Scicli

A first trip must include at least one of the great Baroque towns of southern Sicily: Noto, Modica, and Ragusa. Why the burst of Baroque in the rural south? On January 11, 1693, at nine P.M., lower Sicily was shaken apart by an earthquake. Seventy towns were reduced to rubble and more than sixty thousand people—some quote ninety-three thousand—killed. Now estimated at 7.4, the tremor lasted four minutes. Aftershocks lasted three years. Little remained of the medieval architecture and no one chose to repeat an old style. The three towns rebuilt in the exuberant Baroque. Bring on the new. Not usually mentioned in the story is our destination, the small town of Scicli, near the coast.

WE’VE RESERVED AT Eremo della Giubiliana, south of Ragusa and only a short drive from Scicli. Feeling a bit iffy, I fall asleep on the way, but hitting sudden potholes jars me awake, plus Ed is exclaiming frequently over the landscape. Finally, I pay attention. Jungles of fichi d’india, prickly pear, line the narrow roads. Well-made bone-white stone walls cross and recross and divide and subdivide the land. Cribs for animals, border markings, bracing for hillside terraces, field separators—back-breaking labor. The stacked irregular stones are topped with a line of tight-fitting cut stones designed to stabilize and keep excess water off the lower wall. These are called coltelli, knives, in Tuscany and are very pleasing to my eye. (We learn later that here they’re simply called traversa, across stones, and that the cut surface is called pietra viva, living stone.) Half-collapsed houses and agricultural buildings add to the hallucination that we are crossing a vast archeological site.

EREMO, HERMITAGE. OUT in the expanse of farmland, you come upon Eremo della Giubiliana as you do the lonely haciendas in Spain or the great ranches in Mexico. “Benvenuti,” welcome. A young man rushes out to help with our bags. “L’Eremo,” he gestures with a sweep of his arm around the limestone complex surrounded by giant twisted olive and almond trees, and the ubiquitous prickly pear. He’s Marco, immediately warm and ready to show us around. The structure somehow escaped the 1693 earthquake. Occupied for millennia, it was an Arab home and fortress against marauding Turks, later a stronghold of the Knights Templar (Malta is visible from nearby Punta Secca on a clear day), then held by the Benedictines. In the 1700s, the convent was bought by the Nifosì family, who still owns it. The venerable heir, Signora Vincenza Jolanda Nifosì, Marco tells us, sits all day in a strategic position between reception and the dining room door, benignly overseeing comings and goings. She gives me her frail, cold hand to shake and nods.

While Marco checks us in, Stefano—love it that they introduce themselves right away—brings cold glasses of almond milk to the lofty stone lobby made cozy by a low, cinnamon-red sofa and fringed chairs, books, and lamplight. The signora sits across the room, upright in her chair, a little mutt curled at her feet. She looks at us now and then and resumes her stare into the distance. We pretend we are distant American cousins, upstarts who’ve come back to the family roots to make trouble.

Marco takes us on a tour. We stop in the original kitchen, a tiny museum of antique cookware, where we taste the just-harvested olive oil. It’s rich and fruity, but without, as Ed says loyally, the piquant hit that Tuscans prize in their oil. I like the mildness. It will marry well with a squeeze of lemon juice for a salad.

On the grounds, we find the remains of a cemetery, five stone graves cut into stone outcrops. Fifth-century B.C. children used to romp here. A brindled cat curls in one and looks up at us with his one good eye. Also on the grounds, black pigs, who have their own swimming place and mud baths. They are fed organic fava beans, acorns, barley, wheat, and chickpeas, all raised here.

The peace of the Benedictines who once chanted in these halls permeates the monastic corridors. (Wear white and drink almond milk.) Preserved are early Arab water channels spilling down two levels, creating music. A grass-surrounded swimming pool. All the layers of history in one place.

Terra-cotta pots are treasured in Italy. Around the courtyard, still prolific with roses in mid-October, are several fine old orci planted with flowers and held together with wire, earth showing through the cracks. That’s it: The pot kept.

Our room is small, with an ornate iron bed; some monk used to snore here. We booked late and probably have the last-choice room, but with one of the musical Arab fountains right outside the window, I’m content.

