Fork Quest: Sicily

A couple of times each year I volunteer with the U.S. Navy Adopt-a-Chef program, which sends civilian culinary instructors to various galleys around the world to provide hands-on training. This time they sent me to Sicily, and before you get jealous, please understand that I am sent by the U.S. Government, which means the trip over took 25 hours and had four legs — LAX to Denver to Washington, D.C., to Rome to Catania, Sicily. (No, there were no substantial layovers in which I had anything resembling fun.) Sure, when I arrived at Naval Air Station Sigonella, they put me up in the admiral’s suite. But then again, I was alone, had no car and was a good 20 miles from anything but sheep herds and olive orchards. There was no mistaking this trip for a vacation.

As with all my Navy trips, my mission was to raise the food quality to a level that would elicit enjoyment, rather than dread, from the sailors and airmen. This trip had an added layer of suspense, in that the galley was due for an inspection that could conceivably qualify it for the Captain Edward F. Ney Memorial Award for excellence in food service, the Navy's equivalent to a Michelin star.

At sea, a galley is manned by sailors, known as Culinary Specialists. But on land, the cooks are locals. Oversight is provided by Navy personnel, but at the heart of this operation were a dozen well-aged Sicilian men. It was a second job for most of them, who spent the rest of their time operating restaurants, bakeries, orchards and wineries. It was hard for me to imagine that there was anything I could teach this group of seasoned professionals. After all, they were natives of one of the world’s great epicurean meccas. I felt a little like a T-ball coach coming in to replace the Dodgers’ Joe Torre.

Then I ate the food.

Suddenly, there was much to be done. Although these Italian gastronomers were expert at all things Sicilian, they knew next to nothing about American food. They couldn't tell a jam from a jambalaya. They were trying to follow the Navy recipe cards, but without understanding the American palate, they had little chance of success. Even recipes in which they excelled, like pizza, got a chilly reception because Americans are not accustomed to ham and hard-boiled eggs with their pepperoni.

And there was another problem.

Like all bureaucracies, the Navy has rules that must be followed. Recipes must be from the Navy file, and they must be made with Navy ingredients. This means that even though we were sitting in the breadbasket of the Mediterranean, they could not cook with the region’s delicious fresh produce, incredible seafood, heavenly cheeses, olive oil, coffee or wine. Ingredients are procured months in advance, and while some perishables are obtained locally, most are shipped from contracted commissaries back home. (The Navy has not heard of the “locovore” movement.) The system makes sense when you consider that they are supplying a global fleet, but in the microcosm of this small Sicilian kitchen, it seemed pretty silly.

The restrictions had those seasoned cooks stymied. They needed a fresh set of eyes and a new strategy for success. I was a little afraid that they would ignore my input, given that I am neither Sicilian, nor Navy, nor male. But, as it turned out, they were happy that someone was paying attention to their work for a change. Sure, they had Navy supervision, but those guys were usually bogged down with other more pressing tasks (like bailing sailors out of a Sicilian jail at 3 a.m.).

I do not speak Italian, and very few of them spoke English. I do, however, speak kitchen, cook and baker, which are international languages. We communicated easily about their work and figured out what was good, what was bad and what they needed to do their job well. (Okay, maybe I didn’t exactly understand every nuance of their frequent and deafening arguments à la Chico Marx.) We cooked side by side, working on recipes and organizational strategies. I taught them American techniques and they taught me Sicilian ones. I also got lots of free marital advice. Apparently, next to food, sex is the preferred topic of conversation in Sicily.

My efforts were rewarded with lots of double-cheek kisses and tours of the area. The closest city, Catania, is on the coast of the Ionian Sea, in the shadow of an active volcano, and it made me feel as though I’d slipped through a rip in the space-time continuum. Roman, Greek and Arabic influences intermingle, as do baroque and neo-classic architecture, all marred by a terrible graffiti and vandalism problem. Much of the city is built of black lava stone from Mount Etna, which gives the city an eerie, gothic feel. Coupled with the oppressive poverty and headless statues (which, I was told, occasionally bear the actual head of an unlucky Mafioso), the city seems a bit menacing. But guided by my new best friends, we navigated the labyrinth of Vespa-clogged streets and found the high-end storefronts and cafés that you’d expect in Italy.

I was forced to try all the local specialties, including my new favorite breakfast, espresso granita with almond cream. We lunched in typical Catanian fashion with arancini, crispy fried cone-shaped rice balls stuffed with meat or tomato ragu and cheese. Cannoli and marzipan were everywhere, as was the local specialty cassata, a ricotta-filled cake covered in sugar and candied fruit. And of course, I indulged in brioche con gelato, a literal ice cream sandwich. Buttery-rich brioche buns are sliced in two and slathered with any number of gelato flavors, my favorite being pistachio. The combination is sublime, and I made it my dinner on more than one occasion.

In addition to the culinary sights, I toured Greek and Roman ruins, the church in Forza d’Agro (where Michael Corleone was married) and the cliff-top tourist mecca Taormina. I even rented a Smart car, drove to Mount Etna and hiked to the top. (Travelers’ warning: Just because you can drive in L.A. does not mean you should attempt it in Sicily.)

In the end, it was hard to leave my big fat Sicilian kitchen family, who, I have since discovered, are now finalists for the Ney Award. The winners will be announced in February. Maybe they'll invite me back to celebrate.  

Leslie Bilderback is a certified master chef and baker, a cookbook author and a former executive chef of Pasadena’s School of Culinary Arts. A South Pasadena resident, Bilderback teaches her techniques online at culinarymasterclass.com.