by Melissa Hill
“Well, if you would like a guide, I would be happy to accompany you to the bus stop. It isn’t far from here, but it can be tricky to find if you only have a tiny tourist map on hand.” He gestured to the wrinkled mess of a map sticking out from her carry-on bag. Again, she blushed, embarrassed by just how obvious it was that she was a tourist. She couldn’t even pass for an experienced traveler.
Still, before she could agree to him joining her, she felt she needed to make it clear to this guy that she was married. After all, she didn’t exactly know what his intentions were…
“That would be great, thank you. But before we go, I need to call my husband back home. I like to tell him when I plan on boarding foreign buses with strange men.” She laughed at herself, trying to lighten the mood.
To her surprise, Marco responded with an equally jovial laugh. “Ah, I know you Americans think us Italian men are only about one thing, but I can assure you that I am just in it for the conversation and potential dessert.” He winked at her, and his accompanying smile gave him a sly fox appearance, just as she had imagined flirty Italian men to be.
The strangers enjoyed the rest of their meal, each keeping to their own table. Kate found the stew to be almost as delicious as the octopus salad. Fresh and juicy, it was the right mixture of hearty and comforting without being overwhelming. And as she promised, the two enjoyed dessert, a shared chocolate tart.
When the time came to catch their bus, Kate realized quickly how thankful she was for Marco’s help. The cobblestone Palermo streets were a massive spider web, yet Marco navigated them effortlessly.
He bypassed the heavily traveled areas while managing to skim minutes off of their would-be journey time with shortcuts and alleyways. The whole way, he still managed to play tour guide, pointing out the most interesting points along the way: a bookshop that only sold antique texts in Latin, a record store frequented by the hippest Palermo citizens, the entrance to a palace, the top of the Greek theater popping up from behind a building.
The bus stop itself was the least impressive sight. Attached to the train station, it was as dreary as any back home in Ireland. As the bus wasn’t any more luxurious or exciting, Kate secretly lamented the end of her Palermo adventure.
First stop was a Catania, another costal town equal in charm as it was to views. Marco pointed out the looming Mt. Etna, describing it as the center of all Sicilians’ world. A volcano that contained all of the famous Italian tempers.
When boarding the bus, she and Marco had taken a seat across from two women travelling together. One with slightly graying hair and a disheveled look, and the other a slick twenty-something who looked as stylish and effortlessly chic as the other Italian women on the bus. The two chatted animatedly in English about their journey and Kate quickly deduced from their accents that they were American.
After a little while, Marco, sitting on the outside seat, interjected himself into the women’s conversation.
“Buongiorno, ladies! I am sorry to interrupt, but are you headed to Taormina also?” He oozed charm, and he knew it, Kate thought chuckling to herself.
The older woman ignored him, evidently more off-put than Kate had been by this Italian stranger’s insistence to strike up conversation. The younger woman however, happily replied. “Yes, yes we are. We are on our way to Villa Isabella.”
“Villa Isabella?” Kate perked up. “That’s where I’m headed too.”
“Yes, we’re there for the cookery class. Are you as well?” The older woman now seemed just as enthused to meet a fellow student as Kate was.
She nodded, “I am. I hear it is amazing. I’m not much of a cook, but I suppose there’s really no better place to learn Italian cooking than Italy itself.” She grinned, hoping their response would be equally enthusiastic. “I’m Kate.”
“Great to meet you. I’m Martha, and this is Olivia. Olivia is a travel writer. We met on the connecting plane from Ro—”
The information was enough for Marco to pounce, “Olivia. What a beautiful name! Almost as beautiful as mine, Marco. Tell me, how long will you stay in Italy, Olivia? And is your trip for business or pleasure?”
Olivia took it all in her stride. It was easy to see that out of the three women, she was the most experienced in dealing with flirtatious foreigners. “Just here for the cookery break. That’s my assignment.”
