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Here, you'll find the stories that I write for my monthly newsletters. I will continue to add to this page each month as they are released first in my newsletter. If you miss a month, or wonder what happened in the previous section..check here and get yourself caught up! Each section is about 1200 words in length, which translates into roughly an 8-10 minute read. Thanks for following along!
La Bella Vita pt. 1
February 2025
When I think about belonging, I think about the number of times that I have attempted to blend in and feel accepted. Perpetually an introverted fringe surfer with a deep desire to be liked and do well, I was always looking to be cozy with everyone: be a part of the group, welcomed in by the "mean girls" at school, or become "one of the guys" in the kitchen. On one very specific day, I was trying particularly hard to blend in and pretend that I really belonged. It was the day that the Italian police raided my place of work, searching for employee documentation from each person.
In the middle of a mid-week dinner service, we got a heads up in the kitchen that the Carabinieri had entered the building. Everyone in the room was instantly on edge, but not possibly more than me -- The Canadian Girl with an incomplete visa, without proper paperwork to be legally employed. The small kitchen of the restaurant that I had been working in for a few weeks had two entrances. One from the hallway that led guests from the front door, past the kitchen, around a corner, and out to the al fresco dining room. Another door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened into a small staff courtyard that connected to the rest of the restaurant. My Sous Chef, Marco grabbed my arm and swiftly escorted me out the back entrance of the kitchen, into the little courtyard, and down the hallway where he peeked around a corner, waiting for a clear sight. Once the officers were in the kitchen, he hustled me down a flight of heavy stone steps, that curved with the shape of the building, almost spiraling downwards. How apt. I looked around to see a room I hadn't yet been shown: the chilly antiquated basement that also acted as a wine cellar. Marco whispered for me to stay quiet and stay put. He explained that he wanted to keep me in the building instead of ushering me out the front doors in case more officers were outside patrolling the streets. And certainly I didn't look like I belonged in this posh, historic Roman neighborhood, with my pale complexion, black rubber clogs, and hair that was a mess from working all day in a hot stuffy room that is the industrial kitchen.
I had just landed in Rome a few weeks earlier, so eager to assimilate into this new environment. Act like a local. Walk and talk like a local. But all I wanted in this moment was to make myself completely invisible. I made an attempt at stuffing myself in an empty box, looking around for something I could cover myself with in case the officers came searching through every last corner of the building, for me.
Would I go to jail?
Would I be deported?
Would my family know?
I had fully prepared before I hopped on a plane and landed myself in this beautiful European country. I found an apartment on Kijiji with three other girls. Two from France and one from Lithuania. I took Italian classes and watched Italian TV shows to perfect my conversation skills. I got a visa and sent my resume to every top restaurant within the Rome city limits. But preparing for an interaction with the police and what would surely become the end of my time here was not on my prep list.
I waited in that cold, dimly lit — almost romantically so — cellar for what felt like ages. Looking around at the large stones that made up the walls and the floors and wondered how long they'd be here for. Finally, Marco came to get me and instructed me to change out of my uniform and into my own clothes. I thought I was being sent home to my roommates, where I'd go and instantly reach for a hot shower, probably finding nothing but a cold stream after one of them spent the night dying their hair and rinsing it with warm water until it ran clear. Draining the tank. Instead of being sent home, he put me at a table in the middle of the busy restaurant with a menu, and a glass of water, quietly cautioning me "mimetizzarti" -- try to blend in, or camouflage yourself. At the entrance of the restaurant were framed photos of the dapper looking owners with various celebrities who had dined here: Russel Crowe, James Franco, Madonna! I was 21, in my skater girl era, and had just evaded the police by hiding out in a wine cellar. Blending in, or looking like I belonged was not within the realm of possibilities for me at this time. I sat silently, seated beside an attractive man and woman who were enjoying a date night out, while my life was quietly blowing up behind closed doors. Marco filled the couple in on what was happening and they all had a little laugh together. Just another Wednesday in Rome, I wondered? A server came by often to refill my glass, while I pretended to be immensely interested in the menu.
