I’ve been trying to spend some time in Catania for years, but it has always eluded me.  I had come close last Spring when I spoke briefly at two conferences on venture capital in Palermo and Catania, but that time didn’t count – we had driven through town on our way to a spectacular hotel and convention center in the northern suburb of Aci Castello.  I had the joy of a quick hour spent in barefoot and in dark blue suit looking across the Messin straits before the conference and a quick dash to the airport.  My only consolation for the missed opportunity was a little jar of Bronte pistachio pesto from Nonna Vincenza.

Last friday was another hit-and-run trip to speak at a conference in eastern Sicily’s unofficial capital, but this time the flight schedule in and out of Naples were clement and I had enough time to dip my toes into a sea of potential discoveries, which was not easy because in Italy’s smaller cities even the cathedral is closed for lunch between 1 and 3 pm.  Food for the eyes and soul will have to wait for another visit.

Not so for food, on advice from a friend I had myself dropped off in front Savia, a famous pastry shop and café where I grabbed an amazing aranicino alla catanese (fried rice ball with eggplant, cheese and I believe tiny pieces of prosciutto cotto ham) and strolled slowly down via Etnea towards the Duomo (Cathedral) and university at the other end, taking in shop windows and sicilian baroque facades.

The tiny streets surrounding the covered Sant’Agata covered market between the Duomo and the elevated train tracks towards the sea are a foodie’s paradise:  seafood in a rich variety of colors, shapes and sizes (the tuna and swordfish called out to me saying “grab a big lemon and a knife and just come to me!), local cheeses, butcher shops specializing in lamb, carts full of local produce.  Little eateries were carved small nooks along the stone wall in fish market…but I wasn’t ready to eat just then.

Eventually my wandering took me up the slow slope of Via Garibaldi because I had heard there was a castle up that way (I‘m a sucker for castles) and stumbled upon one of Catania’s many under-appreciated gems: Piazza Mazzini.

Piazza Mazzini’s is a small square sliced into quarters by Via Garibaldi and Via Auteri.  Each corner had an a simple sicilian-style arcade supported by what appeared to ancient greek and roman columns that were a bit worse for wear The winter sun was warm and three of the corners had restaurant-bars with tables outside and a few people milling about.  I chose the Vineria e Trattoria Da Vincenzo because the heavy wooden tables outside were different shapes and colors and spread out like scratched treasures at an old neighbor’s garage sale.

After a bit of give and take with the waiter (the only person working that day) I was talked into a mortadella sandwich with a touch of olive oil, fresh hot pepper and herbs to transform a cold cut that is usually special only up around Bologna (in fact, its poorer, inbred cousin is what we call Bologna – or Boloney – in America).  I had him suggest a glass of white wine from the slopes of Etna because I love the mineral tones of white wines grown on volcanic soils.  But what really blew me away was the panino’s bread – dense, just moist enough, slightly yellow as tough durum wheat and traces of finely ground corn flower had been woven into it.  The bread itself was a full meal and the dough a blend of milled grains.  The waiter told me he had tasted breads for weeks before choosing this bread and it’s bakery.  He also uses it for olive-pate toasted crostini.  He spoke of the bread as though he was telling me about choosing the perfect puppy to take into the family

He also told me that the columns in Piazza Mazzini were taken from ancient ruins when the square was build, long before cars.

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-Alan Sherman, ‘Sandwiches’

Sanduiche de Mortadela, a glutton's dream meal

Think back to the most deliciously disgusting meal you’ve ever had – you know, the kind of meal that tastes absolutely phenomenal, but in the back of your head you heard the screaming wail of your arteries clogging as you licked the plate clean. Well, we can thank Anthony Bourdain for raising our cholesterol levels today. Before we came to Brazil, we watched his episode of No Reservations : Sao Paulo to try and get some tips of places we could eat at while here. He said that the first thing anyone who is trying to eat like a local should do is get a mortadella sandwich from Bar do Mane in the Central Market…. and, of course, we listened.

For those who may not be familiar with Mortadella, it’s an Italian deli meat made of finely hashed/ground heat-cured pork sausage which incorporates at least 15% small cubes of pork fat (principally the hard fat from the neck of the pig). It’s flavored with spices, including whole or ground black pepper, myrtle berries, nutmeg, coriander and pistachios and/or olives. Traditionally the pork filling was ground to a paste using a large mortar and pestle. The Romans called the sausage “farcimen mirtatum” (myrtle sausage), because the sausage was flavored with myrtle berries. Mortadella originated in Bologna, the capital of Emilia-Romagna; elsewhere in Italy it may be made either in the Bolognese manner or in a distinctively local style. The mortadella of Prato is a Tuscan specialty flavored with pounded garlic. The mortadella of Amatrice is lightly smoked. Guess where American Bologna got its name? (If you’ve never tried mortadella, don’t be turned off by the Bologna comparison – it tastes nothing like American Bologna. I HATE bologna. Mortadella is delicious. )

Sao Paulo’s Mercado Municipal is ENORMOUS. It took us half an hour of walking up and down the million different aisles of vendors to even find Bar do Mane, a tiny, unassuming little sandwich booth with a dozen different awards plastered on the walls. We ordered one sandwich to share, and watched as they lightly toasted slice after slice of mortadella on the flat top – the chunks of fat started to melt and sizzle, the meat slightly caramelized… Half a pound of meat later, they topped it off with several slices of provolone cheese, sourdough bread, mayonnaise and dijon mustard. We nearly broke our jaws trying to take the first bite It was delicious, though. It was so good that we didn’t even notice that the fat was dripping down our arms as we ate.

However, my story ends in defeat.

Defeated by a sandwich

I couldn’t even finish half of half of the sandwich… however, at a whopping 70 grams of fat per sandwich, I’m not too upset about it. It’s a meal for two men, or three women.  Haha. It’s definitely something you should do if you ever visit Sao Paulo, though!