Open Sesame: Primal in Palermo
No doubt about it, this is a dream job. Even if there comes a point on every research trip when my inner traveler werewolf sprouts a hairy back and howls at the moon. One too many luxury hotel visits or carefully plated amuse-bouche pom poms and the revolt is inevitable. What’s the remedy? To the streets, to a sagra (harvest festival), to the local bar where Italian wives exile their husbands to drink grappa and gamble just shy of noon (there’s one in every town). It can happen in a flash, that a carefully plotted city route highlighting ‘must see’ restaurants, shops, and hotels suddenly feels like a hot lava zone.
Once, in Lecce, I found myself gunning it to the countryside like a getaway driver, racing to the rural address on a flyer for a sagra devoted entirely to the olive harvest. It was the kind of event where the only people in attendance were born within a 5 kilometer radius of the olive trees being honoured, a rookie DJ at the helm of entertainment and heaps of hearty food, served family style on a paper plate.
Most recently, on a Semana Santa Saturday in Palermo, escape was harder to come by. I’d reached my tourism/luxury bubble saturation point so I threw out the charted course and went on instinct.
Any empty sidestreet would do—as long as it didn’t intersect with main arteries clogged with tourists & selfie sticks gearing up for the procession. The Kalsa neighborhood offered relief. After ducking into a few artisanal shops—including a leather studio where hide was being hand-stitched into wallets and purses—my stomach began to growl. I’d already hit the Sicilian food wall, so the idea of sitting down for courses anywhere was unbearable.
That’s when I saw it: a modest street stand with a line of locals queued for one thing only—Pani ca meusa.
There were four Palermitani ahead of me, giving me enough time to study the choreography of this one-item menu. The ‘Mamma’ in charge opened the sesame bun, slapped down a napkin on top of the bun as a barrier, and dipped a slotted spoon into the bubbling broth to scoop up the meat. She drained it with a press against the vat, and with a well rehearsed swoop, landed it on top of the bun. She sealed it with the top half of the bun, and flipped it over. Final step: a holler for young Massimo, whose entire job—all day everyday—was to peel the soggy napkin barrier off the protected bun like a magic trick.
I took a bite. The texture defied meat. Everything on the menu was written in dialect, which protected the mystery. For those not in the know, I’d succeeded at shifting into a local gear. Pani ca meusa is a Sicilian street food sandwich, also known as a spleen sandwich. It’s made with boiled and fried slices of cow spleen, often including lung and trachea, and is served in a soft sesame-topped bread. The filling is typically seasoned with lard and can be dressed with lemon juice (schettu) or cheese (maritatu).
For a deeper dive into this singular sandwich—including where to find the best in Palermo—see A Brief History of Palermo’s Pani ca Meusa by Kenny Dunn. For notes on how to weave in and out of the refined and unrefined, in Sicily and beyond, give us a call.