Before arriving in Italy, I had secured a work visa. However, unsurprisingly, the Italian government functions differently from others and my visa was only half completed in Canada, with the other half of it needing to be done at my port of landing. Since arriving, I had spent weeks going around to every single government office. I went to one office that I was supposed to be at, only for them to tell me to go to a different office on the opposite end of this ancient metropolis. I’d arrive there and find that they only work on Wednesdays from some arbitrary time like 8:35-10:17am, and so I’d have to come back the following week. I took the train and the bus all over the city, spending hours and getting nowhere. Eventually, the father of the owner of the restaurant I had a job at offered to chaperone me around to a few different offices in his tiny, old Fiat. It felt like a Flintstones car. Small. Rickety. I was pretty certain the bottom was going to fall out if we hit the wrong bump. I was thankful for the help, and hopeful that today would be the day that the right public servant would solve all of my problems. But again, we went to several more offices unsuccessfully. They didn’t have what I needed, or I didn’t understand, or they didn’t understand, and the dad didn’t speak English so he couldn’t translate. I was completely defeated. I think out of desire to cheer me up and show me around, we finished the morning with visiting his friends who owned a wholesale produce store. We pulled up in front of a storefront that was like an urban fruit warehouse. Boxes, 8 feet high, of big, fresh oranges lined the sidewalks. Cases of persimmon and strawberries. Fresh fruits and vegetables as far as the eye could see, packed into this space in the heart of Rome, on a quiet side street that was shaded by the towering stone buildings from the hot October sun.
A few days after the grande, private Fiat tour of the city, and a week after the police raid, I showed up to work. Marco met me in the changeroom and said "mi scusa" -- I'm sorry. "This is just too dangerous. We can't risk having you work here and receiving a fine. Or worse." With a level of pain and sadness in his eyes that only an Italian man can conjure, he handed me a stash of bills for the hours I had worked up until then. He apologized yet again, and let me go. Without proper paperwork, fluent Italian, or knowing anyone local in the city, I was without a job. Without a job, I couldn't afford my rent. Sure, I had saved enough to get me through the first few months. But not the year that I had planned on being here for! I had worked so hard to get here. I was supposed to be "one of them!" I was not willing to turn around and go home at this point.
La Bella Vita pt. 2
March 2025
I let my roommates know that I would be moving out earlier than originally planned. As in 10 months earlier. I was about to become fully immersed in the Italian culture.
On a cold, rainy day in November, my friend and soon-to-be-neighbour Nico came to help me move out. We loaded my too-heavy suitcases down a few narrow flights of stairs and into his old blue 2-door Jeep. A Jeep with a broken gas gauge that required keeping track of how far he’d driven since the last fill up so he’d know roughly when he was getting close to empty. We drove out of Rome and headed South to my new home: a small 2-bedroom apartment that I would be sharing with my boyfriend Jose and his parents, in an ancient little town called Genzano di Roma.
Genzano di Roma is about 30km south of Rome and is part of a cluster of towns in the region known as the Castelli Romani. Genzano sits at the rim of Lago de Nemi, a volcanic lake roughly 5km in diameter. The Pope’s summer home isn’t too far away in Castel Gandolfo on a neighbouring volcanic lake, Lago Albano. The cobblestone main street is full of shops and cafes, each offering their own variety of cheeses, pizza a talgio, Aperol Spritz, fresh pasta and sweets. It is broken up by the town square and fountain in the centre of town, where little old ladies hang around to people watch and gossip. Genzano is in the Lazio region of Italy and is best known for a festival they host every June called Infiorata – “decorated with flowers”. Infiorata dates all the way back to the 1400’s. Over the span of a few days, the original main street is turned into a carpet of artwork created from flower petals. Cases of freshly picked flowers and herbs are brought in and stored out of the summer heat in the expansive network of tunnels beneath the town. Teams of people work throughout the night and day to turn their own section of road into a painting of sorts, depicting various religious scenes. The festival concludes at the end of the weekend with a procession through the artwork. They begin at the top, which is also the entrance to an important church in town. After the religious leaders complete their passing, all of the small children in town race from the top to the bottom, stirring up all of the flower petals and signifying the end to the festival. Genzano di Roma is a special little town with deep history and tradition.
