Is Don is not-so-good

If you ever saw any of The Godfather films you will know a little how it all works. The mafia are a mean bunch of guys (and they are all men, they don't like women very much, by the way). They are divvied up into groups or clans based on family and the head of each clan is don. The head honcho in the Godfather  is Don Corleone. Corleone takes it's name from the town in Sicily where the mafia all began, early last century, and was consolidated after World War Two. Corleone is not a very pleasant place. Dry, hot, craggy and unfertile. You can see why they have anger issues.
The mafia racket is simple, if not ironic, in a murderous sense.
Basically, the mafia offer protection to businesses. Businesses pay to be protected from the very same people offering the protection. It's sweet. Don't pay up and we will burn your house, shoot you and your family or cut off your horse's head and put it in bed next to you while you are sleeping.
The payment is called pizzo. And they reckon most businesses today in Sicily still pay this in some way or another.
But there is one exception that we know of.  In the quaint Piazza San Francisco d'Assissi is the cafe Antico Foccaceria, the first business in Palermo to say no to the mafia. No to the pizzo.
Timmy and Roscoe also say no to pizzo so we went there to check it out. A police car is parked nearby and while we are there a couple of armed, local cops come in to buy something to eat.
We are very happy with the food here. Lots of antipasto type things; rolled up eggplant in passata with pine nuts, crumbed sardines, swordfish croquettes and a dish of wriggly pasta shapes with tomato, pork and peas.

Dons Timmy and Roscoe

passeggiata

Some things are tricky to translate, others are impossible. A good mate of mine tried to relate to me an experience he had years ago in Italy. He said it was a passeggiata,  an afternoon walk. I have been to Italy many times but still didn't get this.
Things seem very traditional in Palermo. It's Sunday. Nothing is open and church bells are going off all over the place. Timmy is late to wake so I venture out on my own. It's early. Everything is Catholic-shut-tight. The day of rest is palpable.
So we did what any good Palermitan would do, relax at home then have a late lunch, some red wine and a siesta.
Post slumber and we venture out to a very different world. The main streets in the city are blocked off to cars. And people are about. The piazzas are full. I started to get it.
Some people dress up, but you don't have to. The shops are now open, but no one is out to shop. The streets are closed off, but there is no yanky-doodle type fanfare. This isn't about shopping, consuming or cheering. People talk to each other. Kids ride bikes. Older men link arms to support each other, teenage boys kiss each other on the cheek, not once but twice, because thats what they do here. The women are proud and relaxed.
There are no malls here. No fast food franchises and no muffin-topped teens on iphones.
Words are one thing. Cultural stuff is hard to translate. I reckon it would be like trying to explain to someone who has never been to a barbecue just exactly what it is. Its not just about cooking food over a fire. A passeggiata is not about getting somewhere, fast. It's simply about being. It's all very buddhist for a place full of Catholics.

vangaboys and deep fried sandwiches

Timmy was pretty excited today. We were going to the beach.

Beach town Mondello is really easy to get to from Palerms. A couple of buses from downtown regularly go there. A couple of euros is all you need.
Mondello is like one big vangaboys (we like to party. we like, we like to party) party.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUUGblNjK20.

Lots and lots and lots of eurotrash, but hot eurotrash, if that's your bag, baby. Like a breeding ground for versace models. Tanned is an understatement. Never see skin like this.  Everyone is pretty much thin and gorgeous. Mental note, there are no fast food franchises here.
Speaking of food, I was eager to try a few local specialties I had read about in the past.

I have to check spelling, but there is something called pannelle. Roadside vans are equipped with deep fryers that fry up eggplant, potato and mint fritters and a fried soft polenta type thing (like an Aussie potato scallop) made with besan (chick pea flour). All of these are served in a soft bread roll. You really get the mediterranean/Mid East fusion here. Bread roll excluded - dont know what this is about. But it does make eating the whole thing easy. Its has the texture of a really, really good chip sandwich, but much tastier.
Never thought of fresh mint in a potato croquettes, but its a bloody nice little combo.
Arrivederci! x

got the camera working. prego!

loving cassata gelato

The day began early with a quote from Timmy - money follows hotness, hotness follows money.  We were in the shallow end and it could only get deeper. We had been for an early morning run after both of us were woken by noisy garbage men. Actually, I had been woken much earlier by car alarms, tom cats and a really noisy sea gull.
To sum up today - we exercised, we had a really good lunch and we walked the walk of good tourists. We covered it all; the Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs and the Normans, all contributing to make Sicily one great, big lucky dip of delights.