THE RESTAURANT IS named for Don Eusebio, an ancestor whose photo shows a corpulent man almost muzzled by his unruly mustache. He ate well, as will we. Before dinner, an antipasto feast is served with prosecco by the fire. Nuts and big olives, crisp chickpea sticks, caponata, bite-size arancini, squares of ricotta crusted and fried. Dinner?

The signora disappears at dusk. We’re alone but the silence is suddenly interrupted by an American group just in from a day of touring. Two of them have fallen and one has lost his computer. They look exhausted. We overhear Lorenzo telling them about tomorrow.

“What’s in Modica?” a man asks.

A woman responds, “Chocolate.”

Lorenzo slyly adds, “And the Baroque.” Doubtless I’ve made a fool of myself in Greece or Peru. And probably in Italy, too.

They only light briefly. Quiet returns once the bus has carted off the group to a restaurant in Ragusa. Ed reminds me, “He travels fastest who travels alone.”

THE TABLE IS laid with white linens, the china and silverware embellished with a coat of arms. Candlelight and gliding waiters—that enticing moment of the day, the anticipation of dinner.

Back to the black pig. We order the roasted tournedos. First, the best onion soup ever, oregano scented and served with a dollop of fondue on top. Not the crusty cheese-covered French onion soup I know, but a rich broth and a creamy topping. The basket of homemade breads that taste of wheat and rain. My favorite is the one made with capuliato, the sun-dried tomato sauce. A pitcher of beef broth comes with Ed’s tortelloni pasta filled with onions, mint, and a cream of almonds. “Extra primo good,” he says. I have a taste. Yes. A swirl of three flavors, each sparking off the other. Stefano, our waiter, tells us that the onions come from Giarratana, famous for the delicacy of its onions.

The pork! We take the first bite simultaneously and Ed looks at me wide-eyed. “Dio! This is al di là.” Beyond the beyond. Texture like the tenderest beef filet but the taste soars beyond that—a deep and amazing flavor, juicy and succulent. A stack of thin-skin potatoes topped with a sprinkle of crushed almonds. Simple but not easy to achieve; you must have the best of everything. The pork’s sauce is its own pan juices with olive oil from Tonda Iblea (a well-known region for excellent oil) and field herbs. We want to thank the chef but he is away. He can be proud of his staff.

I remember from past trips to Sicily that the food was the best. The sun-warmed soil, the sea, the assumption of freshness—even a simple ragù, roasted vegetable, or grilled fish is somehow uplifted. The pork deserves a generous and open-hearted wine. We order close to home, Gulfi Nerojbleo, 2011, a nero d’Avola from Chiaramonte Gulfi. So much character and variation in these nero d’Avola wines. This one tastes as dark as the black pig, with a nice spice behind the fruit.

BREAKFAST IN THE dining room filled with golden October sunlight. The tour group gathers at a large table. The leader is cracking the whip for them to hurry and board the bus. They want to enjoy the cappuccino, the Turk’s hat pastries, the caciocavallo cheese, and the morning—but she has plans. We sit at a side table mapping our day. We could linger over our omelets and the homemade jams but, like the tour guide, we have places to see. This is the day for Scicli!

WE ROUND A long hillside and the town sprawls below, set in a bowl with surrounding steep hills. What an odd choice—so indefensible. The ancient town used to be higher, I read, but migrated down over the centuries. On the hilltop above, a church and a castle ruin loom.

Unlike some towns that unfold gradually, Scicli gives itself to you immediately. The exhilaration starts in Piazza Italia, irregularly shaped and dominated by Baroque palazzi. Palazzo Fava is decorated with outlandish Moorish heads and animals that never were. Chiesa Madre, 1751, a sunny color with comparatively restrained ornamentation, is home to a fabulous piece of religious folk art—La Madonna delle Milizie, a life-size processional figure of a sword-waving Virgin Mary on a rearing horse. I’ve seen her on a donkey but have I ever seen her on a horse? Or with a battle in mind? She’s papier-mâché, not as heavy as most statues that get dragged through the streets for festivals. Her black hair is human, said to have been donated by local women, and her steed is about to crush the twisted bodies and heads of two Moors. This is how the Virgin appeared to troops of Norman soldiers in battle at nearby Milizie with the Saracens in 1091. A large painting by Francesco Pascucci portrays her again, barefoot, red tresses flowing, in full battle on a white horse. Not your usual demure Madonna.

