When in 1798, Napoleon Bonaparte, the all-hat-no-height, French self-declared Emperor got off his ship to stamp his feet over the Knights’ hapless toes and declare Malta his, the Maltese – French francs shaping their eyes – welcomed him with open arms.
What they never tell us in history lessons is what sort of welcome he was given. The French leader, hand in chest pocket, together with his entourage, came ashore on a wooden rowing boat, the equivalent of policemen Rib dinghy at the time.
Of course, on that nice sunny May 26 day, as they rowed from the fleet ships to the harbour, several of his men must have stripped to their breeches “for a spot of sun, your Honour Emperor”. Chances are that Napoleon nodded his approval, as anyway, he was too busy writing a text on a paper which he tied to a courier dove: “Josephine, wish u were here 2”.
They were then greeted on shore with a drum roll and some nice home-made ice cream. “Napoleon himself was offered ice cream when he conquered Malta in 1798, but apparently the young conqueror was not interested in tasting the specially prepared ice cream,” writes Liam Gauci in Uncommon Malta.
Ice cream was our Kinnie back then. “Ice creams were all the rage in Malta, and these were prepared with the weirdest ingredients, including pistachio and parmesan,” says Gauci.
History hails Napoleon as a man of strategy, but clearly, in Malta it failed him. Or let’s put it this way: he reckoned without the Maltese nanna who had spent the best half of the morning crushing the fresh Mount Etna ice for the new leader.
“What?! He didn’t taste my ice cream?!” She must have told her policeman grandson in charge with the catering that day. Even as the capitulation ceremony was underway, the nanna was networking to bring him down. In fact, barely two years on, the French were kicked out.
Ice cream’s on my mind, partly because it’s summer and because I am writing this in the delightfully sweltering heat in Gozo, and partly because I am surrounded by the pitter-patter of a handful of children who can be persuaded to do anything at the promise of ice cream (there’s no equivalent in winter – what can you bribe them with? Soup?).
Whenever I hear the ice cream van, I fling on my flip-flops, grab any loose change lying around, and run out flailing my arms at the ice cream man
For some odd reason I had this idea that ice cream was another American creation which came along with the invention of the refrigerator. But in fact, we’ve been eating it way before Amerigo Vespucci hit the American rocks. In her book The Way we Ate, Matty Cremona says that as far back as the 17th century, the Knights used to ship ice over on the Tartana della Neve (snow boat).
The Knights had their very own ice caverns on the slopes of Etna, which was compressed, packed in sacks, carried to the Sicilian shore on mules and lugged on to the waiting boats. In Malta, it was then stored at the ‘Snow Depot’ in Valletta, today’s Victoria Gate.
Giovanni Bonello came across a French document which says that a contractor was in charge of supplying snow all year round and paid a fine for every day he failed to deliver it. I bet he didn’t. Contractors are contractors are contractors.
The ice was dutifully used to assuage the fever of the patients at the Knights’ hospital. But mostly it was used to make ice cream, sold flavoured with fruit or chocolate or cinnamon, coffee or pistachio, in cylindrical containers. We even have evidence of the first documented gelateria – under the arches in Valletta, and the first ice cream recipe book – by Michele Mercieca, written in 1748.
If I had a time machine, I’d go straight there. On the shores of the harbour, waiting for the Tartana to come in. Or maybe I’d go back to May 26, 1798, and grab that ice cream off Napoleon’s hand.
I can’t help but wonder at what it tasted like, because we are very much nearing a point were all our ice creams are homogeneous. The lame Italian Algida, Magnum and Motta on one side; the US-style Häagen-Dazs and Ben & Jerry’s, all crushed candy ’n’ cookie dough; or the Carte D’Or, an inaccurate, too sweet, too busy, ice cream.
Which is why nowadays, whenever I hear the ice cream van, I fling on my flip-flops, grab any loose change lying around, and run out flailing my arms at the ice cream man. It is important that we do not fall in the trap of globalisation taste – because, ice cream, whether you are aged six or 60, is one of the good things in life: a fleeting joy, a brief moment of pleasure.
Back in Gozo, my daughter and her friends wanted to know what I was writing about. When I said “ice creams”, their eyes lit up. “Yummy! Can we read it? I’ll write something for you Mama!”
Later, this is what I find on my laptop: “My absolutely faverite flaver is chocolate, what is your faverite?” (sic)
Go on.
Twitter: @KrisChetcuti