The food you find on the Iblean Plateau, in the arid heart of the Val di Noto, is different from what you find on the coast, even though you can drive from one to the other in 30 minutes. Here pork is king, specifically the Nero dei Nebrodi, a black pig that’s close in size and flavor to wild boar; and pork was the reason why we pointed the Fiat toward Frigintini the following afternoon. We were headed for a restaurant called Maria Fidone, but it became clear as soon as we set foot inside that the place was closed. Fidone herself came out of the kitchen to explain that she was only open for dinner, but after sighing heavily she told us that maybe she could find us something to eat. Then she led us to the empty dining room, where four schoolchildren were watching cartoons, and left us with two glasses and a bottle of Frappato, a light-bodied red wine that’s exactly what you want with a meaty lunch.
I peeked into the kitchen, where Fidone was busy mixing eggs into flour and readying a pasta machine. Soon we were all watching cartoons and eating fresh arancini, breaded rice balls as light as meringues. A plate arrived with different kinds of dried sausages and cheeses, and then another with cracked olives. Next came the pasta—fluffy ravioli filled with lemon-spiked ricotta and brought to the table with a bowl of pork ragù—and then Fidone emerged with a bowl of braised pork belly and shoulder and fresh pork sausage. She looked surprised when, at the end of it, we told her we were full. “That’s it?” she asked. “Nothing more?”
Before we could leave, however, she pulled out a bottle of brown liquor and poured us each a glass. It had a pleasant taste of overripe pears, and when I asked what it was, she said “carrubo,” then sent one of the children outside to retrieve a carob pod to illustrate. It was the first time I had come across carob outside a natural foods store. “Come back for dinner,” she said. “And make a reservation.”
The short drive from Frigintini to Modica takes you past empty fields turned brown by the sun; then the road dips into a valley covered in gnarled prickly pear cacti. Then you’re dodging pedestrians in a vibrant Baroque town known for its steep streets and savage sweet tooth. One of the trademarks here is the ’mpanatigghie, a ravioli-like cookie stuffed with chocolate, cinnamon, almond, and beef, all cooked down into a dense, rich filling. The town is also known for its cioccolata modicana, a distinctive style of chocolate made with cane sugar; every bite has a satisfying granular crunch. There are a dozen or so brands, each with their own shop (and sample bowls), and after trying them all we settled on the ones made by Casa Don Puglisi, and so stocked up on bars flavored with bergamot, coffee, and pistacchi di Bronte. The 127-year-old Antica Dolceria Bonajuto is famous for its chocolate, but it should be known for its cannoli di ricotta—they were the best either of us had ever tasted, and after finishing the last bite we walked along the Corso Umberto I in reverent silence.
Modica and ragusa are separated by a craggy ridge, and after some impressive switchbacks, you arrive at Ragusa Ibla, where the claustrophobic streets are lined with swirling Baroque buildings in various states of disrepair. It’s an unlikely location for Ristorante Duomo, the Michelin-starred place that is home to Ciccio Sultano, the island’s most celebrated chef. Sultano is a master of the new style of Sicilian cooking, and a meal at his restaurant is sophisticated and triumphant; it’s also expensive enough to make even a pair of New Yorkers blanch. But there’s nothing like his stuffed pork chop, itself a take on a standard Iblean dish: He stuffs a cut from a Nero dei Nebrodi with dried sausage and Ragusano cheese, then serves it with a chocolate sauce and a drizzle of mosto di Nero d’Avola, a grape-must vinegar with the depth and sweetness of the best balsamic.
Normally, an Italian hotel breakfast is something to skip, but the elegant Locanda Don Serafino serves a marmellata di zucca (pumpkin marmalade studded with pistachios) that is worth waking up for. That night, we had dinner at the hotel’s restaurant (located in an old stable nearby) and asked our waiter to recommend a wine to go with the lasagnette al cacao, made with cocoa pasta and clouds of fresh ricotta flavored with marjoram. “Nero d’Avola is this,” he said, holding his hand at eye level. “When it is from Eloro, it is like this,” he said, holding his hand high above his head and waving it around, then running off to bring us a bottle.
Which was what, we realized, eating in the Val di Noto is like. If swordfish is “this,” the swordfish here is “like this.” The pork is also “like this,” the culinary inventiveness “like this,” and the hospitality always “like this.”
Most people go to Catania to visit Mount Etna, not to eat, but we chose a morning in the pescheria over a day at the caldera. The fish market is the beating heart of the cuisine of the Val di Noto, and when it’s at its liveliest, before 8 a.m., the sunken square behind the Piazza del Duomo is a riot of barking fishmongers selling swordfish and tuna with the heads on so that you can tell how fresh they are. The market spills into neighboring streets, an aromatic mess where butchers trim down whole sides of beef, hunks of lardo are stacked high, quince and carob pastes sit pressed into molds, and stands overflow with bags of wild herbs.
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