aka “How a Hangover Turned Into a Life-Long Obsession”
Let me take you back to 1991.
I’m in Sigonella, Sicily (a Navy airbase) east of Catania, up against the shadow of Mount Etna. I’m 20 years old, full of piss and vinegar, stationed in a place I barely understand but already kind of love.
One night, my buddy Brian Jordan and I went out on what I’ll politely call a mission. Drinking. Wandering. Laughing at who-knows-what. We had no agenda, no smartphones, no idea what time it was.
But as the sun started to rise and the buzz wore off, we stumbled onto this street that looked like the whole island’s sanitation department was clocking in. Garbage trucks lined the road, engines idling, hazard lights blinking like Christmas in hell.
Right there, nestled between all the exhaust fumes and chaos, there was a little bar. Not the kind of bar for tourists or even young punks like us. This was a real-deal overnight worker hangout. Espresso machines hissing. Men in coveralls crushing tiny cups of coffee like it was medicine.
And in the case next to the register?
A tray of golden, breadcrumb-crusted orbs: arancini.
I’d never seen anything like them.
Maybe I thought they were overgrown hush puppies. Maybe I didn’t care.But we ordered a couple, burned the roofs of our mouths on that first bite, and everything changed.
It was hot rice, rich and tomatoey, wrapped around melted cheese or maybe ragù — memory blurs when flavor hits that hard; then deep fried until the outside crunched like the first crack of a vinyl record.At 6:30 in the morning. In a parking lot full of garbage trucks. I swear to God, it was magic.
That was my first arancino. And maybe still the best one I’ve ever had.
It wasn’t just food it was context, place, and pure dumb luck. The kind of moment you don’t realize is important until 30 years later when you’re writing a blog about fried rice balls and get hit with the memory like a gust of hot, garlicky wind.
So What Are Arancini, Anyway?
If you’re new to the world of arancini (plural), here’s the short version:
- Origin: Sicily
- Name: Comes from “arancia” or orange, because of their size and shape
- What’s Inside: Usually saffron rice, with a savory filling ragù with peas, cheese, prosciutto, mushrooms, or even pistachios
- Shape: Round in western Sicily, more cone-like (to honor Etna) in the east
- Vibe: Portable meal. Street food royalty. Soul of Sicilian snack culture.
They’re not fancy. They’re not fussy. But they are everything I love about Italian food: humble ingredients, deep roots, and the ability to absolutely knock you out with flavor.
And Then There’s Supplì…
Fast-forward a few years. I’m older, maybe a little wiser, and I’m in Rome. Hungry. Again.
And I bite into a supplì.
Now, if arancini are like an operatic aria, layered, theatrical, regional, then supplì are a punk song: fast, dirty, loud, and straight to the point.
- Origin: Rome
- Name: Comes from the French “surprise”, because the middle contains gooey, stretchy mozzarella
- Rice: Always tomato-based
- Size: Usually thinner and more oblong
- Filling: No meat sauce or peas. Just cheese, maybe a little ground meat.
- Texture: Crunchy outside, molten center
And when you pull a hot one apart? That string of cheese that stretches between the halves is called “al telefono” like a telephone cord. Old-school. Perfect.
So Which One Wins?
Honestly? Nobody.
They’re not meant to compete, they’re meant to represent.
- Arancini are Sicily.
- Supplì are Rome.
Both are comfort food royalty. Both are street food with history. Both are part of what made me fall in love with Italy.
First by accident, then on purpose.
Sometimes the most unforgettable parts of life come wrapped in breadcrumbs and handed to you on wax paper while diesel trucks hum in the background.
If you want this…
Get on a flight to Catania and right outside the baggage carousel, waiting like leis given to you upon arrival in the other paradise, Hawaii are the biggest arancini you’ve ever seen.
