Caponata, Churches and Cumin. Ah, Malta.

Often, when we travel, we try and relate places to other place we've already been, even if we are really reaching in our attempts to see something familiar. It's not a good or a bad habit, I think it's only natural. A dreary city surrounded by lush green can remind me of Ireland, the same way that an archway that catches a shadow just so can remind me of Rome - even in Princeton.
Malta, however, defies all recognition or region. The best way I could explain it is to say it looks like a rockier, dustier Sicily with the architecture of a Catholic Northern Africa. I'm aware that this makes little sense, but I've spent the better part of the day trying to wrap my head around what Malta really is, and how to best describe it. Even before I arrived here, it was hard. "So, is it part of Italy?" "Is it French or something?" No, it's its own independent little country, one that threw the EU into a tumble when it joined, for almost no one speaks Maltese. They use the Euro, but only recently, and they certainly do not recharge Italian cell phones, a topic still riling my blood. I traded my perfectly functioning cell phone for a slow wifi connection and zero cell phone. That's what I get for complaining.
The cities are dirty and dusty, but, like many Middle Eastern and African cities - bright. Whitewashed from the sun that beats down, unapologetic, showing every crack, crevice and chip. The color of the sand and rock matches the buildings that seem to dangerously sprout out of nowhere as they lean on each other precariously, like adobe houses curiously peering down to a roaring sea. The water here is clear, and the usual one million shades of blue, but the waves on the Northeast of the island, by Paceville (pronounced PAH-CHAY-VILLE)and St. Julian's, are vicious, and the current looks strong even from a distance. Sunbathers lay on smooth rock, like Nevada desert stone, instead of sand, dipping into tidal pools to escape the currents.
The language, both written and spoken, is mind blowing. Similar to Arabic, but not Arabian at all. Signs written with words that have no rhyme or reason to our eyes. The letters are familiar, but the words could simply be the creative scratchings of a child.
The people are dark eyed and curious. They will follow you for blocks, selling the usual market wares, speaking in a disturbingly British accented English before stepping back into the shadows of their quiet Maltese. Black, white, tan - Maltese is a designation that has no color barrier. A man, glistening obsidian, walks arm in arm with a alabaster pale woman with inky eyes and curly golden hair that seems to follow no rules or order, laughing and joking in their secret language. Churches hide on every block, the same colors of the sand and the rock but intricately, lovingly and delicately carved. Malta, for whatever its influences, is a strongly Catholic nation. From almost every part of the capital city of Valletta and its neighbor across the bay, Sliema, you can see a glimmer of the sapphire sea behind a fort or a yacht or a bustling market that makes you think of Aladdin.
The buses are charming and quirky leftovers from 1950, packed with tourists, locals, chickens, babies, fruit and bad Hawaiian shirts as they careen down narrow roads twisting over the ever present sea. A woman carries something on her head, African style, as a couple in Dolce and Gabbana follow. Malta is truly a mystery, and it's food is as entrancing puzzle, like the culture surrounding it.
I knew going here that the food would be the most interesting thing, and I was surprised that several people I asked about it (Maltese people, to boot) significantly downplayed the Middle Eastern - Turkish -Greek- Northern African influences in their cuisine. "It's like Italian food," my cab driver insisted, his dark eyes fixed to mine in the rear view mirror. "We are not African". Pride? Prejudice? Americans don't like African dishes do they? We had better not let the secret out.
Say what they will, but their food tells a different story.
Lunch was at Rubino in Valletta, serving traditional Maltese food since 1904, which was my first good sign. Second, they have no menu. It is completely based on what is fresh that day. Another wonderful sign. The mixed appetizer plate confused my taste buds so much I actually laughed out loud. Pumpkin, cubed, in what I could best surmise to be a play on the Sicilian "agrodolce" - sweet and sour. Cous cous with sumac, capers and carrots. Caponata with prunes and vinegar- jammy, sour and addictive. Pepperonata, Calabrian style, with cumin and garlic. Salted anchovies with parsley, lemon and garlic. Bread, served crusty and warm with a ricotta cheese that was as sweet and rich as a mascarpone, with a hint of cinnamon. A black bean dip drizzled with honey and fresh garlic. My main was local pork, cut thin and marinated in fresh honey and thyme, grilled, and served with a generous squeeze of lemon.
Dinner, at I Malta in Paceville. Rabbit, braised and stuffed with wine and currants - good, but slightly annoyed at the concessions made to the hordes of British tourists that invade this quiet, beautiful rock. When I am to get a side of potatoes, I do not want french fries.
However, in terms of what is "Maltese", all of it is mind blowing.
Food, like travel, can sometimes lead you to try and label it, or compare it to something familiar. You squint your eyes and try and see through a lens to focus on what it tastes like, looks like, or reminds you of. Your head twists around new flavors and ideas as you realize a place and a cuisine like this cannot be described easily, though you try and try in vain. It's beautifully complex and simply effortless - a natural fusion of cultures and ingredients before such a cooking style became fashionable. Unique from the region, but of it. Once you accept that fact, it gets easier. You don't need to adjust your focus.
You just need to see Malta with a different set of eyes.