The article published in the
Reppublica last year rewritten in English:
A man, behind an ad hoc kettle that resembles a Caribbean steel drum, fries thin slices of beef spleen and lung in lard. He pulls a forkful up the kettle’s angled side, squashing it with a sizzle to squeeze some of the grease out. Then with a deft flip, he mounds the glistening purple-brown meat on a soft roll covered with sesame seeds. There are two choices. The vastedda is the size and shape of a hamburger bun. The mafalda, for the true meusa aficionado, is a tube of dough folded in on itself several times and is at least twice as big. After a judicious pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon, the pane ca’ meusa is ready to be consumed.
It is said that this quintessential Palermo street food dates back to when the jewish butchers sold their non-kosher innards to the gentiles. By the time King Ferdinand II ran them out in 1492, the Palermitani had developed a taste for this particular delicacy, serving it on a bun covered with sesame seeds, called giuggiulena in the local dialect, from the arabic word giulgiulan. The sandwich is dressed with either a simple squeeze of lemon (panino schietto) or with ricotta and caciocavallo (panino maritato).
The Palermitani hotly discuss wether the best sandwich comes from a street vendor, with his earthier, oilier and more authentic product, or from the more refined and cleaner Liberty-style Foccaceria. Personally, I prefer to taste pane ca’ meusa standing, leaning just a little bit forward so that the grease doesn’t drip onto my shoes. A can of gassosa, a local soda similar to 7-up, gives a much needed boost to my stomach, whose digestive murmurings contribute to the concert of passing traffic, Neapolitan pop blaring from the meusaru’s car, and the almost Shakespearean conversation between the mythical cook and his clients, full of double meanings and play-on-words ranging from questionable jokes to true poetry.
People are often surprised that an American girl eats such things. Honestly, pane ca’ meusa is the perfect synthesis of the Mexican roach coach from my childhood growing up in Los Angeles and the classic American greasy spoon. It reminds me of when I was little, of the sundays I would go visit my Mexican auntie to eat menudo, or when I heard my grandmother tell me about the pickled beef heart and head cheese she enjoyed during her youth in rural Pennsylvania.
These more humble cuts of meat known as offal in English, whose unfortunate similarity to the word awful certainly doesn’t make for good advertising, are in fact real gastronomic treasures that can only be found in small ethnic butcher shops or special ordered. From the post second world war on, organs such as the liver, kidneys, tripe and tongue have been abandoned for pseudo-hygenenic lean cuts of meat pre-wrapped in plastic and styrofoam. Though yuppie versions of traditional dishes have reappeared recently in more fashionable eateries, the trend is based more on the excitement of breaking a taboo rather than on a true appreciation.
Having said this, I hope that the meusaru doesn’t become another victim of globalization – eliminated by stricter commercial and sanitary regulations while Italy tries to conform to the European Union. These street vendors are the guardians and reference points for their quarter. It’s not a coincidence that the famous Focacceria San Francesco was one of the first to react openly to the mafia and refuse to pay the pizzo. In addition, for me, the pane ca’ meusa is an important symbol in this city. It is, in fact, an exquisite creation of the three monotheistic religions; the Jews contributed the organ meats, the Arabs who shared their love of street foods and sesame seeds, and of course, the Christians happily ate everything. Considering the current conflict between these three brothers, today the pane ca’ meusa can be considered an emblem of the splendid results that can be obtained through intercultural exchange and cooperation.
