A Day in Agrigento: Scala dei Turchi, Seafood & Lemon Granita
- Made al Dente
- Jul 2
- 4 min read
Updated: Jul 9
The day began beneath a sun already golden and assertive, though it had only just risen over the Sicilian coast. The air carried the warmth of what would be a July scorcher, but it also shimmered with promise. We drove west from our lodging in Agrigento and arrived early at one of Sicily’s most otherworldly places—Scala dei Turchi.
The cliffs stretched before us in their stark white grandeur, formed over millennia from marl—a sedimentary rock soft and smooth like powdered sugar. These natural terraces cascade into the turquoise sea with a theatrical stillness, as if frozen mid-breath. Legend says Turkish pirates once used these cliffs to launch attacks inland, giving rise to their name—the Turkish Steps—but this morning, there were no marauders, just the hush of the waves below.
I waded in slowly, the water cool and clear, lapping gently against my sun-warmed skin. The Mediterranean wrapped around my body like a silk scarf, and I floated without effort, suspended between sea and sky, between ancient history and the eternal now. There is a silence underwater that makes you feel like you’re listening to the land itself.
By midmorning, the sun climbed higher, and with it came the appetite that follows a swim. We returned to Agrigento and made our way to a corner café with a green awning fluttering gently in the sea breeze. There, we joined locals in one of Sicily’s most sacred daily rituals: granita and brioche.
To the uninitiated, it might seem curious to enjoy an icy dessert for breakfast, but in Sicily, especially in the summer, it is practically an act of preservation. My granita—made from slow-roasted pistachios of Bronte, their flavor impossibly rich and subtly salted—came in a
tall glass. On the side, a warm brioche col tuppo, its rounded top giving it its name, reminiscent of a tightly coiled bun. My partner went for chocolate and ricotta (yes, ricotta granita!). The granita’s chill met the buttery warmth of the bread like old friends reunited.
This wasn’t just breakfast. It was a ceremony. A moment rooted in the island’s long dance with nature and influence. The tradition of granita dates back to Arab rule in the 9th century, when sugarcane was introduced to Sicily, along with techniques of ice preservation. What began as an elite delicacy evolved over time into a daily ritual across the island. Flavors changed with the seasons: lemon in July, almond in August, coffee in September. But pistachio, with its earthy depth and Sicilian pride, felt perfect on this day.
Afternoon arrived like a sigh. The hours passed in the lazy rhythm of dolcefarniente—the sweetness of doing nothing. A nap. A page turned. The day in Agrigento was turning into evening. A window open to the soft hush of crickets. In southern Italy, the afternoon heat slows everything to a whisper, and in that quiet, something profound takes shape: rest not as luxury, but as necessity.
Evening brought a softening of the light and the clink of wine glasses drifting from balconies. We walked through Agrigento’s streets, warmed stone underfoot, to a small seafood trattoria tucked into a quiet side street where the menu was handwritten and the smile from the owner felt like a welcome home.
Dinner began with a mixed seafood antipasto—a vivid celebration of everything the Mediterranean gives so generously. There were mussels still glistening from their steam bath, delicate tartlets filled with crab and lemon zest, grilled octopus in warm olive oil,
slivers of smoked swordfish and tuna dressed with citrus, and bright towers of couscous topped with sun-dried tomatoes. The antipasto alone told a story of Sicily’s ancient relationship with the sea. From the Phoenicians to the Greeks to the Arabs, each wave of civilization brought new ingredients, techniques, and rituals, all folded into the island’s cuisine over centuries.
We followed with spaghetti alle vongole—tender clams nestled in perfectly cooked pasta, the sauce a delicate balance of white wine, garlic, and a hint of chili. Each bite tasted of the sea, a testament to how the simplest ingredients can create the most unforgettable dishes. Then came the star: grilled swordfish, perfectly seared and dressed in a cornucopia of cherry tomatoes, briny capers, slivers of red onion, and a generous drizzle of olive oil. The dish was a celebration of Sicilian simplicity and vibrant flavors—each ingredient adding its own note to a perfect harmony.
On the side, we shared a salad of shaved fennel and blood orange. It was clean and refreshing, a perfect foil to the warm richness of the fish. The pairing of sweet citrus with aniseed-bright fennel is as old as the island’s orange groves, a reminder of how simplicity is often the secret.
After dinner, we stepped back into the night. The centro storico of Agrigento buzzed gently with voices and laughter, the scent of basil and grilled seafood still hanging in the air. Baroque facades caught the last pink light of the day, and as we wandered through narrow alleys, past quiet churches and ivy-covered walls, time seemed to stretch like taffy.
Agrigento is best known for its ancient Valley of the Temples, but it’s in these twilight strolls that the city breathes its full beauty—when the past is not a ruin but a rhythm.
Back in our room, the taste of pistachio still lingered on my tongue, and the quiet hum of the fan mixed with distant music from a neighboring piazza. Sicily gives generously, but asks you to slow down, to notice. And on that hot July day, I did.