“What a shame to call Italy an ‘assignment.’ Italy is life… it is art… it is love! There is no country like it.” Marco gestured wildly, his arms dramatic yet inviting.
“I’m sure I could argue that,” muttered Olivia in reply. She smiled at the other women. “But we’ll all have to decide for ourselves.”
Marco laughed, and continued to argue, trying to keep his conversation just between him and Olivia. Kate watched patiently, noticing Martha behave almost like a protective mother hen, ensuring that her younger companion was not getting in too deep with this stranger.
As the bus edge slowly up the hill on the zig-zag roadways leading to Taormina, finally coming to a stop near the centre of the town, Marco helped the women gather their bags from the overhead storage.
Ever the gentleman, he kissed each of their hands as the three loaded into a taxi bound for Villa Isabella.
Before the driver could take off, he peeked in “Before I let you leave, I have to ask… what did you bring to give to Chef Isabella? It is rude to go to a Sicilian’s home without a gift of some sort.”
“Oh, I didn’t bring anything!” Martha and Olivia nodded in agreement to Kate’s reply. “Should we pick something up on the way, maybe a bottle of wine?”
“No!” he exclaimed, almost offended. “It is even worse to bring a bottle of wine to a Sicilian's home.”
“Why so? In the US, it’s almost customary.” Olivia was intrigued, taking out a notepad to jot down his reply.
“It is akin to saying that your host does not have good taste in wine. In Sicily, we grow up knowing what wines are the best and what are not so good. Plus, as a chef, your host will already have wines paired with the meals.”
The three women sat in silent contemplation. This sudden injection of cultural mores was both valuable and telling.
“What I suggest you do is bring her flowers,” Marco went on. “It’s not the best, but good for when you meet a stranger for the first time. I’ll have the driver bring you to a shop a street down from the villa.” Without giving the women time to interject, he began speaking in Italian to the driver, both nodding in agreement.
“Ciao, till later. I’m sure I shall see you around.” With his hands in his pocket, Marco let go of the open window, and watched as the car sped off towards Villa Isabella.
Chapter 5
The taxi curved up the winding driveway to the entrance of Villa Isabella. Peppered with lush, leafy olive trees and bushes, and bordered by tall Italian pines, the terracotta yellow mansion shone as brightly as the sun.
While Olivia had checked out the estate online before departing, the sight of the home in person was enough to take her breath away. Her jaded facade slowly melted away as she spotted the clear blue pool jettisoning out of the landscape, and the expansive patio overlooking the scene.
This alone, she told herself, was worth a visit.
Standing by the brown wooden door was who Olivia quickly identified as Chef Isabella. The woman’s black and white pinstriped dress engulfed her petite, yet stout body. Her silver and black hair was knotted in a loose braid that dripped over her collarbone. She fit right in with the Italian renaissance scene.
The women disembarked from the taxi, each slowly approaching their host with gentle caution. Olivia gingerly carried the bundle of sunflowers they had picked out from the flower shop Marco had directed them to.
“Che meraviglia! You all arrive together! The fates must have been on our sides today.” Isabella smiled brightly at the group, as she outstretched her arms first to Martha, embracing her in a large hug and exchanging gentle cheek kisses. Kate was next, but instead of a h
ug, Isabella grasped her hands tenderly.
Olivia, flowers in arms, was never one for affection. Even though she was worldly and had grown accustomed to the traditional European greeting, she still shied away. For some reason, Isabella seemed to sense this, and instead took the flowers from her and gently touched her cheek with the soft, wrinkled palm of her hand.
“Grazie, my dear. Grazie. These are beautiful.” Isabella deeply inhaled the scent of the sunflowers, genuinely impressed by the gesture.
“The flowers are from all of us.” Olivia went down the line, introducing each of the other women. “We wanted to thank you for welcoming us to your beautiful home. It is breathtaking.”
“Well, you must see inside first before you say that.” With a quick turn on her low heeled leather shoes, Isabella opened the large wooden doors and walked inside with a motion for the women to follow.
