The most romantic way to get to the Lipari Islands, the rugged volcanic archipelago north of Sicily, is by overnight boat from Naples. Bring dinner to eat on board, pass Capri in the disappearing light, and be lulled to sleep by the sea. Set your alarm for 5 a.m., then crawl out of your bunk and onto the deck, your face to the wind. The night is so black that the Pleiades are as distinct as the seven islands themselves.
Then, out of nowhere, a flare of blood orange lights up the sky, showering sparks like shooting stars. It is Stromboli, the volcano that stands as sentry to the islands, at once warning visitors of the fierceness of the place and proclaiming its wild beauty. Homer was the first to mention these islands, which Americans refer to as the Aeolians. Here, Aeolus, the god of the winds, greeted Odysseus with a bag of breeze to ensure his safe passage. But when Odysseus’ crew, curious, opened the bag, they were blown from rocky shore to shore, left to fend for themselves in the most treacherous waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. These are dry, inhospitable islands where all living things—figs, herbs, apricots, rabbits—struggle so hard for survival that they are bursting with the intense fragrances and flavors of a brief but concentrated life.
I am returning after three years to satisfy a hunger I’ve had ever since—for the spicy perfume of pale pink caper flowers, for fish that swim in turquoise waters, for sweet cherry tomatoes that explode in your mouth like Stromboli, for pasta with fennel and sardines. I’m returning to simply do nothing—il dolce far niente, as the Italians say—in a place where there are only rocks and sea and the happy prospect of your next meal.
As the sky lightens, the island of Stromboli comes into view, its whitewashed houses stacked up by the port. I once made the arduous climb up the volcano to see it erupt red against the orange sunset, booming down a black lava slope into the ocean. There are some things so magnificent they can’t be repeated, not without being spoiled—in this case, by the lines of tourists you were too enchanted to notice the first time. So I don’t disembark. But I remember Stromboli’s charm, its narrow streets, and its nervous atmosphere in the shadow of the volcano. And then there’s the carnation-colored house with a plaque commemorating the place where Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini had an affair while filming Stromboli. (Previously, Anna Magnani, who had been living with Rossellini and was promised the lead, dumped a bowl of bucatini with red sauce over his head before fleeing with the crew to Vulcano, to make an equally forgettable film by that name.)
If there were a plaque somewhere in the Aeolians to commemorate a love affair of my own, it would be on Filicudi, one of the remotest and most desolate islands. There, for ten days, I stayed with a French professor in a white house at the top of a steep hill overlooking the port and the other craggy islands beyond. We did nothing but read, swim, make love, and decide where we wanted to eat that day. I always voted for Villa La Rosa, for the pasta with wild fennel fronds and sardines, which tasted exactly like the island’s aromatic sea breezes. As with Stromboli, Filicudi was a place I could never return to for fear of spoiling the memory of those magical days.
That still leaves five islands to explore, though, each with a unique personality. Panarea, small and precious, attracts chic Italians and honeymooners, but it’s all tranquillity in the off-season. Lipari is the largest and most industrialized island, with a fascinating museum filled with relics from all the ships that have sunk in these violent seas since before the first Greek settlers arrived. Salina is sleepy and agricultural, covered with vineyards that bear grapes for the region’s distinctive Malvasia wine. Vulcano, the island closest to Sicily, is heavily touristed on its hot-bubbling shores, but the mountain’s uplands are home to pastures that yield some of the world’s best ricotta cheese. Small, outlying Alicudi has no cars, few tourist facilities—really, nothing at all.
I’ve come to the islands this time with my Italian friend Giovanna, a Giulietta Masina look-alike, with the same impish flair. Giovanna isn’t content to far niente on the islands, but wants to explore all the tastes, sights, and activities I missed before. “Zampetta, zampetta,” she says, meaning: “A little paw here and a little paw there, and we’ll try everything.” Va bene.