My new home was on the main floor of a low-rise apartment building, in a neighbourhood of buildings that looked nearly identical to each other. All 8-10 units, beige concrete walls and terracotta shingle rooves. The windows all had steel shutters over them that served both as a way of keeping potential intruders out, but also prevented us from baking inside as they blocked the hot summer sun. The main floor apartments had small concrete yards, while the upper levels had little balconies where cigarettes were smoked and laundry was hung. Our apartment was within steps of the front door to the building, and Nico lived directly across the hall with his brother Simone and mom, Maria. We were a 10-minute walk from the bustling centre of town. Jose’s parents welcomed me into their home – although maybe his dad more than his mom. Day by day, my Italian was improving but I never felt ‘Italian enough’ for her. Which shouldn’t be a surprise. Because newsflash: I’m not Italian at all. Giuseppe always had a smile on his face and laughed when I didn’t understand something he rambled on about. I can still hear his rough cackle when I think about it. Daniella always seemed to look frustrated, moving with quick aggressive motions wherever she went, often yelling at the shaggy yellow whining dog to shut up, and chain smoking like it was going out of style. They were my new family, and we lived closely together, sharing their 900 sq ft., single floor home.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.
The ride from Florence to Rome felt like an eternity, but I eventually arrived back at my new home. The thing about small towns, especially small towns in social cultures, is that everybody knows somebody. Sometimes that can be overbearing, but other times it can be helpful. Lucky for me, it came in handy more than once. The owner of the jewelry store in town also happened to be a bouncer at a lounge in Rome. And they were hiring servers. I had gone to school for culinary. I spent a year working at the Hilton Amsterdam, getting hours of credible work under my belt. Serving cocktails wasn’t my idea of a dream job, but it was a job that I was being offered, and so I reluctantly took it.
Latte Piu was a strange place to spend my weekends. A cocktail bar inspired by the movie Clockwork Orange. The owner, my boss, was an eccentric man in his mid-40’s who didn’t seem to like me very much, but regardless, continued to hand me cash at the end of every shift. The space was dimly lit in the shade of purple. Provocative paintings and furniture, and naked mannequins filled the room. One head server was in charge of taking orders, while another server, Lorella, and I quickly floated from table to table, delivering patrons their drinks. Lorella was bubbly and outgoing and clearly in her element, while I spent my nights anxiously trying to remember who got what one of the 200+ cocktails on the menu. Trying not to spill any pink martinis on my white jeans – it happened once. Trying not to converse too much with the guests. Trying to stay out of the way when the nightly entertainment began. The Nightly Entertainment. Each night, the owner put on a show of sorts. The first at 11pm, and the second at 1am. It involved blaring classical music over the speakers, while a woman wearing nothing but a thong, stilettos and a huge feather headdress walked through the lounge carrying a very large candle. She would be helped up onto a platform where she stood stoically, while the owner roller skated around like he was performing for the Olympics. He was dressed in a black bowler hat, gloves, and a white outfit with black suspenders. Eventually he rolled around to pick up a squeezy bottle of lighter fluid in one hand and a flame in the other. In tandem with the music, he shot streams of fuel onto the marble bar, igniting them into 2ft flames. This went on until he drained multiple bottles, exploding them seldomly, skated back around the room, helped the model off of her platform, and the lights went dark. It was such a bizarre experience to work there, and I was thankful when a new proposition at a bakery closer to home popped up. The bakery was getting the rights to a pizzeria in a busy park for the summer and they needed staff.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.
La Bella Vita pt. 3
April 2025
The owner of a bakery in town got the rights to run a pizzeria out of a park building for the summer, and Jose and I were brought onto the team from the start. From what I could tell, there were a few people that were in on the deal: Michele, the bakery owner, Franco, a muscly Arnold Schwarzenegger type who ran a gym and public pool on the bottom floor of the building, and Silvio, the very mafia-esque landlord.
