
The little-known Sicilian town that feeds the world's almond craze
'Centuries of tradition and hard-work, passed down from generation to generation, are rooted in Avola's fertile lands' says Salvatore Rizzo, a third-generation farmer raised in the town. 'The quality of these almonds is the result of intensive irrigation techniques first introduced by the Arabs, that helped turn this nut into a cornerstone of the Italian patisserie'. Avola's history
Avola, commonly known as the hexagonal city, preserves a deep identity typical of a true Mediterranean melting pot. The town was once seen as a golden land for its position along the Sicilian coastline, which inevitably attracted Greeks, Romans, and Byzantines, each of whom left an indelible mark. With an earthquake in 1693, much of this legacy was shaken, making Avola a living mosaic of Sicily's layered past. The method of growing almonds from Avola's almond trees—also known as mandorlo—follows the rhythms of nature. Photograph by Adam Eastland, Alamy Stock Photo (Top) (Left) and Photograph by siculodoc, Getty Images (Bottom) (Right)
Today, the past can be seen through its still-standing Baroque places of worship, historical buildings, old recipes, and stunning landscapes.
'I've always been drawn by Avola's quiet resilience, seen through the eyes of locals. It feels like being suspended between past and future," says Rizzo. 'On a normal day, you'll spot kids enjoying almond biscuits and elders pouring soap mixture into molds, still making scibina by hand." Over the centuries, there's still a creativity that doesn't come prepackaged and it's rare in nearby bigger cities.
(10 must-do experiences in Sicily) The almond-growing process
The method of growing almonds from Avola's almond trees—also known as mandorlo—follows the rhythms of nature. Trees are carefully planted by hand, spaced far apart to allow their root systems to stretch deep into the volcanic soil. A testament to meticulous selection can be seen in the harvesting process, done by hand, aided by gently shaking off the branches to loosen the ripe Pizzuta almonds. Today, farmers manage the work without any artificial tools, unlike in ancient times when irrigation was essential.
Much of Avola's almonds are used to make traditional Sicilian sweets, from marzipan and rich cassata to sugared almonds. Beyond the kitchen, they are used by the cosmetic industry, where their oils and creams are renowned for their soothing properties. An operator carefully inspects the Avola almonds, discarding broken or damaged ones to ensure only the finest proceed to the peeling stage. Photograph by Francesco Vigliotti
(Ancient ruins, city tours and cannoli on a family tour of western Sicily)
'The almond tree of Avola is still nurtured thanks to methods that have nothing to do with modern agriculture and is probably one of the first introduced crops by conquerors of the Sicilian coast' says Rizzo. "Avola's porous soil lives in symbiosis with Southern Italy's dry summers and mild winters, which create great conditions for the healthy blooming of its prized almonds.'
One of the oldest and most renowned almond producers in Avola is Nastasi Mandorle, a family-run business with two locations in town, just a few miles from Syracuse. The company's roots date back to 1898, when entrepreneur Lorenzo Nastasi, together with his two sisters, began cultivating almonds in the surrounding countryside.
Nastasi practices a dry-farming approach, which relies entirely on natural rainfall and the nutrient-rich soil of Avola. Given the particular terrain and the summer blossoming, almonds are harvested from July to September, carefully hulled and sun-dried for three days, in order to preserve their sweet oils and woody hull, also named mallo. Where to try it
Nastasi: A trusted name in the almond business, Nastasi's factory is a stop you can't miss if you're a food enthusiast. The well-stocked store offers a wide range of products, from silvered and whole-peeled almonds to fragrant almond pastes, pistachios, and hazelnuts. A visit to this place guarantees a full immersion in Avola's almond history. Various stages in the traditional processing of the Avola almond, a jewel of Sicilian agriculture. Photograph by Francesco Vigliotti
Nama : Nama is a family-run business founded by the Tiralongos. If you are looking for a sweet snack, head here. This centuries-old factory welcomes its visitors with a curated selection of Avola's finest nuts, including fresh almonds, organic products (creams, almond oil), and nut pestos, all made with devotion to the land.
