A brief stop in a special town, a hill town with intimate medieval streets. Chiaramonte Gulfi has been lolling under the Sicilian sun since first established by Greeks in the seventh century B.C. The pleasant town today belies its rugged history. Seized and destroyed by the Arabs in 827, it retains the name they bestowed: Gulfi, meaning pleasant land. Added later, Chiaramonte was the name of the man who rebuilt the town after it was leveled in 1296.
Like everywhere else around here, it was hit by the harrowing 1693 quake. Unlike other villages, the citizens rebuilt on the old plan, winding and narrow and climbing, giving onto broad views of the valley below.
The rectangular Piazza Duomo, with palms, cafés, and small shops, is dominated by Santa Maria La Nova. Its weathered doors carved with saints in panels are exquisite and in need of care. A few people out, walking dogs, chatting with neighbors, having a coffee. No cars to dodge, an almost strange quiet.
We read about several museums inside Palazzo Montesano: embroidery, Liberty objects, ethnic musical instruments, and olive oil. Closed. One of the frustrations of travel! Often museums and churches are closed when you think they might be open. (Shops, too. Most of Italy outside the cities is closed on Monday.)
We walk under the arch of stone that used to be the gateway to the old town, the Arco dell’Annunziata, a rare medieval survivor of the earthquake. The street climbs up to the top of town where a church anchors a broad view over the plains.
WE’RE WAITING FOR pranzo.
Fausta, at Baglio Occhipinti, and our friend Todd both told us not to miss a meal at Majore. “I warn you,” Todd wrote, “it’s all pork.” We find it on a street the width of a good sidewalk, stop in, and reserve, happily wandering until they open. This town reminds us of Tuscan hill towns with its lanes and townhouses abutting the street. How clean the steps and cared-for the potted plants on either side. One woman methodically polishes her doorknob, which is already gleaming—but, really, she’s checking out what’s going on in the neighborhood. It’s only us for excitement. She gives a nod and a buongiorno.
MAJORE’S KITCHEN STANDS just inside the entrance, a vast stove and a chef with raven wing eyebrows, a long nose, the better to smell when the roast is done, and a grizzly mustache and beard. He’s glowering at his pot of ragù—a pot large enough to bathe two babies—and at me asking about what’s in the giant frying pan. When I start complimenting his stove, he warms and smiles. Molteni. French. A workhorse of a stove. How does he manage in such a minute space? He gestures with his arms and seems to say that the kitchen is an extension of himself. Actually, there’s another prep kitchen. In the pan, he is sautéing about twenty stuffed pork chops. That’s what I’m having. There’s a large dining room, but we’re seated in a smaller one whimsically painted with a trompe-l’oeil window, a shelf of grapes and platters, a niche of wine bottles, all in faded colors.
In solidarity with Ed, who has to drive, I forgo wine. The waiter seems to think that is a shame, and it is. We have risotto, then the hearty pork, which lives up to Fausta and Todd’s raving. We were told not to miss the wine cellar, but we forget to ask in our rapture over the pork and the banter of the waiter who insists we have a glass of wine. Finally, we do.