Michele was a bubbly 40-something married father of a young daughter and son. He was kind, and passionate, and always talking about what he was or was not eating that week – “Laurena – make us a bunch of steaks for dinner, will you? I’m in ketosis this week!” Most of the guys in the restaurant took to calling me “Laurena”, their Italian take on my name. If it wasn’t Laurena, it was “ehhh Canadese!", pronounced ‘Can-ah-dayz-eh’. Always shouted with an extra bit of Italian flair. Michele worked like crazy and spent the mornings at the bakery, the afternoons and evenings at the pizzeria, and the in-betweens of picking me or Jose up to come to work. He was kind to me, and always also told me how great I was, how cool I was, but also mentioned how he wished his wife would take a lesson.
”She’s like a what do you call it? A chicken…with no head?”
“Ohh..like a headless chicken?” I asked.
“Yes..but no…like an ugly chicken with…its head cut off. Is that how you say it?”
He liked to practice his English with me, never shy about making mistakes. Even if the content wasn’t always savoury. He gave me creative freedom to try out different things in the kitchen and basically handed me the reins to the kitchen side of the pizza operation.
Franco was a big burly man, and his entire family, including his wife Sofia, his daughter Giada, and his son Matteo all worked in the gym on the bottom floor. Giada, wearing her fashionable workout outfits and shiny diamond jewelry taught fitness classes on self-propelled treadmills at the poolside in the hot August sun. She was about the same age as me, but blonde, muscular, and so Italian. She had a confidence to her that intimidated me and prevented me from giving her much more than a shy smile when we made eye contact. Matteo worked as the life guard, and together they functioned like a well-oiled machine. In the evenings, Giada and Matteo switched gears to serve in the pizzeria. Giada was quick and efficient and knew how to work the floor. Matteo wasn’t as ambitious, and perhaps more interested in his shiny designer shoes without socks.
Silvio was an interesting character, and I never really knew why he spent so much time at the restaurant, so I can only assume that he was the landlord. He was a man in his 60’s that seemed to be aging quickly. I later found out that he was going through treatment for cancer. Silvio rarely travelled alone. He seemed to constantly keep the company of one or two other men who were much larger and completely covered with tattoos. Spider webs on their elbows or hands. I spied the odd swastika. Silvio gave off a strong air of being in control, and there were more than a few instances that made me feel like he had more power than I could possibly need or want to understand. After dinner service, when we were all sitting down for a drink and a snack, he would tell stories of the night before when he held someone at gunpoint on the stairs just 20 ft away. “That motherfucker, I told him to stop fucking around or I’d smash his head in on the concrete.” At the end of the summer, when I was planning to head back home he said “what do you need to go home for? What will you have there that you don’t have here?”
“I don’t know”…I said… “maybe going to a doctor would be nice. You know. Seeing my family.”
“A doctor? You want to see a doctor? What kind of doctor do you need? You let me know and I’ll get you an appointment.”
The kitchen was broken down into 3 separate rooms that were all connected with their own doorway. The majority of the action took place in the biggest room where the large, 15ft deep wood fired pizza oven could be found. There were counters on 3 walls of the room where soft, white dough balls went from being rolled out, to topped, to being baked, and then finishing on the stainless steel by being plated up, finished off with oils, or cheeses, or arugula, and then being carried away to the tables. I spent some time in here, and was eventually allowed to help roll out pizza doughs at the beginning of service. Michele patiently walked me through how they make their very simple tomato sauce – blitzing up a whole can of tomatoes, with a glug of good olive oil, a handful of basil, and a few cloves of garlic. Simple and fresh.
Usually, however, I spent my nights in a small space off of the pizza room, in front of 3 ovens, where I cooked up thin steaks, prepared simple salads, or plates of marinated vegetables. I had 12 burners at my disposal, a fresh arsenal of pots and pans, and bounced around from the different kitchen spaces to help out when my area wasn’t busy.