Pippo Si Pappa Bar : This lovely cafe is famous for its silky and fresh almond granita (rated the best in town), warmed brioche, local ricotta, and artisanal ice-cream. Where to stay
Avola offers countless charming accommodations for a relaxing stay. Morfeo Charming Rooms & Relax is the best option to quickly reach the city center, and it features a private pool, a spacious garden, and suites with private balconies. Le Torrette Rooms and Apartments is a cozy bed-and-breakfast with its own restaurant and a bicycle rental service, which is a perfect way to explore the coast. When to go
Avola is an urban jewel year-long, but it's best enjoyed in summer (July-September), when you can sunbathe on beaches with crystal-clear waters and witness the almond harvest. October is a good compromise for those who are more inclined toward tasting tours. The temperature is pleasantly breezy, and never too hot. Getting there
Avola is easy to reach from major Italian metropolises. Flights from Catania Fontanarossa (CTA) or Comiso Airport operate all year-long. Alternatively, you can take a high-speed train to Catania (Italo or Frecciarossa), followed by a bus to Avola that takes about 1.5 hours.
(How chocolate went from rough to refined in one Sicilian town) Maria Salvati is an Italian freelance journalist and copywriter. Born and raised in Rome, she writes about lifestyle, politics, and travel with a focus on Italy's culture. Her work has appeared in Business Insider, Thrillist, and Fodor's. Follow her on Instagram @mariasalvati2
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San Francisco Chronicle
an hour ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
This Michelin-starred S.F. restaurant's quirky format made it famous. Now it's just distracting
For one glorious summer, my grandma bought season passes to Universal Studios Hollywood for my cousins and me. I became close associates with the 'E.T.' — nice guy — and visited every attraction multiple times. But that much exposure to a good thing brings downsides: The surprises of the grounds tour no longer moved me, the 'Back to the Future' ride became a high-tech arcade game. The illusion was shattered. More recently in San Francisco, I've felt a similar shift at State Bird Provisions. When it opened on New Year's Eve in 2011, State Bird set a new standard of creativity for Bay Area restaurants. Chefs Nicole Krasinski and Stuart Brioza introduced a novel dim sum-style presentation of small plates, emulsifying California's bounty with French, Italian, Japanese and Chinese flavors and technique. It earned State Bird nearly every national honor: Bon Appétit's Best New Restaurant in America, multiple James Beard awards, a Michelin star. The staff, carrying trays or pushing carts, pirouette through the dining room, tempting tables with tiny salads, gleaming riblets and potato chips with aerated dip. Steamy siu mai? Not in this building. This spirited exhibition was fun and endearing on my first visit. Now, it's my least favorite thing about the restaurant. Extra! Extra! San Francisco Chronicle critics MacKenzie Chung Fegan and Cesar Hernandez are dueling this week over one restaurant: State Bird Provisions. Don't miss Fegan's response on Friday — sign up for the Chronicle Food newsletter to make sure it lands in your inbox. The dim sum schtick feels more customary than essential, more cute than efficient, more showy than delicious. The dim sum plates can feel like a roller coaster on a day where the weather won't make up its mind; sunny and thrilling one moment, gray and dull the next. I gleefully gnawed on immaculate ribs, lacquered in a fiery, tart passion fruit sauce ($16), then puzzled over a bland wedge salad of yellowing golf ball-sized lettuces ($6). Avocados in Caesar dressing ($8), wearing a fuzzy fur coat of cheese curls, failed to delight like the cherries accompanied by a cloud of savory-sweet whipped cheese ($10). Egg tofu custard ($9)? Beautifully silky. But the burrata-capped garlic bread ($13) was dense enough to give your mandibles a workout. This aspect of the experience may be the initial draw, but it does not actually represent the restaurant's best efforts. Instead, State Bird's spoils are on the printed dinner menu. If the roving snacks are a jam session, built on and stymied by improvisation, the standard menu dishes are albums: expressive, precise, fleshed-out thoughts. Toothsome, hand-cut noodles ($30) come doused in a peppery pumpkin seed salsa macha, with an egg on top that melts into pudding. A treasure chest of a donabe ($30) contained chewy tofu cubes, ready-to-burst beans and springy mushrooms in a slightly viscous, unctuous green broth; each sip felt like a massage for my soul. The restaurant's namesake specialty is always on the dinner menu: juicy fried quail (half for $24) lording over lemony, stewed onions. These entrees are in the major leagues. The small plates are playing varsity. On one visit, I had my eye on roti with lentil hummus off the printed menu. But I abandoned that plot for a couple of dim sum bites with lower price tags. The next outing, I ordered the flaky flatbread, and I realized the gravity of my mistake. I was constantly in this conundrum of choice, where the implied ephemeral state of the dim sum compelled me to act fast or miss out like a loser. When I rejected the servers' edible propositions, I saw a flicker of defeat on their faces, and felt as though I was letting them down. Not to Penn & Teller the magic trick, but the appetizer scarcity is artificial, as you can order the dim sum items a la carte. In fact, there's a printed version of the menu, if you want to skip the tableside advertising and cherry-pick your snacks. The dining room — a veritable vortex of hors d'oeuvres — is constantly animated, if a bit chaotic. The cart and tray circulation contributes to the commotion. The lanes between tables are already tight, and traffic is stalled by servers giving neighboring tables their best Don Draper sales pitch. If you visit the facilities, be prepared to play human Tetris to get back your seat. The staff is well-informed on the menu, but their ample responsibilities can impact service: the occasional forgotten drink, a tardy entree, tables crowded with empty plates. While hordes of patrons no longer camp outside of State Bird, as they did for years, demand is still high. Prime time reservations evaporate swiftly. 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Travel + Leisure
an hour ago
- Travel + Leisure
I've Been a Travel Advisor for Over Two Decades—Here's How to Craft the Perfect Itinerary for Any Destination
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Hamilton Spectator
4 hours ago
- Hamilton Spectator
I rode a bike across Italy and discovered coastal gems, quiet hill towns and a gloriously bonkers medieval festival
Pedalling my bike over a ribbon of red bricks, I weaved through an obstacle course of sleepy cats that couldn't be bothered to move. My unofficial census count had felines outnumbering people in the hilltop hamlet of Sovana. This medieval village was one of the overnight stops on my coast-to-coast cycling tour of Italy. Before this nearly 600-kilometre adventure, I'd never heard of Sovana. Or Todi. Or Genga. Or a lot of other places on my two-wheeled journey from the Adriatic to the Tyrrhenian Sea. Unlike Venice and Rome, these towns aren't the familiar faces of Italy's battle with overtourism. They're the kind of under-the-radar spots that Visit Italy championed in a recent social media campaign. The tourism site took to Instagram and TikTok to promote ' 99% of Italy ,' encouraging travellers to venture off the country's well-trodden tourist circuit. The double-barrelled allure of escaping the crowds and cycling cross-country led me and my husband to Ciclismo Classico's Bike Across Italy trip in May. We joined 16 others — ranging in age from mid-20s to late 70s — on a ride from the beach town of Pesaro to the southern shores of Tuscany. Our 11-day expedition across the peninsula had us traversing the country's backbone, the Apennine Mountains, and spinning through rural swaths of the landlocked region of Umbria, the so-called green heart of Italy. A sweeping, swift descent awaited cyclists near Gubbio in Umbria, known as the green heart of Italy. Ciclismo Classico has been running this trip for more than three decades. The tour operator typically offers it five times a year between May and October. The May trip differs from the others because it includes the annual Festa dei Ceri (Festival of the Candles) in Gubbio, another gem I didn't know existed. This 'City of Stone' shared the same charming traits of other medieval towns we visited. Frescoed