All three silently took the cue, grabbed their bags, and rushed to catch up with the sprite Sicilian.
“These are the bedrooms. Each of you have single rooms, but you will all need to share the two bathrooms on this floor. My room is downstairs, near the cucina, the kitchen. I like to sleep where the action is.” She grinned as Kate giggled.
Isabella glanced at a dangling gold pocket watch that hung from her dress. “Accidenti! We only have a couple of hours till the market closes. Unpack quickly and meet me downstairs in the living quarters. We have lots to do if we are to get dinner on the table by eight.”
Olivia walked into the room closest to her. Alabaster walls and white linens dominated the speckled bedroom. Even the furniture was painted in an antique pale yellow that fit right into the scene.
Stark white, translucent thread curtains floated softly in the air, as a soft breeze pushed from the open window.
Setting her suitcase on the chair, she pushed back the drapery further and fully opened the shuttered window.
She let out a gasp as all of Taormina came into view. The villa itself sat on the lofty hillside, with the town itself sparkling right below her.
To the right was Mount Etna, the volcano. Straight ahead was the sea, dominating the landscape, its turquoise color glimmering in the fading sun. The rest of Sicily circled around, forming a classic U-shape that gave Olivia the impression of being so close, yet so far away from civilization.
Eager to see the rest of the property, Olivia joined the other women and Isabella on the bottom level of the villa. The living room was expansive and also decked out in all white. However, colorful accents like the red throw cushions or the yellow woven rug popped out from the scene.
Connected was the massive kitchen which Olivia instantly identified as a chef’s paradise.
The white and tan work stations were decked out into five designated areas. Each had its own stove, oven, and sink along with an apron hanging from the counter drawer. Simple cooking utensils were tucked away in a decorative metal pot. In the corner of the room was a hanging display of pots, pans, lids, and cutlery hung on hooks and magnetic strips.
Isabella sat on a wooden stool at the center station, furiously writing on brown parchment cards. She only took a moment to acknowledge the three women as they entered the space, speaking as she continued to write. “Welcome to the kitchen! Each of you have a workspace along with your apron. Two hours before breakfast and dinner, we will gather here. I will hand you a recipe card outlining what you will make, and then walk you individually through what to do. Normally, I would get to know you all a bit better first, so I will simply guess at your skill levels tonight.
“Each of my classes are different. I never pick the same recipe. What fun would that be for me? Tonight, I am thinking we’ll start with some of my favorite recipes. Martha, you shall make the antipasti, the appetizer, melanzane alla parmigiana. Kate will make the primo, the first course. It is typically a pasta, so I say we try linguine al limone? Olivia will make the secondi, the Fettine alla Pizzaiola. And I will make the dessert.”
As their tutor assigned each student their mission for the evening, she handed out three cards with a recipe written in English.
Olivia studied her small stack, each card crunched with specific instructions and notes. Her own recipe didn’t appear quite intimidating as the others. It was a simple meat and tomato sauce dish. However, she was relieved that her cooking skills wouldn’t necessarily be put to the test just yet.
“In Sicily, eating isn’t just a thing we do.” Isabella went on. “We say sperimentiamo: we experience it. In order to make a good Sicilian meal, you must know the basics before you become a master. I do not expect you to walk out of here in four days as authentic Italian chefs. Instead, I expect you all to learn about what it means to be an artista. To do so, you must know that there are rules when it comes to eating here.” She emphasized the world ‘rule’ as if it was something they should take heed of, like a law or a commandment. Olivia rummaged in her bag for her notepad, hoping to take all the wisdom she could get for her article.
“Your first rule is that not everything is in season. I have been to America, and I have seen your giant markets with your fruits and vegetables lined up on display. That is no good, to have so many options at all times. The best in life is what available now, what is fresco. There should be no worry about the future or the past. In Italy we say, Ciò che conta è oggi—what matters is today. We work with what God has given us, not with what we wish we had. So when we plan our meals, we plan with the season in mind.”