Off of my private kitchen space was the dish pit where the many dirty plates were funneled in and handed off to Alina, our Romanian dishwasher. Alina and I spent a fair amount of time talking to each other. For both of us, Italian was our second language. She had been at it much longer than I had, but it felt like a bit more of an even playing field conversing with her. I often pitched in and helped her out when she inevitably got overwhelmed with a towering stack of giant white porcelain pizza plates.
The restaurant was a busy place to be! It was completely outside and was protected from the odd night of rain by umbrellas and clear plexiglass roof panels. On the average night, between 6-9pm, we would put out at least 150 pizzas. The park was bustling and often had live music in one area, or at the bare minimum, music playing over the loudspeakers. I distinctly remember Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” or “Set Fire to the Rain” playing on blast, as I ran a few laps around the park before work. There were tennis courts, and paths that people strolled hand-in-hand through, runners getting their steps in for the day before taking a swim at the pool. It was shaded with large, overgrown Ficus trees to provide a place of refuge from the hot summer sun. Some nights, salsa dancing lessons were taught on a concrete pad out below the restaurant. I tried my feet at this one night with my friend Valeria. What a mistake. Valeria was actually a performing dancer. I was just looking to try out something new. She looked over at me mid-lesson, tripping over my own feet “suck your stomach in, silly” she berated me in her quick, assertive Italian. Sometimes I felt like the direct translation wasn’t meant to be as abrupt. There was nuance that I was missing. This was the only time I tried out Salsa dancing.
We prepared the restaurant in the Spring by moving around and cleaning all of the tables, vacuuming the AstroTurf, washing the windows, unpacking boxes of chocolate bars and pops to offer out of a small shop, and setting up the kitchen spaces. Once the weather turned summery, business picked up. We were open 5 days a week –Tuesday – Sunday, and it was all hands on deck. The business was a real family affair, and a few of the staff members in the kitchen were Michele’s brothers: Mario and Luca. Luca was the middle child and I often got the feeling that he was trying to prove himself to his brothers. One beautiful afternoon, Luca took it upon himself to light the pizza oven in anticipation of yet another busy evening. I was prepping away in the kitchen when I heard a big “WHOOSH” come from the pizza room and a feeble “uhh…ahh…”…Thinking - that’s weird -…I went to check things out. I walked in to see a very stunned and torched version of Luca. With his mouth wide open, eyebrows singed, and a confused look on his face, he slowly took the fingers of his right hand and brought them down to touch is left forearm. In that moment, I knew something was incredibly wrong. He slowly pulled his fingers away from his forearm and a piece of crepey paper that used to be the skin on his arm came with it. He let out a confused scream and I ran to find help.
La Bella Vita pt. 4
May 2025
We were setting up for a mid-week dinner service and even though it was a Thursday, there were several people milling about on the patio. Mob boss Silvio was one of them and came running once he heard me yelling for help. I got the feeling that he was the right guy to deal with such a situation. Like he’d seen things like this, and worse, many times over. Probably because he caused the predicaments that he ended up in. Silvio immediately took charge, directing people to get towels, get the car started, ice, as he took Luca over to the big sinks in the dish pit and ran his scorched arm under cold water. Once they cooled him down and the shock started to wear off, Silvio and Luca headed for the hospital.
What was supposed to be a busy summer with as many hours as you could work would end up being a very slow summer for Luca, being relegated to a taxi service and delivery driver while his arm slowly healed in a cast. “You fucking idiot, look what you did to yourself” his brothers would constantly chide him. Luca was sweet and desperate to find love. But he was not extremely intelligent. He was goofy, and definitely the younger brother. I say younger brother, because even though they were all in their 40’s, hierarchy within the birth order was very apparent. With his one functioning arm, he was still able to drive the little Ford Transit van around to be useful. He was often my ride to work and I listened to all of his stories while he drove me from Genzano, through Ariccia, and to the far side of Albano to the pizzeria, or eventually to the bakery.
