Noto, Sicily's Capital of Baroque
The menu in what may be the greatest pastry shop on the face of the earth is spelled out in plastic block-capital letters on a black felt board on a wall next to the cash register. The letters sit in furrows in the felt and can be rearranged by hand. They are clear and easy to read but unevenly spaced and misaligned, betraying a human touch – not carelessness but everyday imperfection, which I find extremely charming. Nothing on the menu is fancy or expensive. CANNOLI €3.00. GELATO CONO €2.50. Yet people come here – to Caffè Sicilia in Noto, a small, sublimely beautiful city in the south of Sicily – from all over the world to taste these things, to rhapsodise and obsess over them, and perhaps to catch a glimpse of the magician who, in the kitchen in the basement, conjures them into being. The simplicity and straight-forwardness and elegance of that menu is, for me, an image of all that is marvellous about Noto.
I had breakfast with the man himself during a recent visit. Corrado Assenza is a spry, intense fifty-something with a high, intelligent forehead, a rakish white beard and the eyes of a revolutionary. We sat at a table outside in the morning sun. I had – as you do, as you must – granita and brioche and coffee. I felt that complimenting Assenza on the food would be like thanking Verdi for the tune, so I asked instead about the view of the street.
Caffè Sicilia has occupied the same spot, diagonally opposite the cathedral on Corso Vittorio Emanuele in the middle of town, for 126 years. What was it about it here that pleased him most? For a moment he looked at me, with those blazing eyes, as if I had taken that dish of icy granita and clapped it upside-down onto his head. Then he smiled a slow, mild, gentle smile and said: ‘I like the freshness of the air before sunrise. The colour and the light and the sound. Not noise – sound.’ He stood up. ‘Come,’ he said. We took a few steps down the street and stood in front of the Chiesa di San Carlo on the next corner. He grabbed my elbow with one hand and with the other pointed towards a section high on the façade that was in full sun. ‘I like the stone. Stone is an absorbent surface. It takes in the sun and it gives it back in a different way.’
Noto used to be somewhere else. The original, ancient city, like many others in this part of Sicily, was reduced to rubble by a terrible earthquake in 1693 and rebuilt a short distance away. The most eminent architects of the day were engaged. No expense was spared. A compact grid was laid out with three main thoroughfares running east to west through the middle. The streets were soon filled with an astonishing concentration of churches, private palaces and public buildings in a luscious style now referred to, rather loosely, as Sicilian Baroque. ‘There are thousands of cute old towns all over Sicily and all over Italy,’ said local guide and historian Paolo Mortellaro, with whom I compared notes. ‘But none is cuter than Noto.’
Other Sicilians refer to people from Noto as nobles, regardless of their class. ‘Just being a native of Noto is enough to give you a sense of superiority,’ said Mortellaro. ‘You don’t have to have a coat of arms or lots of money. Look at the women. They walk like princesses. Most of them haven’t got a dime, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all about display, about looking good for the passeggiata.’ We were at that moment sitting at an outdoor table at Caffè Sicilia, to which I had already become stubbornly attached. It was passeggiata o’clock. My only observation was that there were fewer women wearing black than I had expected. Didn’t Sicilian girls generally wear a lot of black? ‘Not so much these days. And I think the ones you mean are actually Austrians. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the point is that, as Sicilians, our history is our trump card. Rome? Pah! One empire, that’s it. In Sicily, we’ve had loads.’
The Bonaccorsi family – which, as it happens, does have a coat of arms – has been around long enough to have seen more than a few of those empires come and go. I was invited to lunch at their country house, Castelluccio, half an hour or so from Noto. Blue-eyed, raven-haired Luisa is a noted beauty (and fashion designer under her maiden name Luisa Beccaria); likewise her three daughters, Lucrezia, Lucilla and Luna; her husband, Lucio, is a card-carrying prince; their two sons, also absurdly good-looking, are called Ludovico and Luchino. The alphabetical resemblance is as pronounced as the genetic one. The chapel at Castelluccio was decorated with long, thick, looping ropes of entwined wild flowers, left over from Lucilla’s wedding, which had taken place almost a year ago. The flowers, too beautiful to remove, had been kept in place. There they were, still lovely and largely intact, as if the last of the guests had just departed.
The younger generation of Bonaccorsis, through no fault of their own, apart from having famous parents, photogenic features and all the trappings of what appears to be a charmed life, have become poster-children for a particular kind of Sicilian glamour that is very much of the moment, and very much focused on the south-east of the island, around Noto, Syracuse, Ragusa, Modica and Scicli (pronounced, of course, ‘chicly’).
The region seems to exert a strong attraction on those of a design-and-fashion bent. One such is Louise Trotter, ex-creative director of Joseph. I felt terrible asking whether people like her – smart, cultured, with the means and inclination to colonise interesting places in their spare time – will spell the end for Noto. She is a deeply sympathetic and thoughtful person and came up with a wonderful answer to that impertinent question. She and her husband discovered Noto nine years ago. They have rented a house in the hills every year since, among the endless olive, almond and lemon trees. ‘When you fall in love with a place like this... it becomes part of who you are,’ she said. ‘I love it for its simplicity. It helps me recall the things that matter.’
She mentioned a beach she likes, Fontane Bianche. ‘The local people know us there. They greet us, they squeeze the children, they probably look in their ears. There’s real warmth, genuine affection. The kindness is heartfelt. You’re absorbed into their sense of community and identity. My husband is Japanese and he feels completely at home here. If Sicilians accept you, they accept you fully. But,’ she added, ‘to answer your question about whether I worry about things changing, well, yes and no. Every year we’ve seen changes. But Sicilians are so proud of Sicily, so incredibly proud. I can’t see them ever selling out. They’ll stay true to themselves. The beauty of Noto, of Sicily, is everywhere, in the littlest, humblest things.’ I nodded in silent agreement and thought of the plastic letters on the felt board at Caffè Sicilia.
For the inside track on Noto, to book the smartest villas, get tables at the best restaurants, access to the most knowledgeable guides and unbeatable recommendations of secret beaches, pop-up bars and the most delicious gelaterias, ring the Sicily experts at Bellini Travel on +44 20 7602 7602 or email londonoffice@bellinitravel.com (bellinitravel.com).
Scroll down for more pictures of Noto, Sicily...
Like this? Now read and watch:
The best restaurants and hotels in Noto, Sicily
VIDEO: Noto, Sicily's sun-drenched city
South-east Sicily's baroque towns
How a property in Noto is one of the best new hotels in the world
Ana LuiDouble chocolate biscuits at a café in Noto.
Ana LuiFresh tomatoes
Ana LuiAn olive tree in Noto.
Ana LuiNoto Cathedral, the epitomé of Sicilian Baroque.