Pulling into the tiny port of Panarea, we’re met by a golf cart sent to take us to our pensione. (On Panarea, even the police drive golf carts, since no cars are allowed.) We pass square, traditional Aeolian houses—magenta bougainvillea climbing the white walls and dripping over the pergolas—with wooden doors as blue as the sea. The air is perfumed with flowers—wild pomegranate, purple acacia, daisies, lilies, birds-of-paradise. “Da delirio,” says Giovanna. Absolutely delirious.
We check into our simple room, wander along the path to the rocky beach, and come back in time for dinner. Like its rooms, the food at Trattoria La Sirena is simple and clean. We have sea urchin pasta with parsley and tomatoes, and mille gusti spaghetti, with all flavors of the island represented in the dish.
In the morning, at exactly the same time (Italians have a strict sense of the order of a day), everyone on the island finishes their coffee and goes to the beach. With only a few square feet of sand, the beachgoers, mainly Italians, spread out on the rocks, wading waist-deep in the water with their cellphones. To avoid the weekend crowds, we take a steep footpath to a more distant beach, and swim in a magnificent blue cove—until I am stung, painfully, by a jellyfish. On closer inspection, the place is infested with the little monsters—meduse—which makes swimming like strolling through a minefield. These islands, I am reminded, are full of discomforts and mild dangers.
On Panarea, we do everything but niente: We climb the mountain until our trail gets lost in the sticker bushes. We hike to a deserted beach and go skinny-dipping. We eat pizza from a wonderful panificio for lunch, scout for jellyfish at the beach, and stop by La Sirena, where we attempt to get the recipe for mille gusti but end up with some of the owner’s salt-cured capers instead, as consolation. That evening, as we sip Prosecco on our terrace at the cool, white Hotel Raya, the morning seems like a distant memory. We watch Stromboli in the distance, smoking like an Italian, a pack a day.
On our last night, we eat dinner at Da Pina, with its lemon-painted blue ceramic tables outdoors. We try fillets of eggplant rolled with olives and capers, and the lightest eggplant gnocchi imaginable. Then I am introduced to totani, a large yet perfectly tender squidlike creature, this one stuffed with grilled radicchio. If I had to be stung by a jellyfish every time I ate totani (flying squid), I’d call it a fair deal. We finish up with a soothing rosemary liquore, inhaling the island’s nighttime aromas.
Lipari is an hour—and a world—away by hydrofoil. The islanders consider Lipari “town,” not another island, and by local standards it’s as busy as Milan. With its 10,000 inhabitants, pumice mining, and fishing fleet, Lipari is the center of Aeolian industry—and with its castle and archaeological museum, it’s the center of culture, too. Some people will tell you it has the best restaurants in the islands, but Giovanna and I decide that they are just the most formal. Like everything about Lipari, much of the food is overworked and commercial.
But Lipari is still well worth visiting, for its untouristy streets and its remarkable castle. There, we spend an afternoon contemplating a collection of Greek terra-cotta theatrical masks, with a vast array of characters—there’s the chatterbox, the gossip, the flatterer, the crotchety old man; there are types from Greek plays lost to time except for their faces, full of unspoken expression.
Eventually, we find some small, authentic restaurants on the island: At Ristorante La Nassa, we have an exquisite caponata in which the flavors are distinct, playing off each other rather than homogenized. Ristorante Nenzyna is smaller and simpler, and the dishes are traditional—fish in olives, capers, celery, and onion; a fish stew made with tomatoes, capers, and dried bread. Giovanna and I agree we’d be happy eating at that little restaurant every day of our lives.
Yet for all those good meals, a corner of my hunger remains unsatisfied. I haven’t tasted pasta with fennel fronds and sardines yet. Nor will I find the dish I want on Lipari. For that, we have to go to Filicudi.
As we check the hydrofoil schedules for the following day, I am reluctant to return to Filicudi for fear of spoiling the bittersweet memory of my first visit there. But I am more afraid that I will never taste that fennel pasta again.
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?”
“Spaghetti with swordfish eggs, and it was divine.”
