Gil's Cuisine & Pop Lounge

I have to admit that I felt rather sad when I left Sicily. I had a marvellous time there, and despite all my moaning about the heat, I found the sunshine extremely soothing for the soul. So my parting meal at Palermo airport, if you could even call it that, was a big fat cannolo, even though after about my eighth one I vehemently swore I would not eat another. To me the humble cannolo, which can be found throughout Sicily, was a symbol of what made my time there so great. And this one at the airport tasted the best of the lot. Why is food, when touched with a twinge of nostalgia, always extra good? Barely two hours after leaving Sicily I was yearning for the taste of that cannolo again.

But new experiences were to be had, some unwanted. On my arrival in Split, Croatia, my luggage went AWOL. Croatian Airlines blamed the Italian luggage handlers and were rather unhelpful during the whole episode. There were no reassurances from them that my bag would be recovered. In fact they suggested that it might never resurface at all. But it did, although it would take two pretty stressful days. What I discovered during that time was how little you actually need.

After Split I headed to Dubrovnik. The bus route hugs the coast all the way, and the scenery was truly amazing – cliff edge precipices married with pristine waters and lush green islands. But greeting Dubrovnik for the first time at night was something else. Wave after wave of stone make up the Old Town walls, and when lit up in lights, it is truly a spectacle to behold. I will never forget the adulation I felt the moment I first laid eyes on those walls.

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Antica Focacceria San Francisco

Like any big city, there is much to see in Palermo, a place that’s sultry and sensuous, but sliced with an edginess. One moment you’re walking down a street filled with designer shops, the next, wandering through rubble built up after years of gun fighting. The architecture is fascinating given its influences which include that of the Arabs and the Spanish, and with military precision, I went from one tourist spot to another to try and take it all in. I visited many a church, as one is prone to do while in Italy, and on a couple of occasions, I found myself walking in on a wedding ceremony. From what I could gather, these are not off limits to the general public. What I found most fascinating about walking in on one was the people watching – the guests, all dressed to the nines, and fanning themselves simultaneously to provide some respite from the heat.

As ever, I tried to seek out some local food specialities by asking for some advice, but my first attempt was ill-fated. I made my inquiries with the people who ran the B&B that I stayed at. “Do you like spicy?”, they ask. (Hmmm, this was not a promising start.) “We know a delicious Chinese”, they continued. (Clearly not foodies). “No, thanks”, I replied, but they were pretty persistent, insisting that it was really yummy. But honestly, how good could Chinese food in Sicily possibly be?

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The mussels at Quattro Gatti

I have since left Ragusa Ibla, but a little more on this tiny little town, which after only a couple of days had managed to charm its way into my heart. I managed to make a few friends during my stay, namely some of the older male residents, the ones who, if you read my previous blog post, you’ll recall seemed to ‘while away their time watching the world go by’. As I became more of a regular spectacle wandering the little streets of Ragusa Ibla, I would encounter the odd one who would try and talk to me. I barely speak a word of Italian, so as I watched them talk to me, following their hands as they made those gestures that Italians so love, I can only assume that their favourite pastime after sitting is to indulge in idle gossip.

What I found most amusing about these experiences was that my protestations that I do not speak Italian did nothing to curtail their desire to talk to me. In fact, it made them more determined to be understood. But because of my language failings, what I was unable to convey to any of them is that “it doesn’t matter how many times you repeat what you say, or even if you S-A-Y I-T S-L-O-W-L-Y, if I don’t understand it the first time, I probably won’t understand it the second time either.” But if I could actually say this to them, then it would be because I was able to speak Italian, in which case I would not be having this problem in the first place. As it was, I could only nod and smile.

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Ragusa Ibla

My next stop after Catania was Ragusa Ibla, about 2 hours drive south of Catania. My reason for coming here was food related for it is home to the only two star Michelin restaurant in Sicily (there are other one stars). Truth be told, I had also tried to do some research on other Sicilian restaurants through this one Italian food blog I found. As it was written in Italian, I needed the help of ‘Google Translator’. While ‘Google Translator’ translates words fine, it translates meanings less well, and after a little while spent trying to ‘translate’ the translation, I found myself giving up.