Olivia scribbled away furiously as Martha continued to stare at her card. Kate, on the other hand, looked directly at Isabella with a quizzical look on her face. Her eyes widened with each bit of wisdom.
“Before we get started, we obviously need ingredients. So we will go to Taormina’s best shops and markets before they close. I will show you how to shop for what you truly need.”
Chapter 6
The three women duly followed Isabella out of the kitchen and down the stone steps that jutted out from the hillside. The actual town was about a ten minute walk straight down the steps to reach the centre. The stone steps changed quickly into light and gray checker board pavement, and the streets soon became overrun with tourists from cruise ships and nearby hotels. Yet Isabella took everything in her stride, seamlessly pushing through the crowds, with her students following closely behind.
Most of the market’s vendors and shops were located along Porta Catania. Lined up with their colorful fruits and produce on tables, and on the beds of trucks, the owners of the mobile stalls shouted loudly at their customers and other proprietors.
As they stood at the foot of the market, all three women looked at each other and shuddered. Shopping here would not be as easy as it was in supermarkets, Isabella was right about that.
The chef turned towards her group before starting, “I have made list of the ingredients we need for la cena tonight, as well as breakfast tomorrow morning. We’ll start first with vegetables and then work our way to the outside for the meats and seafoods. Always get last the things that will smell. Plus, meat vendors are more desperate to sell than the produce men.”
She handed each a copy of the list. With only about ten items, it did not seem like it would take too long—just a quick shopping trip.
However, Martha quickly realized she had misjudged the task. Isabella insisted on stopping at each vegetable and fruit stall to squeeze, smell, and inspect each item. She would hold up an onion or a tomato and loudly point out the imperfections, much to the ire of the cart’s owner. The women, stunned by her boldness and her ease of spotting rot or ripeness, nodded in silence.
About twenty stalls were ventured through when Isabella go to the end of the staircase street. “So, miei cari, who can tell me where we should get the best tomato from?”
Kate and Martha averted their eyes, obviously stumped by the question. Olivia chimed in confidently, “Nowhere. None of those vendors had a perfect vegetable or fruit.”
Isabella placed her hand on her chin, studying the words
as Olivia said them. “Let me ask you this: is life ever perfect? Have you ever found the juiciest peach or the ripest tomato? Have your beans ever been the most green that you’ve ever seen them?”
Olivia shook her head in reply, duly chastened.
“So, why should we look for perfection? None of these vendors will have it here. But even the dullest pea can taste as good as the next. A tomato with a bruise can still be as flavorful as before. Instead of searching for something that doesn’t exist, we seek out what we think - in our hearts - is the best of what is presented to us.”
With their heads held a bit higher, the women went back into the heart of the marketplace, again stopping at each stall. Kate decided on the onions while Martha hunted down the beans. Olivia cautiously selected the peppers, unsure of what Isabella could mean by ‘best of what is presented to us.’
When they were sure of their choices, Isabella would approve of the selection and then haggle with the vendor loudly in Italian. Each of the burly, sweaty men would at first appear off-put by Isabella’s boldness and her instance at getting in the final word. When they would not relent, she would walk away to the vendor next to them, cooly passing them off until the owner would run towards her with a counter offer.
The meat was an easier adventure. With only beef on the menu, they glided effortlessly pass the men with meat on a spit, or hoisted on the top of a tent, to a small building in the corner of the market.
Inside, a balding man with a handlebar mustache greeted Isabella enthusiastically.
“The best way to buy your bigger items,” Isabella said as she turned from the butcher back to her group, “is to find the person you trust the most. Federico has been selling me my beef for thirty-five years. I know that when I need the best of the best, Rico will provide.”
The man returned with a package wrapped in red string and brown paper. He kissed Isabella on the cheek and waved goodbye to the women as they marched back to the villa with their marketplace wares in paper sacks.