Sicilian Odyssey by Francine Prose Page A

why I’m the one doing the talking, it still seems to unnerve him to be having the conversation with me when there’s a perfectly intelligent man sitting right there at the table. Will my husband be affronted, will his honor be insulted as he witnesses this intense, focused exchange between his wife and another man? No doubt there were men, in the Sicily of just a few generations ago, who were killed for less.
    One consequence is that I’m always extremely happy on those rare occasions when I find myself being cooked for, and brought food by, women—with whom, in theory, it might be possible for me to have the conversation. And so perhaps the most gratifying and enjoyable—if not exactly the most exquisite or refined—meal of our stay takes place in Scopello, a tiny fishing village on the northern coast, an hour or so from Trapani.
    With its bleached craggy boulders and palm trees, its deserted white beaches bordering an ocean striated into bands of green and blue, Scopello looks, in photographs, almost like a Caribbean resort. But the day we arrive is freezing. A light drizzle had begun to mist the windshield on our drive from Palermo. And by the time we pull into town—a single cobbled street lined with quaint shops and fishermen’s houses, all closed for the season, shuttered to keep out the winter cold—a driving rain is lashing the village, and the wind is blowing so fiercely that our umbrellas keep folding up and turning in on themselves.

    Howard Michels and Francine Prose, Scopello
    Fortunately, I’ve called ahead, to a place called Torre Bennistra, where a sweet-voiced woman has informed me that she has no bread, she’s closed, but…how many people are we? Two? All right, come on. Va bene.
    When I ask directions at the local bar, a woman tells us that Torre Bennistra is definitely closed for the season. But we persevere and find it, and knock on the door of the obviously deserted restaurant. Through the window, we watch a small, stocky, old woman with curly hair and glasses, wearing an apron, get up from her chair in front of the fireplace where she has been sitting, weaving a basket. She opens the door. Ah yes, we’re the ones who called, she’s apologizing for something, we’re apologizing, the wind is blowing so loudly we can hardly hear, yes, she’ll cook us lunch but it will be very simple. Naturale. Fine, we say, simple is good, naturale is fine.
    She waves at the empty restaurant and laughs. Have a seat, it’s our choice, we can take any table we want. When Howie goes off to the bathroom, the Signora sits down at the table with me, takes out a pencil and a pad of paper. The conversation is about to begin.
    She asks if Howie is my husband, if we have children, if my parents are Sicilian. She says that the weather is awful, una giornata brutta, a nasty day, just yesterday it was beautiful. Then she asks what we want to eat. Antipasti? Yes, I say, and she writes down, two antipasti. Pasta? Yes, I say. It’s the ideal conversation, because there are no choices, she knows what we want, she knows what she can make—it’s what she might make for family lunch if we weren’t there. It’s what she has in the house. The only choice is between more and less. So fine, let’s have more. Meat or fish? Fish. Fried fish? That will be fine. Tomato salad? She writes it all down and disappears into the kitchen.
    By the time we’ve finished our antipasti—olives and marinated raw tuna preserved by the Signora herself, a slice of salami, fresh bread—a French couple has come in, and the Signora brings out four plates of steaming pasta with a sauce that’s a local specialty, alla trapanese, made with chopped uncooked tomatoes, basil, parsley, good olive oil, and more minced raw garlic than you could dream of serving, at home, to your most intimate friends. But of course it’s marvelous, as is the fish, a whole fish for each of us, cut into three large sections, lightly breaded and fried, head, bones, tail,