'Sicily struck me then as the most fascinating place I had ever visited. I didn't change that opinion over the intervening years, no matter where I travelled. I meant to go back. Time and again I made plans. Time and again I was thwarted.'At the age of twenty-six Matthew Fort first visited the island of Sicily. He and his brother arrived in 1973 expecting sun, sea and good food, but they were totally unprepared for the lifelong effect of this most extraordinary of islands. Thirty years later, older and a bit wiser - but no less greedy - Matthew finally returns. Travelling round the island on his scooter, Monica, he samples exquisite antipasti in rundown villages, delicate pastries in towns that clung to the edge of vertical hillsides, and goes fishing for anchovies beneath a star-scattered sky. Once again this enigmatic island casts its spell, and Matthew rediscovers its beauty, the intensity of its flavours, and finds himself digging into the darkness of Sicily's past as well as some mysteries of his own.
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Matthew Fort has worked on the food pages of the Guardian for more than ten years. He also writes for the Observer, Esquire, Country Living, Decanter and Waitrose Food Illustrated and appears as a judge on BBC2's Great British Menu. He won Glenfiddich Food Writer of the Year in 1992, and both Glenfiddich Restaurant Writer of the Year and The Restaurateurs' Association Food Writer of the Year in 1993. One of Matthew's greatest passions is Italy, which he visits every year. Sweet Honey, Bitter Lemons is his fifth book.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
CHAPTER ONE Time Present and Time Past
Marsala In 1973 Tom and I had travelled in breezy innocence, with easy optimism and careless curiosity, stopping where we felt inclined. The one introduction we had been given was addressed to Manfred Whitaker, who lived in the Villa Ingham just outside Marsala. Instructions as to how we could find him were hazy in the extreme. Indeed, there was something slightly makeshift about the introduction itself, but we felt that we had better call in out of courtesy, if nothing else, and so we did. Manfred turned out to be a stocky, energetic figure, and vigorously, if not rampantly, homosexual. When he saw two strapping lads getting out of their hire car he evidently thought that Christmas had come, a point on which we had to disabuse him rapidly. With the foreplay out of the way, he became the most delightful, charming and obliging of hosts, learned, funny, acerbic and individual. Sadly, I kept no record of his views or our conversations, but I can still sense the mercurial force of his personality, his endless kindness and high good humour. I remember being told, probably by Manfred himself, that the Villa Ingham had been built, and its extensive gardens laid out, by a member of the wealthy Ingham family for the delight of his mistress. It didn’t look like my idea of a love nest. It remained in my memory as a large, sober-looking building with an apparently endless sequence of crepuscular rooms, full of shadows and cool air and an accumulation of heavy-gravity, dark-shaded, plumply stuffed Victorian furniture, books, portraits of distinguished ancestors and a random and eccentric cluster of objects, which included a standard lamp made from a stuffed anaconda rearing to its full height. There was Manfred’s throne-like lavatory and the plumbing that had a will of its own. It didn’t strike me as being a grand house, but it did have a certain seriousness about it, a seriousness which Manfred belied. He died in 1977 and the house passed to his nephew, William Richards, and his wife Val, who greeted me as I buzzed up the drive in time for lunch. William was a lawyer, successful, jovial, kindly and generous. The Villa Ingham was now a family holiday home, he said. They had thought of selling it at first; it needed so much attention, and Marsala wasn’t exactly convenient. And then they decided they couldn’t. The family loved it too much. Their children came and went, and other family members, too. And yes, they had done a good deal to the house, attended to the plumbing for one thing, and sorted out the kitchen, and turned the water tank above the house into a swimming pool. I wandered around the rooms and couldn’t tell what had changed over the intervening years. The furniture seemed the same, the books, the steadfast pictures, the clutter of knick-knacks, and, oh yes, there was the anaconda standard lamp. More than that, the spirit of the place was still the same, that curious combination of the serious and the fantastical, of Victorian worthiness and pagan hedonism, one room leading to the next and to the next and to the next – like some Borgesian metaphysical structure, the crepuscular cool made more crepuscular and cooler in contrast to the brilliantly lit landscape below, where olive and orange trees had been planted in neat rectangular plantations. I didn’t remember the paintings in the manner of Rex Whistler on the high ceiling in the sitting room, and, indeed, it turned out they had been painted by a young friend of the family only a few years earlier, but even they had been absorbed into the patina of the house so that they looked as if they had always been there. The garden, too, retained its rambling charm. It had seemed deliciously dilapidated to me 33 years earlier. It did so now. Paths, strewn with withered leaves that crackled explosively underfoot, wove their way between trees and shrubs of luxurious splendour, to crumbling flights of steps leading to another sun and shadow dappled level. Scents rose up where the hot sun struck the shrubs, peppery, pungent, spicy, herbal; thyme, rosemary, clove, aniseed. Here was a statue of some antique dryad lurking at the end of a gravel cul-de-sac, peering from a bower of acanthus leaves. Here was a stone trough with lily pads and reflections. Here was a water tank without any water, a line of curious majolica miniature obelisks the colour of the sky ranged along the top of one side. A scuttling in the bushes reminded me of the peacocks that had nested in the trees all those years ago. ‘The peacocks are still here,’ said William. ‘There are only two left now, both males. We introduced a couple of females a few years ago in the hope they might breed, but we found them dead a few days later. It seems that the males didn’t appreciate them very much.’ I wondered what might have happened if Adam had taken a similar attitude to Eve in the Garden of Eden. The sense of timelessness, of social continuum, carried over into lunch. There were other friends and members of the family staying, too, just as there had been in Manfred’s time, and we sat outside at a table big enough to seat 20 under an awning, shaded from the hot sun. There were only nine of us, but conversation, erudite, funny, discursive, generous, never flagged for a moment. We talked about food and TV chefs in disrespectful terms that Manfred would have approved of, and George Borrow, and the problems of photographing food, and the group of Surrey pensioners who came to pick the olives every year, and Manfred’s idiosyncrasies, and the changes at the Villa Ingham. If I wasn’t quite same figure who had sat in this same place all those years ago, nevertheless there was enough of my young self left to catch the sweet echo of the past. We ate panelle, Sicilian fritters made from chickpea flour, bought in the market that morning, and olives from the Richards’ olive trees, and then salami and prosciutto and salad and bread and cheese and fruit, and finished with a granita made from oranges that grew on the estate. There was nothing fancy about any of it, except its quality, the exactness and clarity of flavours. ‘What else did you want?’ I thought, as I sank another glass of chilled rosato, crisp and fresh as ice melt. Not much. Nothing in fact. Revisiting the past can be a tricky business. Too often it seems shrunken or down at heel or at odds with the mellowness of memory, but in this case I could feel no difference between past and present. Even Manfred seemed to be about the place, even if I couldn’t quite see him.
I woke to the smell of the sea, a soup of sharp iodine, seaweed, salt, marine life, sunlight, wind. Marsala is defined by the sea. The sea sits on three sides of it. From the sea came the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Spaniards, British, Americans, each of the peoples that made and marked it, the fish and trade that fed it. Across the sea went the wine that gave Marsala its last great, rich incarnation a hundred and fifty years ago. In 1773 John Woodhouse came to Marsala from Liverpool looking for ingredients for soap. He found the fortified local hooch instead, and decided marsala was the very thing to become smart society’s tipple of choice. The business was given a shot in the arm when Admiral Horatio Nelson ordered several pipes of the stuff for his sailors after the Battle of the Nile in 1798. Over the following century colossal fortunes were made out of the wine. The English connection flourished as the Woodhouse family embraced the Inghams and the Whitakers, the ‘Princes under the Volcano’ as the marsala families were known. Sicilian families, too, joined in the fun, one family in particular, the Florios, becoming the richest and grandest of them all. Each went on to make marked contributions to the cultural life of the island and to the gaiety of nations in general (during Prohibition in America, marsala was classified as a medicinal tonic, and sold as such). And then the eminence of marsala began to decline as the founding families sold out to the big commercial battalions; the wine became debased as corners were cut, quality sacrificed to price, and industrial production methods took their toll. As Harry Morley, a determined traveller and devoted classicist, had written as early as 1926: ‘The only good thing you can say about Marsala is that it goes well with gorgonzola. At best it is a poor substitute for sherry or madeira, without any real character of its own.’ The consequences were inevitable. People stopped drinking marsala. Ah, marsala, they said, fine for cooking, but for sipping? And they reached for their glasses of chardonnay. The long seafront of the town was lined with the husks of the great bagli, walled, fortified compounds, where the marsala had once been made and stored, and from which it had been shipped across the globe — monuments now to the fall of the great marsala families. Most were derelict, dumping grounds or storage depots for building materials and the like. Dust and plastic bags and bits of paper and dead leaves blew about the courtyards. The three-storey Whitaker baglio had been one of the greatest, with its shaded, arcaded ground floor, Corinthian pillars above, and elegant, shuttered windows on the top floor. Now the golden stucco was fading, stonework crumbling. The shutters sagged on their hinges and the Corinthian pillars held up – what? A vanished history? Not quite. Life was beginning to stir in the some of the bagli once more. Marsala was staging a comeback. Its renaissance had begun when a talented winemaker, Marco de Bortoli, decided that redemption lay in quality not quantity, and set about re-creating the wine to new standards. The Buffa family, with one or two others, had joined him...
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