I will never forget my first encounter with cassata Siciliana, a Sicilian classic I have termed “dessert of the gods” ever since. It was my first day in Palermo, and I had already fallen deeply in love with the city and its crumbling Baroque beauty. As always, I’d gone straight to a local for advice on where to eat, and they pointed me to Bar Rosanero–just across from the Botanical Gardens–for something sweet and an espresso.
“Something sweet” is an understatement.
Like a rich woman eyeing up the next colossal jewel to weigh herself down with, I peered through the glass counter across a glowing array of glazed, powdered, and iced treats. My eyes froze on a round cake with white icing, topped with red, orange, and green candied fruit.
“Questo,” I pointed and watched as the mirrored surface of the dessert spatula sliced straight through a Maraschino cherry and plunged into a thick ricotta centre, emerging with smeared traces of chocolate. Cassata Siciliana, I would find out, is decadent both on the outside and on the inside.
Taking a seat in the pink and black toned bar (the colours of Palermo’s football team), I tucked into my cassata with a plastic fork. It almost broke on contact with a slice of candied orange. Below the sugar-paste-smothered surface hides a rich ricotta filling, sometimes dotted with tiny chocolate chips and always atop a bed of liqueur-soaked sponge. Ricotta has its origins in Sicily, and its creamy curds make it perfect for indulgent desserts like this one.
As if not saccharine enough, cassata is made in a dish, along the sloping sides of which almond or pistachio marzipan is pressed, giving the cake an almost-absurd green tint. Being an aficionado of all that others deem “too sweet,” my eyes bulged at first bite. Finally, a dessert to crown all desserts.
I imagine the Palermitans of the 10th century felt the same upon discovering sugar, brought to the island during the Arab invasion. It’s thought that the very word cassata comes from the Arabic word “qas’at”, meaning a wide circular pan (in which the dessert is made). The newly-discovered ingredient gave rise to a new obsession with desserts. It seems that, like me, the Sicilians of the 900s thought “the sweeter, the better.” Hence the sweet sponge base, sugary marzipan, sticky icing paste, and extra, naughty candied fruit on top. This dessert is not for the faint hearted. It is pure heaven for the sweetest tooth, traditionally served at Easter but now on the menu all year round.
One wedge of this might be too much for some. For those, the cassatina exists. A mini, dome-shaped version of its grander sibling, cassatina, or cassatella di Sant’Agata as it’s known in Catania, is topped with a single Maraschino cherry. Those likening it to a perfectly porcelain breast are not wrong in doing so, for this sweet dessert has a less than savoury story attached to it. Saint Agata, after whom these individual cassatas are named, was tortured by having her breasts cut off. Nice.
Trying my best ( and failing) to not think about its origins as I lift mine to my mouth at Caffe Spinnato in Palermo, the ricotta and chocolate filled cannolo of my choice cracks, crunches and plunges me into a sugary abyss on first bite.
The history of cannoli dates back to the pre-lent festival of Carnevale, in which Sicilians would let loose and indulge before curbing the vices for 40 days before easter. Some historians have drawn a link between cannoli and symbols of fertility, suggesting cannoli were consumed during carnival in order to promote fertility before a long period of abstinence. What most do agree on is the dessert’s likeness to sweet-filled qanawāt tubes in the Middle East – again, nodding to the influence that the invading Arabs had on Sicily’s now rich food culture.
The origin story of Frutta Martorana is rather more pious than that of the cassata and the cannolo. A expertly crafted paste of almond and sugar marzipan bearing an uncanny resemblance to any fruit you can think of, Frutta Martorana is a regular fixture in any Palermitan pastry shop window. On first glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking what you’re seeing is actually a persimmons or an ever-so-shiny pear. Biting into one, you discover something much sweeter.
Not dissimilar to the cassatina in its origin stories, another of my all time favourite Sicilian desserts, the cannolo (or cannoli if we’re talking multiple), is said to have been modelled on a man’s phallus. A long, crunchy cylinder of delicious deep fried dough is filled with an oozing, sweetened ricotta and topped with a single piece of candied fruit and occasionally filled with pieces of chocolate. Bite into one end, expect cream to spill out of the other. The comparisons are not completely off base.
Trying my best (and failing) to not think about its origins as I lift one to my mouth at Caffe Spinnato in Palermo, the ricotta-and-chocolate filled cannolo of my choice cracks, crunches, and plunges me into a sugary abyss on first bite.
The history of cannoli dates back to the pre-lent festival of Carnevale in which Sicilians would let loose and indulge before curbing their vices for the 40 days before Easter. Some historians have drawn a link between cannoli and symbols of fertility–which makes sense given the above origin story–suggesting cannoli were consumed during carnival in order to promote fertility before a long period of abstinence. What most do agree on is the dessert’s likeness to sweet-filled qanawāt tubes in the Middle East–again, nodding to the influence that the invading Arabs had on Sicily’s now-rich food culture.
The origin story of frutta martorana is rather more pious than that of the cassata and the cannolo. An expertly crafted paste of almond and sugar marzipan, bearing an uncanny resemblance to any fruit you can think of, frutta martorana is a regular fixture in any Palermitan pastry shop window. On first glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking that what you’re seeing is actually a persimmon or an ever-so-shiny pear. Biting into one, you discover something much sweeter.
In the middle ages, nuns of the Martorana cloister awaiting a visit from the archbishop of Palermo decided to sculpt fruits to hang on the trees to impress their visitor. Using marzipan and natural dyes, these were the very first frutta martorana.
Traditionally served at Easter and All Saints Day on November 1st, frutta martorana are potentially the most pain-staking dessert to make of my Sicilian holy trinity. Once out of its wooden mould, each piece of “fruit” is painted using a mix of powdered food colouring and water, with each colour or detail painted on in layers. This involves waiting for each layer of paint to dry before proceeding to the next. It’s a time-consuming exercise, with each piece taking up to an hour to perfect. When I do decide to treat myself to one, the first bite is always accompanied by a sense of guilt at ruining such a perfect piece of art, but the sugar rush after does more than make up for it.
