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Ischia: The Italian Isle where locals cook in volcanic sand

Ischia is a quina acumulou de ontemfamous for its healing thermal waters, but the powers of its geothermal energy are less known – and they're hiding an ancient culinary tradition beneath the surface.

I'm wandering through the village of Sant'Angelo on the Italian island of Ischia, searching for the footpath that will take me to the volcanic fumaroles on the isle's southern shore – and towards one of Italy's most unique meals.

A shopkeeper points me to a stone staircase snaking up from an alleyway that climbs over the cliffs and mountains. The steep trail takes me past prickly pears and stucco villas, and as I trudge up to the clifftop, I admire the ink blue waters of the Gulf of Naples. On my descent to the fumarole-dotted beach, I approach the crescent-shaped Maronti Bay; umbrellas staked into ash grey sand.

I'm soon ushered to a corner table on the terrace of the seaside restaurant Chalet Ferdinando a Mare. Basil and tomatoes perfume the air as bathers frolic in the sea. I order lunch and a glass of wine.

Below the terrace is a patch of sand ringed by a fence. Danger signs glare in Italian and English: "Prohibited from entering to the unauthorised. Sand boiling 100C" (212F).

These are the fumaroles of Ischia, where sands are heated to a boil by underground volcanic vapours.

It's where my lunch is cooking right now.

Cooking meals in a fumarole is no culinary gimmick; it's Ischian tradition.

"My father always cooked under the sand," says Fernanda Iacono, the chalet's owner. "It's something we do in this part of the island. We cook chicken, potatoes, octopus, vegetables, fish, mussels… anything that cooks at low temperature."

Get there: Take the hydrofoil or ferry from Naples to Ischia Porto, then the CD, CS, or 1 buses to the Sant'Angelo stop (45 minutes). It is only possible to reach the fumaroles by foot or by sea. Walk or hail a pedicab down to the village (€8). Take a private boat or catch the water taxi at the docks (five minutes); the path leading to Maronti Bay is found next to Ragno boutique (20-25 minutes). Approach from the east on foot via Maronti Beach.

Do: Browse Sant'Angelo's posh boutiques, then soak at the Antiche Terme di Cavascura; a thermal spa carved into pumice rock. Ristorante Emanuela is open from April to November; Chalet Ferdinando a mare is open from June to the end of September. Reservations encouraged.

Don't: Attempt cooking in the sand without the chalet's approval (or a local's assistance).

Stay: The Miramare Sea Resort & Spa offers mesmerising sea views and full spa services.

Ischia teems with fumaroles, but they're hottest in Maronti Bay. Generations of Ischians have come here to cook, wrapping their food and burying it in the sand, where the steam acts as a sous vide. "We'd have parties on the beach where we cooked under the sand. With music, too," reminisces Iacono, who runs the chalet with her children, Giorgio and Desideria Migliaccio, and her son-in-law, Angelo Russo.

Islanders cook year round, but the tradition hits its zenith each summer.

"All Ischians do it at least once a year," says Mariangela Mattera, an Experience Expert at Ischia-based tour operator FORADAY. "In summer, especially at sunset, we go to the beach, bury the food in the sand, and while it's cooking, we bathe in the sea, which is warm due to volcanic steam rising through the water."

Cooking in the fumaroles takes insider know-how – the sand can cause serious burns. Luckily, select restaurants on the island specialise in "geothermic cuisine", allowing Ischia's summertime visitors to experience this cherished tradition themselves.

Two of the most popular are Chalet Ferdinando a Mare and, just 65m away, Ristorante Emanuela, helmed by Sergio Iacono (no relation to Fernanda). "We've been serving food like this since I was a child," Sergio says. "Our place is nearly 60 years old. I remember seeing my father's photos from when he was young, when he was cooking [in the sands]", showing me goosebumps on his arms. "I get emotional."

With two geothermic restaurants in such close proximity, there's inevitably debate about which began cooking in the sand here first. "My great-grandparents were the first to cook here," claims Desideria, Fernanda's daughter. "My family has managed the fumaroles since 1975." But she concedes that "Ischia belongs to the Ischians – everyone can cook here… as long as they behave respectfully!"

The chalet, which opened in 2005 as an offshoot to the family's historic Hotel Ferdinando Terme, has no stove. "Just a griddle for making bruschetta," explains Desideria. "Everything we make is cooked in the fumaroles, preserving the flavours and nutritional qualities."

Chicken is the classic protein; a historic staple of Ischia's family farms, says Russo: "People started cooking things like octopus later on." The chalet's menu offers traditional and modernised fumarole dishes, from chicken to calamari with sweet-and-sour onions. Sergio's menu leans more traditional: "mostly chicken and potatoes", he says. "Fish is made to order; sometimes the customer watches." He explains his latest sand-cooked dish: spaghetti with fumarole-steamed white octopus and potato ragù.

