I never really got caponata until my first trip to Sicily. Sure, I’d tasted it as a component of antipasto platters and encountered jarred crostini spreads, usually bland or so vinegary they brought tears. I’d even made it once or twice, with unspectacular results.  

Up to a point, caponata sounds similar to ratatouille. In both cases, eggplant, peppers, tomatoes and onions submit to the magic of olive oil and slow cooking. But seasoning the Provençal dish is a simple matter involving garlic and basil, whereas caponata seems to go completely over the top: wine vinegar, sugar, capers, pine nuts or almonds, olives, raisins, sometimes anchovies. Why, I wondered a bit crossly, did Sicilians need to do all that to season some vegetables? Just because, in this melting pot of the Mediterreanean, those ingredients happened to be on hand?

Well, yes, in part.  Most likely the dish evolved from something simpler; the Latin root of the word, caupo (“tavern” or “inn”), suggests that caponata first gained popularity as a hearty dish for travelers. I could imagine curious cooks adding a little of this or that to see what worked. In any case, they’ve been at it for awhile and, as I discovered, a well-made caponata is not a cacophonous din but a symphony in the hands of accomplished performers.

In Sicily I tasted half a dozen caponatas that achieved that elusive harmony. The first was in Vicolo Stretto (“narrow alley”), a Taormina restaurant on an easy-to-miss street by the same name. Sitting on the terrace, we dipped into caponata dominated by bell peppers and garnished with fresh basil, its fragrance amplified by warm sea breezes. At an agriturismo in Fontanasalsa, on the western edge of the island, caponata arrived warm as a first course. Large chunks of meltingly tender eggplant tasted of the olive oil produced on the estate, with capers and vinegar staying in the background.

I came home believing that, although caponata can be served as a side dish, its complex flavors are best enjoyed alone—warm, when freshly made, or at room temperature the following day.  The Sicilian preoccupation with eggplant began to make sense, and so did the role of celery as a minor but important player. Vinegar and sugar, which give the dish the sweet-and-sour character called agrodolce, should be added sparingly and in balance with one another. And, whether olives are added at the end or simmered for a bit with the caponata, it’s perfectly fine to leave the pitting up to the caponata eaters.

I made caponata several ways, several times, before hitting on a formula that resonated with the dishes I’d tasted. It’s not a replica of any one of them, but that’s all right.  Caponata, like all great dishes, leaves room for a cook’s choices.

Featured Recipe: Toni’s Caponata