I tell the waiter I’ll have what he had.
The waiter, suddenly enraged, argues with the islander. “How could you tell her you ate something special like that?”
“It was the most innocent thing in the world,” he protests. “The signora asked, and I told her. What do you want me to say? That it was a schifezza? Disgusting?”
The waiter—actually, the owner and head chef, Antonio Pellegrino—relates this outrageous story to the cooks. One tries to calm him, arguing that perhaps the signora could have just a little taste. “Perché no?” I say, offering my vast appreciation and whatever the dish costs, but he waves me away. No American tourist is getting swordfish eggs, apparently, no matter how much charm she is slathering on in Italian.
After the scene, the islander looks at me and shrugs. “He’s cracked, but the food here is great,” he says.
I eat a pasta with finocchietti and sardines instead, this one with cherry tomatoes. It might be divine, but I am too busy thinking about the swordfish eggs to know for sure.
After lunch, Antonio is cheerful again, and we chat. I remember what a friend had told me, that the islands’ cooks are fiercely independent and will only cook well for you if they like and respect you. So I tell him about the time I was bitten by a moray eel on Filicudi, almost losing a finger. I show him the scar, and he warms up to me. Everyone on the island has heard stories about someone losing a finger to a moray eel, but for an American tourist to be bitten on a short visit is spectacularly bad luck.
“The next time I encountered a moray eel,” I tell him, “I ate him. Grilled.” Antonio appreciates that act of culinary revenge, and approves of my method. Piero, the other chef, sidles by and offers that he was once so mad at the jellyfish for biting him that he wokked some—but alas, they had no taste whatsoever.
I give Piero and Antonio my profuse thanks for the meal, compliment the food, the weather, the island, and Italians in general, and tell them I’ll be back. Piero kisses me on both cheeks, which is a good sign.
The Aeolians are a difficult place to get to and a difficult place to be. But I will indeed return to Filicudi. I’ll eat at La Sirena every day, until they insist I try the spaghetti with swordfish eggs, until they want me to eat it as much as I do. And then I may just stay, doing nothing all day but deciding: Villa La Rosa? or La Sirena?
Staying There
With its all-organic breakfasts, cool blue and white tiles, and magnificent views, Hotel Raya (Via S. Pietro, Panarea; 090-983013; from $213) is a fashionista favorite. The quirky, Asian-themed Hotel Oriente (Via Guglielmo Marconi 35, Lipari; 090-9811493; from $83) has friendly, impeccable service and a charming garden. Villa Meligunis Hotel (Via Marte 7, Lipari; 090-9812426; from $173), Lipari’s poshest, has a spectacular rooftop bar and restaurant but a businessman’s ambiance—and canned fruit and Nescafé at breakfast. The loveliest hotel in the islands is the Hotel Signum (Via Scalo 15, Salina; 090-9844222; from $115), built in traditional Aeolian style, surrounded by vineyards and gardens, and offering a gorgeous view of the sea.
Eating There
On Panarea, chef Giovanna Mandarano of Da Pina (Via S. Pietro; 090-983032) uses the traditional flavors of the islands in an updated cuisine. (The restaurant also has a small pensione.) Specializing in seafood for 30 years, Da Paolino (Via Iditella 75; 090-983008) is full of locals—some of whom, says Paolino Spanò, can tell whether a dish was made by him or his wife. A pensione and simple outdoor restaurant with typical pasta dishes, Trattoria La Sirena (Via Drautto 4; 090-983012) has been run by the same family for 35 years. For a quick lunch or bite of pizza on the way to the beach, stop in at Panificio di Antonio Morganti (Via S. Pietro; 090-983284).