Film crews are a common sight at both restaurants. "A Brazilian crew came. A Japanese one and a German one, too," says Fernanda. "They come because it's so unique."

The uniqueness even surprises Italians. Gallery assistant Eleonora Cacialli – originally from Rome – only discovered the custom after moving to Ischia in the 1980s. "One evening, friends and I organised a dinner cooked under the sand, arriving by boat," she recalls. "We seasoned the chicken with oil, rosemary, salt and pepper. Then we wrapped it in foil and placed it inside a pillowcase to prevent any sand from getting [inside]. [When] we opened the packets and saw the steaming food, perfectly cooked, it was astonishing. As a Roman, I'd had absolutely no idea something like this existed."

This piping-hot sand isn't Ischia's only cooking pit. Further east, in rocky Sorgeto Bay, the water reaches 90C (194F), creating a locals-only natural thermal spa and stockpot. There are danger signs here, too, and bathers avoid the font, approaching just to deposit mesh bags of potatoes, corn and eggs.

An island so volcanic, it's its own energy source.

Ischia's seismic footprint is everywhere, from its healing thermal spas to the Ancient Roman settlement of Aenaria; sunk beneath the sea by an eruption 2,000 years ago. Though eruptions and mudslides are always a lurking possibility, Ischia's soil is especially fertile, lending rich flavours to its vegetation. The wine I order for lunch is also volcanic – made from grapes grown in igneous earth.

Though no texts describing fumarole cooking in Ischia have been found predating the 21st Century, most locals believe it either derives from the Ancient Greeks – who founded the isle as their first Italian colony in 750BC – or the Ancient Romans; both of who embraced the island's volcanic properties.

"It's one of the most ancient methods of cooking," Fernanda says. "At least for as long as the island has existed."

The islanders' reverence for its fumaroles also comes from their distant ancestors. "Ischia's ancient inhabitants explained its volcanic phenomena through mythology," explains Mattera. "During the war between the giants and the Olympian Gods. Zeus hurled a rock at the giant Typhon, who fell off Mount Olympus and was trapped under the Mediterranean Sea by a boulder; that became Ischia. His struggling caused our earthquakes. His tears became our thermal waters. His angry breath, the fumaroles."

Local geologist Aniello Di Iorio – founder of Eurogeopark geothermic tours – has a more formal explanation. "Ischia is on a caldera," he says. "The fumaroles are hot gases that come from its internal magma chamber, located about 2.5km below the island." Di Iorio often brings groups to see the fumaroles in the crater of Mount Rotaro. "We have them put their hand [nearby] so they can feel how hot the gas is."

Di Iorio also takes tourists to Maronti Bay to demonstrate fumarole cooking: "With apples, not chicken; that takes too long. We add pine nuts, raisins and cinnamon. We wrap them in heat-resistant foil, wait 10 minutes and they're ready to serve." He adds: "Food cooked this way has a completely different flavour. It's much more delicate."

In essence, Ischians have transformed something some might view as terrifying into something useful. As Di Iorio explained: "Volcanoes are Ischia's lifeblood."

At the chalet, the lunch crowd begins to filter in, burnt from the Sun. Giorgio Migliaccio indicates the strings snaking out of the sand. "Each one's connected to a different dish," he says. "They have different cooking times. Chicken and octopus take about two and a half hours; same with potatoes and vegetables. Prawns and mussels, around 15 minutes. This happens inside hermetically sealed steel containers to keep out sand and other external agents. Look!" Russo has climbed into the pit with a shovel. He strikes, sand flies and he yanks the strings to haul up crates wrapped in yellow fabric.

"When this type of cooking first started, they used cloth," explains Giorgio. "We've evolved, from a hygiene standpoint. Most people use foil now, but as a restaurant, we had to do some research to ensure food safety for the clients." A further nod to evolution: at Ischia's two-Michelin starred Daní Maison, chef Nino di Costanzo uses fumarole-inspired techniques; steaming cod in a copper pot with sea water and stones taken from Maronti Bay.

Locals have their own standards.

"Never go barefoot; that's the first rule," says Cacialli. "Wear gloves!"

Ischians dig one hole per food item; creating a barrier between the food and the sand. "It's homestyle," Cacialli says. "Things have evolved – especially with restaurants that use this cooking style – but the technique has remained the same. Aluminium foil, seasonings, that's it."

So how does food cooked in volcanic sand taste?

I watch excitedly as Russo pulls my meal from the sand. It arrives on blue marbled plates: chicken and octopus in salsa verde, with a side of turmeric potatoes.

The octopus is curled tight as a fist, bathed in green herbs. I'm delighted to find it extremely tender, and the chicken, too, is exceedingly juicy; fragrant with rosemary. The potatoes melt beneath my fork, bright yellow and earthily spiced.

I may not have buried it myself, but today, I'm part of a summertime island tradition that celebrates a delicious coexistence with danger.

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