At the end of the street of Sant’Bartolomeo off the piazza stands his church, a tall three-tiered wedding-cake church that backs up against hills studded with caves where the poor used to live. Finished in 1752—one year after Chiesa Madre—and later given a more neoclassical look, Bartolomeo must have made quite a splash. Inside, all rich elegance and light. Gold-embellished white plaster frames with angels and swags around paintings on the ceiling, intricately carved choir stalls, an eighteenth-century presepio (nativity) scene of twenty-nine little figures and animals, the tiny infant with his foot raised, and delicate angels, all cunningly carved (1773–1776) from linden wood. I wish I could pick these up and look at them closely.

Around the elaborate ceiling frames and on some of the wall panels, old Arab-influenced tile designs have been re-created. I ask the caretaker if they are real ceramic or trompe l’oeil. She says they are painted. Marvelous! So much to see in this church. Sorry, Sant’Apollonia—patron saint of dentists—your martyrdom must have been awful but the painting of you getting your teeth yanked out with long pliers feels almost cartoonish. My favorite: an anonymous wood-panel painting of the Virgin and Baby. So curious. She’s willowy and thin, poised on a crescent moon like her earlier prototype Diana, and she holds a chain attached to a sea creature. Object of wonder.

COLD DRINKS AT the kiosk in Piazza Italia: mint, barley water, mandarin, wild cherry, chinotto (with sour oranges), lemon, tamarind, almond milk, lemon salt soda. The chairs are emblazoned with Coca-Cola. At a lone vendor’s table with sparse offerings of tiles, keys, and bits of pottery, I buy two rough ceramic jelly molds, one with grapes and one with a lizard. They have these in the kitchen at the Eremo. Eight euros.

IS MORMINO PENNA the prettiest street in Sicily? In one of my guidebooks, the novelist Elio Vittorini is quoted as saying that Scicli is the most beautiful town in the world. Walking along this street, I think maybe he’s right. The buildings are a soft, monochromatic palette: buttercream, sand, ivory, limestone white. When I was little, I was taught that the streets of heaven were paved with gold. But this street must be as splendid because the smooth-worn stones gleam like pearls. Pink oleander trees and pale, human-scale palazzi line either side. How destructive that 1693 earthquake—but what a fervor for beauty it inspired. We stop at a bar just to catch up with our senses. Men are reading the paper, a woman pulling a sweater over the head of her baby, the waiter wiping the counter. Just as if they didn’t know they must be angels because this is heaven, gold streets or not.

Palazzo Veneziano-Sgarlata’s iron window balconies bulge at the bottom, a concession to the puffy skirts of women’s dresses. It’s a house you could dream of living in. The Baroque is tame; the symmetry of neoclassicism by then—mid-eighteenth century—moved into the local scene. In one handsome building, the Municipio, the hero Salvo Montalbano (of the popular TV version of the Andrea Camilleri detective series) came to town when he had to meet the commissioner. (There’s a handout sheet listing all the places filmed in the area.)

WE PLANNED TO have lunch at Satra. We won’t get to try their smoked macaroni with baked ricotta, lemon zest, and tuna, or the spaghetti with toasted almond cream and tuna bottarga. It’s closed. We stop instead at an outdoor café and sit on a balcony overlooking this amazing street. It’s the worst lunch I can remember. The house wine makes my tongue feel like an emery board. Even Ed, so easy to please, leaves half his pasta untouched. I surreptitiously drop bits of stony bread and leathery salami to the cat waiting in the bushes below. Poor cat. We don’t even care about lunch; we want to wander. Lucky that the churches stay open in the afternoon.

Even this time of year, the sun feels very strong. I remember Lampedusa says in The Leopard, “appalling sun,” “tyrannous sun,” “monarchic sun.” Sun defines Sicily. I’d like to come back in July when it really rages.

I count sixteen major churches on my map. Each one riveting! Jewel-box interiors, white stucco whipped into creamy decorative swirls, monster face carvings, and every square inch of surface adorned. A strict minimalist would collapse in a heap. Shall we revive her with a tamarind granita and take her by the elbow to:

San Giovanni, with a sweet ellipse inside, and a strange painting—Christ on the cross in a glowing white skirt. The only known painting of its type except for one in Burgos, Spain, it probably was brought over during a time Sicily was ruled by Spain.

Santa Teresa, so airy with pale aqua and white stucco ornamentation, plus a wild black-and-white floor (1756) that looks contemporary, the bold angular, geometric design at such odds with the feminine columns entwined with vines and the primitive ceiling painting of the nativity.