Anyway, Michelin pointed me to Ragusa Ibla, the old part of Ragusa, which is not to be mistaken for Ragusa itself, the new town. A Unesco World Heritage site, it is built upon a hill and extremely beautiful, with narrow ancient streets that makes the thought of driving a car through them seem impossible (although it is possible for there are in fact cars here). It also has to be said that Ragusa Ibla is tiny, tiny, tiny. If you can imagine a scene where the older generation of men from the town while away their days sitting in the main square watching the world go by, then you have pretty much captured the essence of this place. I must admit to a small bout of worry that there would not be enough to keep me busy for the two nights that I had planned to stay here. But after a while, I too cottoned on to the sheer pleasure of watching the world go by, especially with a cappuccino and a good book to hand.

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Mount Etna

If I had to use one word to describe Sicily, it would be ‘hot‘. No two words, ‘stinking hot‘. But what else could I possibly expect from this Mediterranean island during the height of summer? Temperatures have been hovering at between 35c and 40c, and at times it is almost unbearable.

And as I write this, I have come to realise that after living in London for a number of years, I must have picked up some element of Britishness. How else can I possibly explain an opening paragraph which is all about the weather? So putting that to one side, let me talk briefly about Catania, my first port of call in Sicily. It’s situated on the east side of the island, and is a rather pleasant town. It’s also a really good base from which to explore the sites of Mount Etna, the town of Syracuse which is steeped in history, and the quaint and picturesque (if a little touristy) town of Taormina.

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A fantastic summer berry fool

The lovely people from Gekko invited me out to dinner last week. They like my blog and wanted to chat to me about potentially linking to my reviews on their hotel and restaurant website. I was pretty chuffed. It’s really rewarding to get positive feedback from readers to a point where they like what you do and want to get involved with you.

Their restaurant of choice was The Hawksmoor, a British steakhouse on Commercial Road. In a split second decision that would haunt me, I decided to drive rather than to take the tube. A combination of bad traffic and getting lost worked against me and I ended up being 45 minutes late. Surely this is not a way to make an impression on people you haven’t yet met. But like I said, the crowd from Gekko are really lovely and they were entirely understanding of the situation.

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Creamed egg with chive oil & views over Laguiole

I once swore that I would never go back to Rodez.

It happened in July 2006 when I was due to fly to Toulon in Provence on Ryanair. Missing my flight by the skin of my teeth, I weighed up all my various options, these being to change my flight to an alternative destination, or to come back the following day for the next flight to Toulon. Faced with the daunting prospect of having to travel out to Stansted Airport again, I decided that an element of adventure and daring was called for. And so I decided to fly to an unheard of destination in Southern France, somewhere I thought would be close to Toulon, and make my way overland instead.

Well that particular destination was Rodez. Standing at the Ryanair customer services counter and peering into the destinations map, the distance between Rodez and Toulon did not appear so far. But as I was to find out soon enough, maps on walls can be rather deceptive.

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Goi, Vietnamese prawn salad at Viet Noodle Bar

I was running late. Worse yet, I was running late to meet my friend, J, who never ran late. If anything, she usually ran early. Having worked with her before, I knew her time keeping skills well, and punctuality was one of her core virtues. Personality-wise, as a cute version of Speedy Gonzales in a size four outfit, she used to zip around the office with the gusto of an Olympic ice speed skater. Highly energetic, she was so quick at what she did that I was never able to keep up.

The sweet irony is that I am generally, (occasionally?), reasonably, on time. In fact, more ironic was that I always seemed to be on time for those friends who run late for me. Take last week for example when I was due to meet a certain friend for a bite. For some perplexing reason there were no delays on Transport for London and I managed to arrive early. The friend then called me 10 minutes after we were due to meet to tell me he’d forgotten the time and he was only just leaving home. An hour and two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach later, I was surprised that I managed to still hold a conversation.

So feeling rather guilty when I finally showed up, I could do little more than apologise profusely. Being mid-week with certain work pressures in the office to uphold, it was just as well that we were having lunch at Viet Noodle Bar, where the service, like J, was lightning quick.

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