Free Bella Tuscany by Frances Mayes

they've gone into marzipan frenzy: Noah's ark complete with animals, the Greek temples, olives, pencils. Marzipan—called
pasta reale
—we realize is a serious folk art form. For me, three bites will suffice; maybe you have to have been born in Sicily to be able to eat more.
    Ortigia is fantastic. The vague, intuitive sense of oppression I've felt in Sicily entirely lifts. Is the Mafia not in control here? People seem more lighthearted, playful, and swaggering. They look you in the eye, as people do in the rest of Italy. In the late afternoon, we walk all over the small island. It has its own Greek ruins just lying in a grassy plot at an intersection. An inscription carved into steps identifies the site as a temple to Apollo. Dense ficus trees along a walkway bordering the water are home to thousands of birds singing their evening doxology. Views across the water, Baroque iron balconies, Venetian Gothic windows, boarded up
palazzi,
and intricate medieval streets—layers and layers of architecture and time. Suddenly the streets intersect and widen at the Piazza del Duomo. The Baroque facade and entrance of the church in no way prepare you for the stunning surprise inside. Along one wall, the building incorporates a row of twelve majestic columns from the fifth century B.C. Tempio di Atene, Temple of Athena. At evening, spikes of sunlight fall across the
piazza,
lighting the faces of those having an
aperitivo
at outdoor tables. Ordinary people, with the sun, like the sheen of gold mosaics, transforming their faces.
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    Unlike the
Lotophagi
—lotus eaters—Homer wrote about, I have not tasted anything that would make me lose the desire for my native land, not even the tomato sauce, which is the best in the world. The food, everywhere we've eaten, is great, the best. The coffee simply exists in a league by itself. Those who love seafood never will get over Sicilian food. Ed researches restaurants thoroughly before we go somewhere, not wanting to waste a precious night. But tonight we're drawn into a
trattoria
simply because it looks like someone's Sicilian aunt's funky dining room, with painted cupboards, bits of old lace, family photos. We're waved to the last available table. No menu arrives. Carafe wine is plunked down on the table. A woman and her daughter are in animated conversation in the slot of a kitchen. The husband tends the dining room. He's holding a glass of wine aloft as he floats from table to table, taking a few sips as his customers order. Soon a plate of
antipasti
appears—little squid, a vegetable tart, olives. We eat everything then wait. And wait. Ed holds up the small carafe. More wine? The husband is flustered; the wine has not been delivered. He scurries around to other tables and scrounges from half-filled carafes. The diners look somewhat astonished. “Soon it will come,” he assures us. Suddenly three men in dark suits arrive and the husband practically bows. They enter the kitchen. The women stand at attention. We can see them from our table, drying their hands on their aprons, rolling their eyes to heaven. Is this a Mafia visit? A demand for payment? But the men open cupboards, bend to the floor, lean over the stove. One takes out a notebook and confers with the others. For a moment they seem to argue. One looks sullen. The wife piles something on plates and hands them around. Everyone goes silent while they eat, then they shake hands with the husband, give him a slip of paper, nod to the women and exit. The dining room is hushed. The husband watches them disappear around the corner then lets out a whoop. A stooped man about four feet tall with a demijohn of wine enters. The husband whoops again, uncorks the bottle and fills the pitchers of all the tables. He lifts his own glass and the women emerge from the kitchen, laughing. The health inspectors have made a surprise visit and everything was O.K. We all toast and more wine is poured. Service after that is chaotic.