We stumbled across a restaurant in an alley. We had a a plate of cold meats; salami, mortadella (devon by any other name) and some really good olives. Please, don't try this at home. The deli section at most Aussie supermarkets won't do. There is something about the simplicity of this food that cannot be easily replicated. Pasta next. I was excited to be eating buccanti con sarde. My basic foodie knowledge told me it was pasta with sardines. The sardine component was really a fishy sauce, quite thick and pasty, which you need to coat the fat strands of pasta.  The inclusion of currants, pine nuts and bottarga (salted, dry fish roe) mirrored our afternoon of history. This dish is what this Sicily all about; one leg firmly in Italy and the other with a few toes still clinging on to North Africa, the Middle East and beyond.

primo giorno

Day one. Rome. It's hot, it's sexy and everyone smokes. Champix, I am going to be counting on you.
So I have bitten the bullet. Starting a blog means commitment. Maybe not daily, but we shall see how things pan out. 
I await Timmy's arrival at our room in the Navona Palace, sophisticated and stylish, hotel to a man's man, a lady's man and two men about town men, Roscoe and Timmy.
We are here but for one day. Not enough time to build Rome, but enough time paint it red. But first things first.  Tim arrives. We enjoy a light, summer Roman lunch. Prosciutto, melon, salad and red wine. Now it was time to try my hand at this siesta business. 
I am not one for afternoon naps. I have many issues with the concept.  The shackles of Catholic guilt (have I earnt it?). Anxiety (there is always something I should be doing). Ageing (I need less sleep).  Or maybe I am just not a siesta sort of guy. After our lunch I lay myself down at 4pm. I woke at 8.30. That is a four and half hour nap. This wasn’t jet lag. It was sleep of the dead. Of someone who wasn't thinking of what next.  I was in no hurry to get anywhere anytime.  I was the new king of siesta. 

Night one in Rome and I was ready.

The serendipity of this vacation seemed endless.  My last day at work and I was visited by Samuello, a local egg farmer, who was offering to supply eggs to the cafe.  I told Sam I would call him when I get back from Italy.  You  must go to a place called two fat men when in Rome, he said. We were in Rome, so we did. Trouble was trying to find the place. 
Two Fat Men is not what we would call legal. It is not listed. It is not licenced. It is just a Roman dude cooking whatever tickles his Roman fancy. Lucky for us, it had recently been written up in the New York Times. Roscoe and Timmy - so cutting egde. 

Recession eating is in right now. And Italy has been hit hard. Two fat men (Due Ciccioni) is off the beaten map. It is on the edge of edgy Trastavere, swarming with masses on a hot Tuesday night. We struggle through jam packed piazzas. We find our street and suddenly things are quiet. Where did all the people go? Tourists are replaced by tanned youths, hanging out and trying to look dangerous, unaware they are too hot to be dangerous to anyone but themselves.  We follow the sound of cutlery and soft voices in the night. We turn a corner to see diners. Several tables line the graffiti scarred walls and as we approach a woman stands and asks ‘due?’. Yes. We take our table at this hole on the wall.

There is no menu which means no choice. We are abrogated of any responsibility so Timmy is in heaven. And so am I.

Three plates of food and one bottle of something red are on our table within minutes. One plate has torn, grilled bread topped with chopped tomatoes, sweet olive oil and fragrant dried oregano. There is another bowl of something orange and mashed. It may have been pumpkin, mashed with olive oil and lemon juice.  And the third is an ancient dish; fava beans slow cooked with probably nothing more than water, garlic and bay. Brutally honest and delicious. We then had a pasta, a type I have not seen; little tubes like fat calamari rings. Perfect shapes to scoop up the cream and porcetta (bacon) sauce. We were offered more food, but stopped there. The plates are cleared and the grappa and limencello are put on the table, signifying the end of the meal. 

We eat food that Romans ate centuries ago, conquerors and puttana alike. No place for the fuss-pot foodies, neurotics and the dietary intolerables. It may have been the romantic lighting, the backdrop of stairs that led nowhere, the ancient cobbled stones, the graffitied walls, the happy people mindful of this special moment. Or maybe it was simply that this food has tasted this good for two millenia.