You don’t go shopping in Italian, you make shopping.
So, Oggi, faccio la spesa. Today, I make the shopping.
(If you had Latin in school, you’ll remember that particularly nasty 3rd conjugation verb Facere which the Italians, nowadays, have thoughtfully simplified).
I strolled over the bridge to Ortigia and the Mercato, which is small and not really a market at all, just some stalls set up in a handful of little streets, but very convenient all the same. I can’t expect the size of Queen Victoria Market here, that would cover a good third of Ortigia. I miss the Queen Vic doughnuts though.
Plenty of fish stalls of course in this market.
Fresh Produce from the Sea
Fasolari might be cockles, but I’m not sure if that’s right and as for Lupini your guess is as good as mine.
I don’t know what Vongole are either but, according to the sign, vongole veraci, they’re truthful. Good for them! If I’m going to eat a vongola I want an honest one.
Swordfish! I’ve never seen one up close and personal before.
Yes, the fishmonger, il pescivendolo, has a fag stuck in his mouth as he prepares to slice up some of his wares. A lot of people smoke here, and without visible signs of guilt. A land of fatalists.
Lots of fresh vegetables. The celery is one euro fifty.
At least, I think sedano is celery. It may be those purple things.
I bought some beautiful tomatoes, i pomodori, from this man. As I was passing his stall he insisted that I try one, a bright red tomato the size of a fat grape, and, truly, I haven’t tasted tomatoes like this since my grandmother grew them in her backyard.
Have a look at this shop!
I’ll have to go back with a notebook and pen and learn what all these words mean.
I can see Soya and Pinenuts, Ginseng and that Yerba Mate green tea.
An Aladin’s Cave of herbs and spices, nuts, chocolates and assorted goodies.
My last stop was the Salumeria, the delicatessen.
Oh my, can you say yum?
I’ve learned to ask for an un etto of prosciutto now, a hectogram, (100 grams).
Cheese and more cheese in his display.
He gave me a taste of almost everything.
If we are what we eat, I’ve become a large bowl of fresh ricotta.
I took a photo while he packaged some up for me.
Then I strolled back over the bridge, taking a little rest on the way to admire some racing yachts dancing away in Porto Grande.
When I’d climbed the stairs up to my little appartmento I made myself a plate of nibblies and took it, with a cold drink, out onto my balcony.
