australia, he was one of only 60 people left; now there are 240 residents. As we circle the rocky island for an hour, he tells us how they survived by catching lobster for Christmas in Naples, and by growing capers, hiking all over the hills to collect them. He describes the mafiosi who were interned on the island in the 1970s, and the shipwrecks he’s seen over the years. Life on these dry, remote islands has always been tough.
After the boat ride, Giovanna and I hike the steep path cutting up the side of the hill to Villa La Rosa. “Magnifico,” Giovanna says, when we pause to catch our breath and stare out at the sea. Finally at the villa, we sit at a cool table on the airy, colorful terrace. The waiter warns us they have only two pasta dishes that day. One with almonds—I hold my breath—and maccheroncini al finocchietto. “It’s made from the wild fennel growing around here,” the waiter explains. Ahh.
The aroma arrives first, the sardines of the sea mixed with the fennel fronds of the island. With the plate in front of me, I pause, my desire mixed with fear of disappointment. But the pasta is perfectly al dente, with grated bread crumbs on top and a few raisins peeking out; the fennel fronds and sardines have a wild, simple taste that satisfies me to the soul. I am in the very restaurant where I realized my affair with the Frenchman would come to an end, but no trace of sadness lingers. I am back with the fennel pasta, with a friend, and I am utterly content. “That is your pasta,” says Giovanna, refusing more than one bite. She looks around. “And this is your island.” She herself would pick Panarea.
After the pasta comes grilled totani, stuffed with bread crumbs. There should be a plaque up at Villa La Rosa for the best lunch I’ve ever eaten.
We leave that evening, but on the way to the boat I notice a sign for another restaurant, La Sirena, which boasts that it’s Michelin-rated. How could I have missed it? Giovanna urges me to ask a man on the boat, who looks like he knows how to eat, about the restaurant. “Si mangia benissimo,” he tells me. You eat very, very well there. Tell the chef that Sergio sent you, he says. Va bene, I say. Grazie. Maybe next time, if I ever return.
Giovanna leaves for home the next day. I can’t help it: I have to go back to Filicudi to try that restaurant. I go straight to Pecorini a Mare, the fishing village, and take a modest room at La Sirena, overlooking the fishing boats pulled up onto the beach. In the evening, a Monday night in the off-season, I am the only diner at the restaurant. I mention the bit about Sergio to the waiter, who couldn’t care less but brings me some raw swordfish—in olive oil, pepper, and lemon. Then comes a light pasta with almonds, cherry tomatoes, and garlic. Finally a piece of tuna, with tomatoes and capers, served on a plate decorated with flowers. I am self-conscious, eating alone, but one by one several islanders join me, helping me drain my pitcher of white wine—the guy who rents the fishing boats, his nephew, the proprietress, and, finally, the chefs themselves.
I rent a kayak the next day and head back to the blue grottoes, carefully navigating in that jellyfish soup. There is no one in sight. Occasionally, on some invisible cue, 2,000 tiny, silvery fish arc in the air. I paddle to an empty beach for a swim, then, hungry, make my way back to La Sirena.
An islander is finishing his pasta when I come down for lunch, a beatific smile on his face. “Buon giorno,” I say. “What did you eat?”
Pinterest