churches. Imposing walls surrounding a labyrinth of skinny streets. Gelato. More gelato. Unlike our other destinations, Gubbio was packed with people. That's the scene every May 15, when the candle festival draws thousands to its main square. Here's the gist of what happens during the millennium-old event: Three teams sprint around town carrying a trio of candle-shaped wooden sculptures, each topped with a statue of a different saint. Spectators fill the streets, many dressed in blue and yellow shirts with bright red scarves — a riot of primary colours that looks all the more vibrant amid Gubbio's ubiquitous grey stone. The finish line is a mountaintop church. Race day in Gubbio was a rest day for our group, the only 24-hour period where we wouldn't be on bikes. Instead, we squeezed into the standing-room-only main square as the ringing from the bell tower grew louder, waiting for the race to begin. Wooden ceri statues poke above the crowd gathered in front of the 14th-century Palazzo dei Consoli in Gubbio's main square. 'Should we start moving out of the way?' I asked one of our three Italian guides, Massimo Gianangeli. 'Don't worry,' he said in a tone that suggested I absolutely should worry. ' They will move you .' They sure did. Teams plowed through the congested streets carrying their five-metre-tall, 300-kilo ceri (pronounced cherry), creating a Pamplona-like running-of-the-bulls chaos. 'Do not complain about a push or the throng,' read a Festa dei Ceri tourist pamphlet I picked up at the hotel. 'It will be the best way to prove you know how to enjoy the festival.' My low-key terror subsided once the racers passed. Brass bands filled the vacuum they left behind, roaming the streets playing everything from 'Nessun Dorma' to 'Beer Barrel Polka.' Locals emerged from their houses carrying trays of cookies and pitchers of wine. 'Viva le ceri!' yelled a man as he handed me and my husband plastic cups and filled them with red wine. The boisterous event turned out to be the yin to the bike trip's tranquil yang. Our rides occasionally took us on busy roads with car traffic. But much of the time it was quiet, except for singing birds and the periodic rev of a Ducati. Riding through the Apennine Mountains, the backbone of Italy. Our route skirted vineyards nursing newborn Sangiovese and Sagrantino grapes. We passed fields of wildflowers and sheep whose milk would be turned into salty pecorino cheese. We shared a mutual jump-scare with some wild boar that oinked and grunted as they fled into a thick forest. Most days we rode about 60 kilometres, with some challenging climbs peppered into the mix. What goes up, of course, must come down. I've never been a fan of fast descents. But the guides held a downhill clinic that taught me techniques like how to better use my brakes or improve my balance by shifting weight to my outside foot on sharp turns. The guides also gave fun tutorials on Italian wine, cheese, history and hand gestures — a language in and of itself. One session taught us how to pronounce Italian words, each one of us taking turns reading aloud from a menu of gelato flavours. Gianangeli promised us a post-dinner ice cream party if we did well. 'You'll still get cups of gelato if you mess up,' he said. 'You just won't get a spoon.' Headed for the west coast of Italy, riders roll out of the tiny town of Sovana on the last day of cycling. As much as I loved being on the bike, I appreciated these mini lessons about Italy. Some cycling vacations can revolve too much around the three Bs: bike, binge eat and bed. This trip offset our time in the saddle with plenty of other activities, like a private art tour in the Palazzo Ducale in Urbino. We visited the Grotte di Frasassi , one of the largest networks of underground caverns in Europe. And we had a soak in the thermal springs of Saturnia , where pre-Roman Etruscans used to bathe in the sulphurous waters. The hot springs were a welcome break on our last day of biking, which culminated with us rolling into the pretty fishing village of Talamone, another place that had eluded me despite multiple trips to Tuscany over the years. We pedalled to the town's serene port and posed for a final group photo. After a sea-to-sea ride spanning 595 kilometres, I felt like I arrived on the west coast of Italy a better cyclist than when I started. A better tourist, too.