On to Piazza Busacca and the grand church, cloister, and monastery of the Carmelites. It’s closed and we only photograph its massive doors and the piazza full of cafés, benches, and umbrellas.

Other stops:

Antica Farmacia Cartia’s balancing scales, vials, mortars, amphorae, and containers—another scene used in the Montalbano series.

Costume Museum, closed.

The super-Baroque Palazzo Beneventano, now an antique shop. This is one of the several local UNESCO World Heritage Sites, selected for its pure late Baroque style. At the corner of the building, where one street meets another, the architect’s genius shines. A wrap-around band of geometric medallions merges the two sides of the building with the angle of the streets. Balconies are supported by outrageous gorgon heads with big tongues and nostrils that probably breathe fire. Awful, really, but impressive and delightful.

Side streets. Underpass with an Arab arch. Spillway over the once navigable and important but now submerged Modica river. Neighborhoods. An impressive datura, dangling its golden trumpets in profusion. The city goes up the hillsides and beyond; there are more churches (why does such a small town have so many?) but that’s enough for now.

A last stop for coffee and Ed starts a conversation with the barista, who’s bandaged from a carpal tunnel operation, caused, she thinks, from pulling the lever on the espresso machine a few times too many. She’s managing left-handed. “Can we go?” I whisper. He talks to everyone. She’s telling him what good Italian he speaks. She can tell he’s from Tuscany.

“Magari,” he says. Would that I were.

SCICLI LIES NEAR the coast. That, along with its position, where two valleys meet, and the important Modica river and its tributaries made the town a commanding spot. Now, it just seems idyllic, nestled down into the hills with the sea close by.

WE STOP AT the beach town, Sampieri. At a small rise down the coast, ancient ruins rise against the sky. Is this a Romanesque abbey? We drive over to find, instead, recent ruins, a stone brick-making factory with its furnace chimney as stark as a steeple, and empty stone arches tricking the eye. An arresting sight, it endures only from 1912 to 1924, when it was torched by arsonists, a worthy crime for Inspector Montalbano, it would seem, and, indeed, scenes from the television series were shot here. During its brief life, the factory produced bricks for constructing buildings in Tripoli after Italy conquered Libya in 1911. Scattered nearby are stone houses where workers lived. They look prime for beachside renovations but remain in decaying condition.

A few upscale hotels and a lot of simple houses line the long, long golden beach. The water, clear and chilly, is still inviting, even in October. We wade along the shallows. The towns along the coast are agricultural and fishing villages, not high on any tourist list; they don’t even appear in most guidebooks.

Down the coast, we drive through Donnalucata, another fishing town with a sweeping stretch of beach, then we stop in Punta Secca, the distant sea view that is visible from our hotel grounds. This is a charming, low-key spot with a lighthouse. A walk along the harbor and seafront, and along a pretty beach, and Ed is saying, “This could be the next Marzamemi.” Why not?

Inspector Montalbano haunts us again. His house in the books was located on a beach in a fictional town but was filmed at Punta Secca. One book opens as he takes a swim in front of his house, about where we stand, and meets a dead body in the water. A memorable beginning. As we start down the beach, Ed checks his watch; we’ve walked almost sixteen kilometers today. “Let’s go. It’s almost aperitivo time.”

LAST NIGHT AT Eremo. Another superb dinner. Ed tries the chickpea and wild chard soup, and I choose pappardelle, a wide pasta, with red chicory, caper flowers, and a cream of Piacentinu Ennese, a sheep cheese from inland Enna, made with saffron (hence golden) and black peppercorns. We both have chops from milk-fed lambs, with a wild vegetable sauté with mint. Impeccable. A shame to miss all the desserts but there’s only so much a body can do. Letizia, our waiter, knows a thing or two about wines. She recommends Milla e una Notte, thousand and one nights, a soft and strong blend of nero d’Avola, petit verdot, syrah, and other grapes. Some enologist’s heady mixture, it works. “One of those quick bottles,” Ed says. Gone before we are really through. But there’s always Amara, a bittersweet close to the evening.

