A Fish Tale

Jolene Rousseau

On the plane to Sicily, I could only think of the amazing experience that lay ahead of me. I was excited and anxious to finally step foot on the island that I had read so much about. I never realized that on such a magnificent trip I would realize how much the fishing industry was going to impact my understanding of a culture.

The Sicilian market is a never-ending elaborate bazaar of everything imaginable. From ripe fruits and fresh vegetables, to fresh cheeses and meats, to nuts and candies, even clothes and jewelry. They all line the open-air market of Catania and add to its amazing atmosphere. However, the immense collection of fresh seafood is the most overwhelming factor for all of the senses. It immediately immerses you into Sicilian culture. Every kind of fish that the island has to offer (although swordfish, tuna, and sardines are the region's trademark seafood) are bought fresh at this market daily.

We arrived in Catania with two warnings from our tour guide, Rosa, before walking over to the market. The first was, watch out for pickpocketers. There are about 800,000 people in the city, and of those, 250,000 are thieves. They are everywhere and the market is a prime location for the quick at hand, especially when you are being pushed against 20 other people. I might as well wear a sign that says ‘TOURIST’ as I lug around my camera and budging bag.

The second warning was “Don’t buy live fish.” Unfortunately, Rosa had a horrible incident with an octopus escaping its plastic bag jail cell and slipping and sliding down the center isle of the bus. No one noticed until the culprit who purchased the creature picked up their bag and muttered a strange ‘uh oh!’ I am sure all mayhem broke lose out on that bus as they realized they now had a sea creature as a seat mate.

I figured that two basic rules would not be difficult to follow and with those two warnings in mind, I thought I was ready for the market that I had so anticipated since our arrival. The market of Catania was more than I bargained for. It is located in a large square called the Piazza Carlo Alberto, a name for one of the nineteenth-century Piedmontese kings. The Pescheria, or the fish market’ is located off of this piazza. I turned the corner and laid my eyes on a mass of people. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was witnessing until the rush of the market engulfed me as I stepped onto the wet and sticky stone floor.

The sweet smell of salt water filled the air reminding me of a gentle ocean breeze back home on the north shore. However, I could not fathom where this engaging smell was coming from because the market was set in a small square between buildings. This peculiar spaced enclosure with it old stone walls and an arched passageway was like a scene out of an old movie. Even the scales were old and rusty with years of use.

Sicily’s outdoor market tradition dates back to the ninth century when the Saracen had rule of the island. This Arab influence is most noticeable in the elements. The shade form the surrounding buildings cast shadows everywhere. Our day, once warm, was now chilly and shadowy in this enclosed space. The stones stayed cold enough that there was no refrigeration necessary. Some of those that had set up shop in the sparse sunny areas, sported round umbrellas. The others set up awnings of bright colors that flapped in the wind even though they were strongly anchored to the stone walls.

An old archway, with a rot iron gate, seemed like an exit, but it only held more of the splendor of the market. The never-ending rows of fish venders were in every available space, which only enhanced the ambience of the industrious market. As I peer down this alleyway enclosure, I wonder if I the market has really changed over the years or if I am peering into the history of Sicily’s fishing industry, still unchanged after all of these centuries.

There are people everywhere and fittingly they seem like sardines in a can. I can barely walk without bumping into someone. Constantly, I flash forgiving smiles in hopes that as I walk away I am not cursed with the evil eye. The Sicilians of the surrounding areas are all here, converged on this little enormous market. The men talk and joke before they leave with plastic bags full of the freshest seafood around. Women walk with children, looking at prices and comparing colors and cuts of fish.

From all around me, I can hear vendors shouting at each other or anyone who takes a minute to listen. “Buy my fish, it’s the best.”

“ No, mine is fresher, his has been there all week.” They seem to sing to each other. Most shoppers are too busy buying dinner to take any notice of the voices echoing across the enclosed space. As I attract more attention to myself as I click away on my camera, the vendors who seem to notice me all vie for my attention. They smile and try to say any English phrase they remember from their childhood schooling. Others continuously tell me things in Italian while I feverously try to explain “no italiano.” Still they try, each time talking slower and slower showing how patient they are and hoping that I will magically understand what they are telling me. As I try harder to explain my confusion they laugh and smile. The ever-present language barrier strikes again and I walk away feeling rejecting.

A booming voice fills the air and the crowd seems to part the ways so my eyes can see where it originated. An older gentleman catches my glance and smiles warmly. His bright orange overalls are shiny and wet with fish viscera. His knitted sweater and hat make him look more like the Gordon fisherman then a Sicilian market man. He picks up his knife and continues to cutting up choice cuts of the fresh fish he has.