Depending on who’s cooking that day, the traditional island dishes with a refined twist (sweet-and-sour fish, squid ink risotto, caponata) at Lipari’s Ristorante La Nassa (Via G. Franza 36; 090-9811319) range from good to extraordinary. (La Nassa is also a pensione.) The very simple, traditional Ristorante Nenzyna (Via Roma 4; 090-9811660) is inexpensive and wonderful. (And if you need a taxi to see the island, arrange for it here.) Ristorante Filippino (Piazza Mazzini; 090-9811002) has been the most famous (and certainly the most formal) restaurant on Lipari since 1910. Its less formal outpost, E Pulera (Via Isabella Conti Vainicher; 090-9811158), is also worth a visit.
Salina’s harborside Porto Bello (Via Bianchi 1; 090-9843125) serves excellent raw seafood and traditional dishes like spaghetti al fuoco and calamari stuffed with Malvasia-soaked bread crumbs. Just off the seafront near the lighthouse, Il Delfino (Via Marina Garibaldi; 090-9843024) offers traditional Aeolian dishes (pesto with pine nuts, capers, almonds, and basil; swordfish rolls with bread crumbs and ricotta) and rooms for the night. Bar Alfredo (by the seawall) has the best granitas in season—almond, mulberry, lemon, fig.
Chef Stefano Oliva of Stromboli’s Punta Lena (Via Marina 8; 090-986204) is passionate about his superfresh seafood—sardines, octopus salad, spaghetti with mussels and clams—served overlooking the sea from which it came. Uphill from the port, Ristorante Roma (Via Roma 15; 090-986088) is a casual pizzeria that also offers traditional pastas.
Filicudi’s Villa La Rosa (Via Rosa 24; 090-9889965) is a restaurant and pensione (as well as a disco in high season) specializing in simple Sicilian cuisine—grilled swordfish with lemon leaves; fennel frond and sardine pasta; pasta with eggplant and fresh ricotta. A seaside restaurant with a few rooms to rent, the extraordinary La Sirena (Pecorini a Mare, Filicudi; 090-9889997) uses only fresh, local, and traditional ingredients in its marinated raw-fish creations; tuna sausage with onion chutney; gnocchi with pistachios; and many other dishes.
Being There
The view from the top of Stromboli is magnificent, particularly at dusk. From a safe vantage point, you can watch the volcano shoot sparks and lava that crash into the sea with a mighty boom. (Hire a guide from one of many agencies at the port.) Originally built to defend the island from pirates and intruders, the Castello on Lipari is home to artifacts produced by the numerous cultures that have flourished on this strategically important island since before the Bronze Age. The museum—with its separate hall of vulcanology—has an extraordinary collection of Neolithic pottery and obsidian (volcanic glass), once the sharpest material known to man. The museum also has hundreds of amphorae retrieved from shipwrecks, but the most remarkable items are the delicate pots dating from the third century b.c. and decorated with Dionysian scenes by the Lipari Painter, and the little terra-cotta theatrical masks and statues representing characters in Greek plays. The best way to see the less accessible parts of the Aeolians is to hire a boat—especially on the little islands. Ask around at the smaller ports for a fishing boat or kayak. That said, my favorite thing of all here is il dolce far niente—the sweetness of doing nothing. Since there’s little activity on the outlying islands, particularly Filicudi and Alicudi, you have nothing to do but swim, hike, and contemplate your next meal. (Be sure to end it with Malvasia, the amber-colored dessert wine that is the traditional after-dinner drink in the islands.) Finally, while you’re here, pick up some of the fruits of the unruly caper bush, which tumbles down rock walls and grows on the roadside throughout the islands. Preserved in salt, these little buds are intense culinary gems, tiny morsels of pure flavor—nothing like the vinegar-packed variety sold in American stores.
Getting There
The overnight ferry (SIREMAR; 081-5800340) departs from Naples daily (except Wednesday) in high season (July and August); a reduced service operates at other times. Hydrofoils (SNAV; 081-4285555), which also operate between the islands, are another option; they run from Palermo, Milazzo, Messina, Cefalù, and Naples. Naples, Palermo, Catania, and Reggio Calabria can all be reached by air.
Note: Some hotels and restaurants may be closed during the off-season (November through March).