The Mysterious Carob
A Bean-Sized Piece of Sicily’s History and Cuisine
story and photos by Cynthia Ariosta
There’s a funny thing about perspective. Sometimes you don’t acknowledge how lucky you are until you are faced with how fortunate you have been. I have been so lucky to have had the opportunity to travel to many places in the world in the last decade. Yet there has been one place I’ve been to twice and would return to again and again—Sicily.
Sicily is intoxicating. One could attribute that feeling to a carafe of Carricante shared over lunch at a local osteria, or the bottle of Nerello Mascalese consumed after two glasses of bubbly from Etna at a Michelin-starred restaurant. But the euphoric feeling I experienced during a recent two weeks in Sicily came from so much more.
Many travelers prioritize visits to local museums in search of exhibits to give them some sense of place and its history, culture, and community. Post-travel, friends will often query about our museum visits. We’ve been fortunate enough to stumble across a Dali exhibit in Matera, a Bruegel exhibit in Vienna, a Kahlo exhibit in Budapest. But those exhibits, while educational and enchanting, have left us with no more sense of place than a man-made lake in the Gobi or a Starbucks in Japan. What gives us the most sense of a place are the smells and tastes of the food, the harvests of farmers and fishermen, and the chefs, winemakers, and producers of edible treats and all that they prepare. It’s the feel of the nubby rind of a blood orange followed by the taste of its candied peel in a cannoli, the sounds of the fisherman hawking his silver-skinned sardines at the market followed by a plate of fritte sardine at the local trattoria, and the tartness and brine of an olive as its flesh first breaks on the tongue.
Our drive through Sicily took us from bustling old town Palermo to the secluded Temple of Segesta, from medieval Erice to the Greek ruins of Agrigento. We wandered the cobblestone streets of Ragusa Ibla and Ortygia and meandered from the Mar Mediterraneo to the ever-percolating Mt. Etna—or A Muntagna, as the Sicilians call it. Sicily reminded me so much of my beloved Mendocino County, similar in its diverse topography–with her lush valleys with serpentine rivers stretching between snow-capped inland mountains and the crashing ocean. But what was so intoxicating, and what impressed me the most, was the concentration on seasonal and regional food ingredients, the diversity of the agricultural landscape, and how the cuisine of even the smallest towns reflected it.
On one day in particular, we took a drive from old town Ragusa to enchanting Noto on a narrow country lane, a vanedda, through a stunning farmland landscape, the rolling hills along the road bordered with prickly pear and fieldstone walls. Our mouths were agape in wonder as we passed one farm after the other, each with a different crop: citrus trees next to olive groves next to nut trees, hoop houses filled with squash plants bursting with fiery blossoms, fields of carciofi violetti side by side with vineyards, sheep and cattle grazing the grass in between. But there was a “gem” in the midst, unknown to us. We passed fields of gnarled trees towering with dense foliage and slowed at each field to try to identify its crop, but the giant trees continued to puzzle us. It was December, and while citrus trees were supporting low hanging fruit, pistachio and almond trees were bare of leaves awaiting spring. This tree held its leaves but sported no blossoms, no fruit. Its flat, rounded leaves shone in the afternoon Mediterranean sun.
In Noto, we ate an epic lunch at Ristorante Manna, seductive dishes reflecting the bounty of the season. Our delightful server was so engaging, fluent in English, Italian, and French, we decided to ask her about our elusive albero. “Leaves or no leaves?” she inquired. “Leaves,” we answered. “Fruit?” “No, no fruit.” She inquired about the size, the trunk, the bark. We told her of its gnarled trunk, its large stature, its thick foliage. “Ah, sì. It is the carob tree.” Carob? It had occasionally crossed our palates but was not high on our radar. “Sì. We use it in baking, in sauces, in bars like chocolate.”
It turns out the Provence of Ragusa is particularly renowned for its carob trees, and they are considered a protected species. In September, the ground beneath the trees is draped in nets to catch the falling carob pods. Farmers whack at the trees to release the pods, collecting them for the local mill in Modica. The seeds are collected for flour and sweetening agents while the pods are separated and broken into sugary pieces often used in animal feed. The pods can also be eaten raw, like licorice.
After lunch we strolled along Largo Porta Nazionale and found ourselves at Pitittu di Sicilia, a small shop offering Sicilian prodotti artigianale and degustazione gratuita, free tastings! We entered and perused the offerings. Blood orange preserves, almond wine, pistachio crema, olive oil, pasta, Modican chocolate and alas, bars of carrubato “senza cacao”—without cocoa—available for tasting. As the fragrant and nutty bricks from the carob bar melted on our tongues, the owner approached us. “Do you know the real mystery of the carob?” she asked, as she handed us two small beans. “The carob seed was used as a standard for weighing small quantities,” she continued. “Can you guess now?” It turns out that carob seeds, due to their uniformity, were used as a measurement of weight in jewelry. The word “carat,” derived in the 15th century, comes from the Italian word “carato,” borrowed via Arabic from the Greek word “keration,” referring to both “carob bean” and “small weight.” The carat was used for measuring diamonds beginning in 1570. As it turns out, though, the carob seed is no more uniform in mass than any other seed, making it an inconsistent unit for measuring, particularly precious gems. Subsequently, the measurement of the carat also fluctuated, often by location, from “187 mg in Cyprus to 216 mg in Livorno,” according to one source.1 It wasn’t until the 1900s that the weight of 200 mg was standardized for the carat.
We held the beans in our hands, chuckling as we imagined an Italian gemologist hunched over his balanced scale, placing the seeds on one plate and his diamond on the other, knowing the beans’ clever little secret. The shop owner placed a pod in our hands. “Un regalo,” she said. A gift. It was true. The entire day had been a gift. The journey through the countryside. The meal at Manna. The stroll through Noto. The discovery of Pitittu and the story of the carob. This day had satisfied our travel cravings, the knowledge we seek through our palate. These were the gems we would have never found in a museum that day. This was the story of the place where we were in that moment, a story that wove together the people, the culture, the food, and the landscape in magnificent Sicily, the “gem” of the Mediterranean.
(1) How to use the terms ‘karat’ and ‘carat’ correctly. Merrill Perlman, May 6, 2019. https://www.cjr.org/language_corner/carat-karat.php
Cynthia Ariosta is a restaurateur (cross-fingers for post COVID-19 success), avid traveller and food enthusiast, and former Mendocino County resident and business owner. She currently resides in Healdsburg, CA. For help planning your own trip to Sicily, contact Cynthia at girleatswhat@gmail.com.
