Montalbano Magic: How food takes centre stage in the mind of a brilliant detective.

In Andrea Camilleri’s detective novels, you’ll be seduced by the simplicity of Sicilian cuisine.

Fans of BBC Four's Inspector Montalbano will know that the series’ central character, Salvo Montalbano, is a man whose appreciation of good food borders on religious devotion. Set in a fictional southern Sicilian town, Vigata, whodunnit plots reveal shady Mafia characters peppered with elderly and eccentric widows, all served against a dazzling backdrop of winding hillside towns and the ever-present, seductive Mediterranean.

From the first episode, ‘Il ladro di merendine’, (The Snack Thief) first broadcast in 2012, I fell: hook, line and sinker for the faded charm of southern Sicily and, in turn, its incredible food. Ornate yet crumbling buildings, deserted farms, limping dogs in dusty streets, policemen who drive battered Fiats… to immerse yourself in Camilleri’s world is to embrace the grit and the beauty of all that Sicily throws at you. Most memorable are the scenes of the characters eating. Food references dance and leap off the pages of his novels and are fortunately kept centre stage in the TV adaptations. Montalbano’s friend, Ingrid, is described as having a ‘red fillet-of-sole car’ and a trip to the countryside is memorable for the ‘black passaluna olives with an aroma to wake the dead’. Pitted against the violence of the plots, the scenes involving food repeatedly reassure us that life will be OK, as long as there is endless pasta with squid sauce: dense and black with a hint of oregano.

 

‘grilled rock lobster that’ll seem like you’re not eating but dreaming them’.

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Inspector Salvo Montalbano, played by Luca Zingaretti, is not a man with an insatiable appetite; he earns the reader’s respect through savouring food appreciatively. Camilleri himself was a native Sicilian and a self-confessed foodie. His hometown, Porto Empedocle, is re-imagined vividly through Vigata. Montalbano swims most mornings from his house on the stunning beach of Punta Secca and visits his favourite trattoria of Don Calogero overlooking the ocean whenever he can, even in the midst of his most complex cases. Seafood is naturally at the heart of the table: incredibly simple and straight from the ocean. In ‘The Shape of Water’, this cultured comissario is described by Calogero as ‘a discerning customer’ and like any considerate proprietor, he seems to have a telepathic understanding of what Montalbano needs to eat, serving him ‘grilled rock lobster that’ll seem like you’re not eating but dreaming them’. Assuming a more paternal role, Calogero reminds him solemnly that ‘the mind should be forgotten when the Lord in His grace puts some perches in front of you’.

Food has a restorative quality for this quiet and thoughtful detective. He enjoys eating in silence, contemplating each delicious mouthful. When agitated, working on a case, Montalbano needs to walk in the street and eat ‘calia e simenza’ (roasted chickpeas and salted pumpkin seeds) served in a paper cone. Returning home from a hospital stay after being shot in the stomach, he is relieved to go to the fridge and find two fresh hakes left for him ‘to be served with oil and lemon’. Time and time again, the reader is reminded of the power of food to revive and rehabilitate: eating well not only delights Salvo but enables him to think with clarity and remain rational.

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In this conservative Catholic society, religious imagery is intrinsically linked with the act of eating. Appreciation of food is naturally referenced through biblical prose. A mouth-watering fish broth is described as having been ‘reduced to a divine density enlivened with parsley’. The Commissioner’s wife, Signora Elisa, is much admired by Montalbano for her culinary skills and after a dinner of ‘purpiteddri’ (baby octopus), he leaves feeling at peace with ‘man and God’.  Such is his appreciation of good food that the ability to cook competently is a deal breaker when it comes to his careful selection of friends. In Camielleri’s world, serving exceptional food shows love and dedication: being unable to serve Sicilian staples to an acceptable standard can not be excused. He takes an instant dislike to an officer’s girlfriend who ‘shamefully overcooked pasta’ and served ‘a beef stew conceived by an obviously deranged mind and dishwater coffee’. On the way home, he stops at a café and orders a hefty dish of pasta al forno that lifts him out of the gloom into which ‘the culinary art of Signora Giulia had plunged him’.

Camilleri invites us to consider, through the act of cooking, how we demonstrate care and love for those around us. Two women unknowingly compete for Montalbano’s heart: Livia, his long distance and long suffering girlfriend who lives in Genoa and Adelina, his housekeeper. Adelina’s cooking is legendary; his daily trepidation and inevitable delight at discovering what she leaves in the fridge for him to eat are childishly evoked. Adelina’s traditional Sicilian dishes, ‘pasta con le sarde’ (pasta with sardines and anchovies) and ‘purpi alla carrettiera’ (essentially pasta with tomatoes, garlic, capers, olives, grated toasted bread and slivers of ricotta) lead him to declare to a colleague ‘I’ll never find a woman as good as Adelina’. Livia’s cooking can be no match for Adelina’s experienced and thoughtful creations. As readers, we even forgive Montalbano for extricating himself from spending New Year’s Eve in Paris with Livia, such is his determination to call in on Adelina who will be serving her legendary ‘arancini’ (Sicily’s most famous street food). So revered are these mouth-watering, saffron rice balls, shaped like small cones to replicate the shape of Mount Etna, that it allegedly takes her two days to prepare the delicious meat ragu filling. It is through his relationship with his housekeeper’s cooking that we discover Montalbano’s favourite dish: ‘pasta ‘ncasciata’- layered pasta with a rich tomato ragu, aubergine with pieces of caciocavallo (a teardrop shaped cheese which literally translates as ‘cheese on horseback’) and a béchamel sauce. The dish is described majestically as a ‘work of art’, as a plate ‘worthy of Olympus’ and after eating two portions Montalbano goes to bed and sleeps ‘like a rock’.

And so it’s through the author’s depiction of food that we are reminded of its power to bring out the best in us. In Camilleri’s Sicily, there is always time to eat well – regardless of the chaos in the characters’ worlds. This is not the world of Michelin-starred restaurants but simple trattorias with abundant fresh produce used inventively. Food can restore, delight and excite us, elevating a mundane day into a memorable one. The Commissioner’s wife takes ‘delight in the expressions that formed the faces on her table companions when testing one of her creations’. What else can we wish for? Midway through reading ‘The Terracotta Dog’, I half expected to look up and see Adelina preparing me ‘spaghetti con ricci del mare’ (spaghetti with sea urchins) such is the magnetism of the novelist’s depiction of food. I don’t know what the precise genre is for novels that paint foodie scenes so viscerally. ‘Food Fic?’ ‘Cook Lit?’ I don’t think one exists. If you haven’t yet devoured a Camilleri novel, I urge you to try. The salty tang of the Mediterranean and the decadent sugary aroma of cannoli will long linger… Amuni!

-Alison Hellier

About the Author

Ali has twenty years of experience teaching English in a secondary school. Outside of school, she loves cooking, wild swimming, and gardening. She's on a constant search for the world's best cheese and onion pasty.