WHAT CAREFUL SERVICE at this hotel. We’ve seen Lorenzo conferring with guests, handing out sheets of travel suggestions as they set forth. The hotel even has its own airstrip and can arrange day trips to Malta, along with other enticing short tours on land. Because we’d wanted to have a cooking lesson with their chef and he isn’t available this week, Lorenzo surprised us by arranging a morning at the professional Scuola Mediterranea di Enogastronomia at Hotel Antico Convento in Ragusa Ibla. He has also recommended restaurants at our next stop, and wines. Sad to say arriverderci.

JUST OUTSIDE RAGUSA Ibla, honey-colored houses climb the hill like steep stair steps. Soon we’re in tight lanes, not sure where we are. A few loops and there it is, the Hotel Antico Convento. Oh, dio, no parking. Ed lets me out and I meet Barbara, who will introduce us to the chef. Gone a long time, Ed finally bursts in smiling but I can tell he’s stressed. As we walk through the convent, he tells me he took a wrong turn and found himself driving in the centro storico, ouch, the historic center, pedestrians only, inching along hoping that the police didn’t notice. It happens. And it’s highly uncomfortable. How many impossibly narrow streets have we backed out of? Twenty minutes later he was able to exit and hopes he has parked legally.

We’re given aprons in the large professional kitchen outfitted with stations for each student. We meet Giovanni Galesi, a young Sicilian with those dark eyes that seem to look out from Greek history. Confident and friendly, he’s the director here of the seven-month courses that train chefs in every aspect of Sicilian cuisine. “We have forty-seven kinds of flour,” he tells us. “You must know all about each.” There are also short focused courses, three days, or even special arrangements such as we have, for a morning of cooking and lunch. He’s from Donnalucata, where we were yesterday, and we understand from him what fresh means. “The fishermen come in two, three times a day. That’s where we get our fish.”

We make caponata, what we called eggplant caviar in California. Giovanni lets us understand what caponata is in the culture. A million recipes for it. Everyone has a favorite. Essential. Used on crackers, bread, or vegetables, on meat, on fish. By itself. He has us prepare each vegetable separately then mix them, just as Simone Beck taught me to make ratatouille. Why is it so good? Because everything in it is so good?

We make ravioli out of a local hard wheat flour. As Giovanni mixes, I see that he’s wearing two wedding rings. “Do you have two wives?” I ask.

He laughs. “One for the engagement and one for the wedding. Sicilian women are fierce.”

The dough is firm and yellow, but rolls out thin as paper. We dot the filling, an herb-scented ricotta, onto the sheet with a pastry tube. The sauce, pork cheeks in red wine, I would have thought too heavy but, no, it’s rich in just the right way, with the ravioli cooked al dente.

What we’ve created is served to us in the hotel’s Ristorante Cenobio, the convent refectory, which is an aesthetic experience in itself. White and contemplative, the room’s arches meet at the faded frescoes of saints. The staff is well trained and cordial. We must return for a three-day class and a stay.

We would love to check in and enjoy fabulous Ragusa but we have a short drive slightly north, to the vineyard of Occhipinti at Vittoria.

NOTES:

Large terra-cotta urns are called orci, plural, and orcio, singular. If used for olive oil, they were glazed or waxed inside and called ziri, plural, and ziro, singular.

Strattù is sun-dried tomato paste.

Chinotto, a carbonated drink made from the juices of citrus myrtifolia, a small orange tree with bitter fruit.

Filetto di Maiale Nero con Salsa Nero d’Avola, Patatine Porri e Verdure Selvatiche

BLACK PIG TENDERLOIN WITH NERO D’AVOLA SAUCE, LEEK CHIPS, AND WILD VEGETABLES, SERVES 4 TO 6

The characteristic black pig of the area won’t be available to us, as it is to Chef Sebastiano Sallemi, but pork tenderloin works well. Nero d’Avola wines are easy to find. The chef calls for wild greens such as chicory and dandelion, but I’ve used more readily available ones with an earthy touch.

  • 2 pork tenderloins

  • 1 bunch wild vegetables (or improvise with fennel, carrots, chard)

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 1½ cups nero d’Avola wine

  • Zest of 1 orange

  • 5 whole cloves

  • 3 tablespoons sugar

  • 1 tablespoon cornstarch dissolved in water

  • 8 thin slices guanciale (pork cheek)

  • Sprigs of rosemary

  • Extra-virgin olive oil, QB

  • 1 leek, sliced thickly and floured

  • 2 cloves minced garlic

Preheat the oven to 350˚F.

