Catania is intensely urban, and it feels much larger than a city of 300,000 residents. Like all Italian cities, it’s built with local stone. In this case, that means volcanic rock from Mount Etna, and the grand buildings on the Via Etnea are a rakish ash-gray-and-black trimmed with white. We looked in on all the famous pastry shops on the street before settling on Pasticceria Scardaci, which is tucked away on the first floor of a 300-year-old convent. Having just dodged foot traffic that made midtown Manhattan at lunch hour seem quaint, we treated ourselves to babbà so supple they were almost creamy, mini-cones filled with pistachio or hazelnut ice cream and dipped in chocolate, and a granita di caffè to brace us for the walk back to our hotel.
By our final morning, our solid suitcases were ready to burst. We had an unusually early flight, but we made time for a quick return visit to the pasticceria, and while I waited in the double-parked car with buses and Vespas swirling around me, Christine dashed in and returned with a trio of granitas—coffee, almond, and pistachio—all improbably wrapped in paper and tied with a bow. It was the start of a typical day in the Val di Noto: traffic-choked, surprising, and delicious.
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