I step closer and he smiles again. “Una foto porfavori?” His grin widens and he extends his hands to show me the range of his daily catch. His hands are chapped and callused after years of laborious work. He has probably been fishing all his life, and the tuffs of his white hair poking out from his hat just reinforce the notion. His eyes seem so lost and innocent and for some reason all I can think about is how believable his fish stories must be when those baby-blues tell it. A customer steps in front of me and our moment together is lost.

I walk further, stopping every few feet to snap a picture of some poor creature that someone is going to have for dinner. A man follows my camera looking at what I could possibly be taking a picture of. He looks perplexed and fascinated at the same time. I think I would feel the same way if someone walked into my supermarket at home and started snapping away.

I stop at a bin of octopuses that look like jellyfish washed up on the beach beginning to be dried up by the warm sun. Their eyes stare up at me lifelessly and their clammy pale skin remains motionless. I feel sorry for them; they look like they know they are defeated.

The man come up next to me and gives one of the immobile creatures a swift poke. He picks up the irritated octopus by the slick body. It awakens immediately. Life breathes into its once half dead body right before my eyes. It is the Frankenstein of sea life, back from the dead. Its tentacles reach high in the air, trying to grab anything in its reach. They flail with anger after being disturbed by that malicious poke. The man laughs heartily and places it back in the wooden crate with the rest of the lifeless globs of creatures. The purplish pink color was still lingering in its skin like the blush of a young girl.

The man grabs my hand and pushes my finger into another limp octopus. The slimy residue of its skin clings to my finger and temporarily makes a transparent string of goop, linking it and me together. The second octopus arches it spineless back, moving into attack mode. I pull away and once again he laughs. I look down at the two now purple octopuses that have just been bothered for my amusement and his. They seem so vibrant and alive compared to the others as they sink back into their positions of demise and wait to be purchased for dinner.

Another wooden crate holds large shinny barracudas that reflect the crazy atmosphere onto their silvery shiny scales. They coil tightly into large O’s. It is big enough that I could probably slip it around my neck and wear it like neck lengthening devise like the women of the Paduang tribe in Burma. I am tempted to buy one just so I could wear it, but I am reminded of Rosa’s warnings. I don’t think it would be fun to have a barracuda lose on the bus. Especially after inspecting them closer. Their heads look fierce and scary. They have sharp teeth and pointed mouths that look clenched in anger of being taken from their home in the sea. I don’t really think I would want that thing near me; it may be like the octopus and come to life for revenge.

Massive swordfish heads lay severed from their limp bodies as the sellers weighed out the purchase on old their metal scales. The heads still stand proud with their massive swords raised into the air even as their bodies are made into delicious steaks and other cuts. Their deep eyes are dark and mysterious. These animals must have been a force to be reckoned with when they were swimming in the vast Mediterranean Sea that surrounds the island.

Deep blue buckets line the stone floor. I peer over the brim and peer deep into the bottom. To my surprise, thousands of eyes stare back up at me. Little sardines, packed on top of one another fill the bucket. Every once and a while a tail flaps in defiance, and then it is still again. At home sardines come in metal cans, which are peeled back to reveal their lifeless bodies. It is so strange to see them still flapping and not in a fishy liquid that seems so stagnant in the metal can.

Stingrays sit belly up in wooden bins. They are cute and I contemplate ignoring Rosa’s warning once again and taking one home as a pet. They smile coyly up at me as if they know some secret they will only reveal after they are purchased.

As I make my way through the engorged crowd, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I manage to turn against the flow of traffic to see who it is. A young man starts speaking to me in Sicilian. I try to explain that I don’t understand but he seems to not care and keeps trying. When he finally walks away, I think my confusion is over and go back to observing this bizarre ritual of buying and selling. I feel another tap and he is there once again but this time he has brought his prize catch, a four-foot shark that he is holding by the head. He stands proud with his catch and smiles. I take his picture and his smile widens across his young face. He has accomplished his goal of impressing a tourist. His chest puffs up and his chin gets high as he walks away. Sicilian life seems so much happier and simpler as I walk away from the endless crates of sea life. I leave behind a place where people are kind and food is fresh and wonderful.

This place seems so different from my own home, where a quick trip to the supermarket would have sufficed for dinner and all of the meals for the next week or month, depending on how full my freezer was. Fresh fish is a rarity and ‘recently unfrozen’ is the reality. Vacuum packed, plastic wrap, and styrofoam trays separate the fishy smell from our noses and hands. Americans buy in abundance. If there is a sale, they buy double. Food can always be frozen and used years later, taste is not important. In Sicily, food is all about freshness. Freezers rarely exist in everyday home use. Sicilians go to the market daily. They only buy food they will eat that day of at the latest the next. Americans are about price. Sicilians are about taste.