Cut the tenderloins crosswise into pieces of about 4 ounces and set aside. Prepare the vegetables separately and season.

In the meantime, put the wine in a saucepan with the orange zest and cloves and bring to a boil for about 10 minutes. Leave the orange zest and the cloves in the wine to simmer, covered, for at least 30 minutes. Bring back to a boil and stir in the sugar and cornstarch dissolved in a little water, then continue to boil until the liquid is somewhat reduced. Set aside.

Take the guanciale slices and roll them around the pieces of pork. In a nonstick pan on medium heat, sauté the pork until golden brown on both sides, about 3 minutes on each side. Add rosemary for perfume. Season and complete baking in the oven, 6 to 7 minutes.

Fry the floured leek slices in a dash of oil for 3 minutes, turning once to brown both sides. Add the garlic for a few moments. Taste for seasoning.

Serve the pork in the middle of each plate, spoon on the sauce, and surround with the vegetables, garlic, and the leek chips.

Ristorante Don Eusebio, Hotel Eremo della Giubiliana, Ragusa, Sicilia

Conigghiu a’ Portuisa (Coniglio alla portoghese)

PORTUGUESE RABBIT, SERVES 4

This is an old Sicilian recipe, popular in particular in Ragusa. The name “Portuguese” refers to the Portuguese port wine that was originally used for its preparation, wine that was later (1770) replaced by Sicilian Marsala.

  • 1 rabbit, cut into pieces and rinsed

  • 1 cup Marsala

  • Extra-virgin olive oil, QB

  • 1 onion, finely chopped

  • 2 cloves garlic, minced

  • 2 stalks celery

  • 2 red bell peppers, cut in strips

  • 1 tablespoon tomato paste, dissolved in a little hot water

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 5 tablespoons capers, rinsed and drained

  • 12 green olives, pitted

  • 2 to 3 tablespoons parsley, snipped

Dry the rabbit pieces and place them in a suitable container, then sprinkle with half of the Marsala. Let them marinate, refrigerated, for at least 4 hours but better all night long, turning them from time to time so that they always remain a little impregnated with wine.

Add olive oil to a skillet on medium heat and sauté the onion, garlic, celery, and peppers for about 7 minutes. Remove the vegetables to a bowl. Add the rabbit to the skillet and brown on both sides, then pour in the remaining Marsala and make it fade—almost evaporate. Add the tomato paste. Season with salt and pepper. Return the vegetables to the skillet, cover, and cook over medium heat. After about 15 minutes, add the capers and olives, and more olive oil, and continue cooking on medium low for an hour. The Portuguese rabbit is ready to be served with parsley sprinkled on top.

Ristorante Don Eusebio, Eremo della Giubiliana, Ragusa, Sicilia

Caponata

SERVES 6

Sicilian soul food, as prepared by Giovanni Galesi, the chef at Nosco cooking school at the atmospheric Hotel Antico Convento. Use caponata with everything—fish, bread, meat, crackers, or just a dollop on its own. Cutting the vegetables into similar-size small cubes assures a balance of flavors. This southern version has no raisins or olives, the way it’s made in the north. I slip in two cloves of garlic. Giovanni says that in winter, spinach, pumpkin, or chicory is often added.

  • Extra-virgin olive oil, QB

  • 1 onion, cubed

  • 1 red bell pepper, diced

  • 2 carrots, diced

  • 2 stalks celery, diced

  • 2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

  • 1 tablespoon honey

  • 2 to 3 capers, rinsed

  • ½ cup tomato sauce

  • Salt and pepper, QB

  • 3 zucchini, diced

  • 2 eggplants, diced

  • A few basil leaves

Add olive oil to a medium-size skillet and sauté the onion and pepper. Meanwhile, plunge the carrots and celery into boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. Drain and mix with the onion and red pepper in the skillet. Bring up the heat and add to the pan the vinegar, honey, capers, tomato sauce, salt, and pepper. Mix well. Set aside. In another skillet, add more oil and on medium-high heat, fry the zucchini and then the eggplant until barely tender, about 2 minutes for the zucchini and 4 for the eggplant. Turn off the heat, mix everything, and add the basil. Best after a few hours for the flavors to blend.

Nosco, Scuola Mediterranea di Enogastronomia, Hotel Antico Convento, Ragusa Ibla, Sicilia