SCIACCA

There were six of us for lunch on the deck of the Ristorante Lampara, which juts out over the fishing port of Sciacca. The fleet was tucked in for the day, the sun was high and hot, and the mood at the table was jubilant. Our waiter had set out bottles of water, fizzy and flat, and a liter of the local white, chilling in a pitcher with the restaurant’s name on the front. Giampaolo, our friend from Umbria, filled our glasses and stood at the head of the table. He cleared his throat – theatrically – and we gave him the floor.

“To Michael and Carol Venezia, future citizens of Italy!”

And we whooped and hollered and drank a toast to our pals, the Venezias, who like us, have been splitting their lives between New York and Umbria. Michael’s grandfather was born in Italy. In fact, he was born in this very town of Sciacca on the south coast of Sicily. And through this blood connection Michael has a path to his Italian citizenship and through their marriage, Carol has a path to hers. Giampaolo and Mariella flew down with them yesterday from Umbria to help them negotiate the Sicilian bureaucracy and to celebrate. Giampaolo and Mariella are the best celebrators. Jill and I had been traveling on our own through Sicily and drove up today to join the party.

“You guys missed all the drama,” says Carol. “We had a scene from the Godfather this morning at the comune.”

“I needed my grandfather’s birth certificate – in my hand,” says Michael, “in order to apply for citizenship.” “Not a copy. The original birth certificate. From 1858. So, I say to the woman at the counter – a very nice woman – I need, please, -- I said in Italian -- the birth certificate of one Venezia, first name Michele, born, in Sciacca on the 24^th of October, 1858.”

“Same name as you,” I say.

“Every first son in my family has been named Michael Venezia since the seventh century.”

“Wow,” says Jill.

“I made up the part about the seventh century. But for a long time.”

Carol takes over the story.

“So, the woman behind the counter says, ‘Venezia? Every third person in Sciacca is named Venezia. It will take weeks to find this certificate. Months! Maybe I never find it.’”

“No,” said Michael, “I need it now. To get my citizenship.”

“‘O dio,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll try, but …’ and she shakes her head again and tells us to come back later.”

“So,” says Mariella, “the four of us go out on the promenade and look out at the ocean. We don’t know what to do. We’re just standing there, depressed.”

“And then she comes out,” says Michael, “The same woman who told us it would take months; she’s coming out from the comune. ‘L’ho trovato! L’ho trovato!’ she is screaming at us. She found it! I’m thinking, wait a minute. In five minutes she found it? From 1858?”

“We run over to her,” says Carol, “And she very officially and seriously hands the paper to Michael. He holds it like it’s going to explode. It’s this really old, stained piece of paper and he’s reading it and shaking his head; then he reads it again; and we’re all looking and waiting. And he starts to cry. And of course that makes me cry. And then the woman from the comune bursts into tears. She was the best cryer, I have to give her that.”

“I was crying too,” says Mariella. “Giampaolo was laughing, of course.”

“Yes!” he says. “With happiness!” And he reaches across the table and embraces Michael. At which point Jill and I start crying. I mean, what are we – made of stone? And our waiter? Who’s standing there, ready to take our order? Yes, he too is wiping a tear away on his sleeve.

I actually had a little run-in with this waiter when we got to the pasta course, which I think is worth talking about. I ordered spaghetti with clams, which is always hard for me to turn down, and the waiter says, “You know, these clams come from Genoa. They’re the best clams in the world.”

I smiled.

“But,” he said, “are you in Genoa?”

The smile froze on my face.

“You are in Sciacca, no?”

I nod.

“You will want the pasta con le sarde. The sardines were alive this morning on that boat sitting right there. With the blue flag.”

Everyone at the table stared at the boat with the blue flag, and then at me.

So, I had the pasta with sardines. I’m not an idiot. And it turned out to be one of the better decisions I’ve made in my life. Yes, in my entire life. The pasta with sardines was remarkable; it was historic. The waiter stood by my chair as I took the first bite. He watched me chew. I smiled and nodded and chewed and swallowed. He grinned ear to ear. I stood up and thanked him. We hugged. We were brothers.

Before we move on, I should briefly fill you in about that pasta with sardines:

First thing you do is boil a pound or so of fennel leaves in salted water – just the fronds – for seven or eight minutes. Then fish them out, chop them up and put aside. Keep the water – that’s what you’ll boil the pasta in – the fennel-flavored water. In a pan, sauté a chopped onion in lots of olive oil; add four or five anchovies and melt them into the onions; add the chopped fennel fronds; stir; add some white raisins; some pine nuts; some saffron dissolved in water; add some sardine fillets in bite-size chunks. That’s the sauce. Okay -- cook the pasta in the boiling fennel water (bucatini is traditional) and then toss it into the sauce. Maybe add a little pasta water. Keep gently tossing and tossing and folding and tossing until the pasta and the sauce become one. Top with toasted breadcrumbs.

Now, having cooked this pasta with first-rate sardines back in the States – it’s not the same. It’s a great dish, well-worth making, but not historic. For that you have to get the sardines fresh off a boat in the port of Sciacca – maybe from the boat with the blue flag.

