Thomas Marks.
An arancino is about the size of a shot put. The principal ingredient is sticky, thick-grained rice, starchy and buttery, which cocoons one or other type of filling: for me, that’s ragu e piselli, a daub of mince, peas and gravy that mightn’t be out of place in a cottage pie. The barista hands it over in grease-paper, which is soon glossy with frying oil. The ball has a weight that makes you wonder how it’s been put together, and as soon as you bite through its golden crust of breadcrumbs, it starts to lose its structure: food that wants to fall apart.
I’m in Palermo, the regional capital of Sicily, sneaking from a long-grey London to seek out the kind heat of May. There are wonders of colour and high exuberance here – the gleaming twelfth-century mosaics, the plump, purple aubergines that spill from market stalls, the grinning playgrounds of baroque putti that decorate buildings meant for prayer. It’s the vividness I see first, before my eye starts to attune to the Sicilian shadows. But before long, my overriding feeling is of a city that has settled on the brink of collapse – which is why no street food could be more fitting here than the arancino…
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