I left the market with thoughts of octopuses and fish eyes, thinking I would never again witness such a spectacle so different from my home own shopping experience. I was bother delighted and a little frightened when these objects from the marketplace showed up on my plate during the eighteen-course fish dinner at the L’Ancora restaurant in Palermo.

We walked up a small staircase into a room that was set just for our group. It had a spectacular view of the ocean in front of us, reminding me where all the food I was about to eat had come from. The waiters passed out wine and water, but still we had no idea what was in store for our palates.

One of the first courses was a salad topped with sauce and a dollop of caviar not only for show but also for the rich taste. Next, pasta dishes with fennel, or with sauce lined our tables as we had a smorgasbord of fish. The more everyday national dish of Sicily is the hearty pasta con le sarde, pasta with sardines. Short bucatini or maccheroni pasta is combined with fried sardines, anchovies, wild fennel (the island's most abundant herb), currants, pine nuts and saffron, and then sprinkled with toasted breadcrumbs

We were all sufficiently full after the salad and pasta, but we still had tons of food to come. Sardines wrapped around a stuffing and sardines in olive oil were placed before us. Fried squid and calamari salad tugged at our mouths as we salivated for more. It was so easy to distance myself from what I was eating because the market seemed like such a distance memory.

Whole fish, grilled tuna steaks, crawfish and giant prawns all jumbled together nicely on a ceramic plate came out last. We all tasted the different types of seafood Sicily had to offer. From swordfish, through sardines, down to a handful of the tiniest caviar, the feast showed me that fish makes meat play second fiddle in the Sicilian repertoire. As our group sat anxiously at our tables, the waiters hastily brought out plate after plate of enticing food.

This Mediterranean meal was amazing and a true illustration that fish and seafood are found in many dishes in Sicily: from antipasti to pasta to main courses. The variety was endless and delicious. I am just glad they didn’t give us dessert.

When we went to Cefalu, which is a small town on the northern coast about 75 kilometers east of Palermo I saw close up the tiny boats that were used to catch and bring to shore most of the food we had eaten. As we rounded the sharp corner in our bus, I could see the medieval town below come into view. The vast ocean, making it perfect for a fishing village, surrounded it. I couldn’t help but to imagine how this island had been when fishing was such an important part of the town’s livelihood.

The next day I explored this small town; with its cobblestone alleyways they call streets and balconies with wet laundry glistening in the sun. Old men in long overcoats and tweed hats, shuffled along the stone covered allies only big enough for one bicycle. Older ladies peered down from their balconies, wondering why I was starring back up at them. I felt like I was in Aladdin and any moment someone was going to jump from balcony to balcony, only slightly swaying the laundry as they passed.

I found an old archway between two buildings that connected two distinct worlds, that of the sea and the city. I walked through the arch onto the sand lined with wooden boats. The waves crashed angrily against the sea wall and against the rocks littering the coast. The houses that lined the coast, looked battered from the sea side. On the street these same house were manicured and had lovely plant in front of them. From my vantage point, they looked like they were going to fall into the ocean with the next wave.

The fishing boats lay inactive on the cool sand. Their white paint chipped off of their wooden frames from years in the harsh salty water. The blue and red strips had faded from the sun. Each boat was no bigger than a tiny rowboat, but were still so full of life and untold stories of the brave fisherman who used them.

Fishermen in Cefalu have followed a long line of men who have turned to the sea for food. The fisheries (tuna, sardine, coral, and sponge) are extensive; one-fourth of Italy’s fishing vessels sail from Sicily. In Sicily, the last tonnara, a traditional tuna-fishing technique is still practiced to this day. Every year the massive tuna fish migrate to the warmer Mediterranean Sea. Fish are caught by nets and hoisted into the boats by hand while the Rais, the supreme chief, sing ancient songs of the sea. The origins of this technique are so old that they cannot even be dated.

The Tonnare are a complex system of net a few kilometers long. There were hundred of these nets all over the Mediterranean Sea until the first half of the twentieth century. Now there are still a few left, but most have diminished because of the intensive fishing laws and pollution. There are only about ten tonnare left in the whole Sea.

As the plane took off, I caught a final glimpse of the beautiful coastline of Sicily. The enriching seas (the Ionian, Tyrrhenian and Mediterranean seas) surrounding Sicily have supported one of the oldest trades in the Mediterranean for centuries. Fishing does not only represent the culture, but the entire region of Sicily. As the fisherman return form the morning runs with their catch, they are unloaded and sent to the markets where the bounty of fish is sold in the markets, where they are sold to make amazing dishes that are a feast for the palate. The fish of Sicily represent the livelihood of this amazing culture.

UMass Journalism in Sicily  •   Top of Page