After lunch, we strolled along the promenade looking out at the sea, and the women broke it to us that they would be going shopping – alone. Without us. Okay; that’s fine. We got the picture. And up the promenade they went -- in a very bubbly mood, I must say.

So, we were three men on the loose with bellies full and a nice little wine buzz. What to do? What to do?

The first thing we decided was to set off in the opposite direction of the women. This made us feel masculine and perhaps a little adventurous. They went east; we’re going west. They’re going shopping; we’re going where our fate will lead us.

We slowly made our way down the promenade – slowly because Michael – the soon-to-become citizen of Italy – is incapable of walking and talking at the same time. If he has something to say or if, god forbid, someone asks him a question, all progress ceases and he takes your arm in the Sicilian manner and holds forth or tells an ancient joke or even sometimes sings a song – with all the verses. Time elongates during these moments. The sun stops in the sky. Any hopes of getting anywhere, of doing anything, of being a responsible, participating member of the human race – gone.

Eventually, we progressed a few meters and came to an old, battered lodge hall or perhaps a union hall. Four or five anziani, were lounging on folding chairs outside the hall, sunning themselves. One of them was holding a guitar. Now, I say anziani – old guys – because … they were old. But in truth, they probably weren’t any older than I am. I mean, I’m old. But they looked older. I hope they did. These guys had spent their lives under the Sicilian sun, perhaps on fishing boats, who knows? They were a great-looking bunch of fellows, anyway, and we got to talking with them. Michael’s Sicilian is pretty good from growing up with his grandmother in the house and Giampaolo is an actual Italian and was able to penetrate the Sicilian dialect most of the time. My Italian is just fair and my ear for Sicilian is non-existent, so I faked my way through the entire conversation, and that worked fine. I‘m not much of a linguist, but faking it is how I made a living for the last fifty or sixty years.

Giampaolo asked the guy with the guitar if he would play something, but he became shy and shook his head. The other men laughed at his shyness. Giampaolo held out his hand for the guitar. Giampaolo’s a good guitar player.

We all watched as he tuned it up a bit and started to strum.

“What should we sing? What do you like?”

“Happy Birthday,” say one of the old guys, and we all laughed. “We all know the tune,” he said.

Giampaolo started strumming the chords and the driving rhythm of a song called “Bella Ciao,” which is a famous partigiani song from World War Two. This was a gamble on Giampaolo’s part because Italy is in many ways still fighting the civil war that came out of that conflict. We know people who still keep a portrait of Mussolini on their bedroom wall. And we have many friends whose roots and passions go back to the freedom fighters of that war, the anti-fascists, the partigiani.

Fortunately, our gang from the union hall were all good, solid lefties and they knew all the words to the song. Here’s an English version of a bit of it. The title, Bella Ciao, translates as Hello, Beautiful but “ciao” is also used as a goodbye and I think that might be more pertinent to the meaning.

Goodbye, beautiful. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

If I die as a freedom-fighter

You must bury me

High up in the mountains

Under the shade of a beautiful flower

Most of the partigiani songs are about a beautiful young woman left behind as the boy goes off to die for freedom. Sex and death – you can’t miss.

As the afternoon progressed toward evening, Giampaolo guided us into some songs about beautiful places in Italy – like Sorrento and Napoli and then into some love songs. As if on cue, our respective love-interests strolled up, their arms full of shopping. They joined right in with the singing outside the union hall.

“I need a nap,” whispered Jill to me, which was both a statement and an innuendo.

“Nap sounds good,” said I.

“What about dinner?” asked Michael.

“I can’t believe you’re still hungry,” said Carol.

“I’m not still hungry. I’m thinking about when I’m going to be hungry the next time.”

This is a great example of Italian meal-planning. Michael will make an exemplary citizen of Italy.

“Should we just go for pizza?”

“No,” said Mariella. I know a place in town. They do a famous seafood risotto.”

Suddenly, we were all hungry again. Just like that. All it takes is a little inspiration.

We closed with a rendition of Arrivederci Roma with Jill taking the high harmony. The light on the promenade softened and sweetened, and the sun inched its way down into the sea.

That night we went for seafood risotto at the trattoria Mariella told us about, but we never got to the risotto. And here’s why:

We told the waiter, who was also the owner, that we had had a big lunch that afternoon, and he suggested we just have some antipasto and he suggested it in such a way that we all thought we should take his advice. This was to be served on large platters, family style and accompanied by a chilled, eminently re-fillable jug of the local white wine.

We started with some zucchini stuffed with a local fish called spatola - rolled in breadcrumbs; then came smoked eggplant rollatini with a nugget of raw salmon tucked inside. I have to say that this was one of the best bites I’ve ever taken. Then a big platter of couscous with raw vegetables and tiny shrimp; then a big frittata with zucchini; then we each got a piece of swordfish, simply grilled, lemon and oil; then a big plate of fritto misto -- little shrimp, big shrimp and calamari. Just a little snack to take the edge off.