So, we’re just back from a month in Sicily. We go there every year in August. But this time is different. It’s barely a month since we laid mum to rest. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I feel burned out. In short, I’m in need of a break.
Work on next year’s Nathan book is behind schedule, for obvious reasons, but Sicily gives me a chance to catch up. Write in the morning, join Caroline on the beach in the afternoon. After a few weeks I’m dragging it back on track and I can even admit to myself that, yes, I’m enjoying this and I think this book is going to work out.
Dinner in the evening varies between Sicilian street food or ice cream (because we’re old enough now to have an ice-cream and call it dinner). But there are also those nights of proper restaurants where we might just treat ourselves. Which, in this part of Sicily, basically means fish.
As a result, I’ve managed to eat my own bodyweight in grilled anchovies.
Let me explain. Grilled small fish – sardines, anchovies, whatever they may be – are just one of those things I could always eat. Forever. It’s my Death Row meal. Ideally with a big pile of crispy chips on the side. And I have eaten a *lot* of anchovies this holiday. And, tonight, I’m planning to do the same.
I ask the waiter if there are any Small Fish available. He nods, and says, of course.
Great. I’d like some small fish, grilled over charcoal, and a big pile of crispy chips please.
Of course, he nods. Then he frowns. One moment.
He heads off to investigate the fresh fish cabinet. He talks to the boss. Shaking of heads goes on and my heart sinks.
He returns. There are some small fish. But only a few. Not enough to make a proper dinner. Perhaps I might like something else?
I’m a bit thrown by this. In all honesty I hadn’t really consulted the menu as carefully as I might. But I did notice there was a modestly priced steak. And, given there’s a proper charcoal grill, I imagine that would be pretty good.
So I ask for the Bistecca.
His expression changes, becomes quizzical.
‘What, you don’t like fish?’
‘Er, yes, I do, but given you haven’t got any small fish – ‘
‘We have lots of fish!’
‘ – yes, but as you have a proper charcoal grill I thought maybe the steak – ‘
He shakes his head. ‘The steak is there only for small children who don’t like fish!’
‘Oh.’
‘We have ricciola. It is a beautiful fish.’
I know what a ricciola is. It’s an Amberjack. It is, indeed, a very fine fish.
I’m still kind of thinking I would *quite* like that steak. But I get the impression there’s not going to be a discussion here.
‘I’ll have the ricciola,’ I say.
He nods and smiles. ‘Excellent choice, sir.’ He pauses. ‘It is much better than the steak.’ As if I were in any doubt.
‘Could I still have the big pile of chips?’
‘Of course.’
Caroline, by this stage, is wiping tears away.
The ricciola arrives. It is indeed a splendid fish and the chargrilled flesh makes it all the more splendid. We then share a torta di cassata between us and I finish with a coffee and grappa, as Caroline has an amaro amara.
It has been an excellent meal and the ricciola a perfect recommendation. I shake hands with the waiter and tell him we’ll see him in a few days. As, indeed, we do. Only this time there really are small fish available…
A month passed. A month of writing and reading and eating and, simply, of just feeling happy. Honestly, I wasn’t quite ready to go home. But, at the end of the day, Sicily brought me back to a more healthy state of mind. I feel better for having been there.
I still wish I’d had that bloody steak though.
Philip Gwynne Jones 