It was a busy place to work! The pizzas were classic Roman style – large, thin crust, and flavours such as Quattro Stagioni, or “Four Seasons.” It was divided into quadrants, each with their own ingredients: tomato sauce, artichokes, olives, mozzarella, ham, a cracked egg baked on top. Or the Diavola, “the Devil” that was spice on spice: tomato sauce, mozzarella, spicy salami, spicy sausage, chili oil. Because we all chatted quite a bit and being social was really encouraged, it was a well-known fact that I love a Hawaiian pizza. How the saltiness of the ham balances with the sweetness of the roasted pineapple. The melted mozzarella to bring it all together, with a touch of zing from the fresh tomato sauce. Perfection! And created in Chatham, Ontario none-the-less! One night Michele appeased me by buying a pineapple and let me free to create the pizza that no one had tried before, let alone heard of. All agreed: Che Esse?? Che Americano eh?! “ ehhhh, how American!” And why stop there. We made panzerotti with Nutella, ice cream, and strawberries in the middle. Everyone was so curious and eager to get a taste. We worked hard and we got to play around when time allowed it.
I worked for Michele and the pizzeria until the end of August when they shut things down. My plane ticket was booked for the end of September and I worked in his traditional Roman bakery until it was time to go. I prepared pies and tarts, or broke down chickens and made ragu. “I didn’t know you could make a ragu in less than 3 hours”, I was told. “Ma che buono!” – how delicious!, I was also told. I watched as various teams of guys worked through their own specialties. It didn’t occur to me until I started writing that I was very much the sole female in the bakery side of things. The men mixed and baked the dough. The women sold it. This seems to be the case in most of the restaurants I worked in, at least until later in my career. Very much a male-dominated industry, which I find ironic considering cooking dinner at home has traditionally been viewed as the female role to play.
The oven was a big, deep, wood fired masterpiece. When baking with fire as the heat source, it is as much an art as it is a science, and you are very much dancing a dance with the temperatures that the wood is providing at a specific time in its burn. In the morning, doughs were mixed in a huge rotating mixer, with some of yesterday’s dough added as a leavener as well as for flavour. It seemed much more touch and go for how much dough got added, rather than focusing on the particulars of precision. I shadowed Michele around the small, floury space, interested in everything he was doing, from throwing wood in the fire, to being called over to the telephone, where he grabbed a handful of flour and rubbed it between his big doughy hands over the garbage can while he took orders and then shouted them across the bakery to someone ready to receive them.
“What are you doing?” I asked after he got off the phone. “You’re just picking up more flour and making a mess, why don’t you just go wash your hands?” I was in my Italian era at this point and didn’t shy away from straightforwardness.
“No no, Laurena. De flour. It dries up de dough and it all comes off your hands eezy. You don’t need water. It just makes a mess.”
The doughs were then moved over to the shaping bench in front of the glass windows that divided the bake shop from the store front. Two or three guys at a time worked with the soft white, pillowy dough to shape it into large loaves, or smaller ciabatta and buns. They scooped up the loaves-to-be and placed them on heavily floured couche, or long sheets of linen that are used to divide the bread as it goes through its final proof. They were then transferred to long boards on a makeshift rolling rack that was wheeled out of the way until ready to bake. The breads were one of the first things to enter the oven, as it was at the highest temperature it would reach for the day. Once the breads were ushered out and onto the shelves in the store, pizza a taglio started getting stretched out and being slid into the oven. Pizza a taglio is a traditional Roman style pizza. Like fruit by the foot, but with dough and sauces and toppings. The dough is stretched out onto 6ft long wooden boards and topped very simply with bright red fresh tomato sauce, or perhaps tomatoes and anchovies, olive oil and sea salt. Whatever it was, the flavours were kept quite simple. Pizza a talgio was a lunch. It was a snack. It was something to tide you over until the next meal. I consumed more than my fair share on the regular at 5pm while I waited for 8:30pm dinner to roll around.
After the morning breads were baked, and then the pizza a taglio, more delicate items like crostata – a delicate Italian jam tart, with an ever so lightly leavened crust went into the oven. While most of Italy shuts down from 1 to 4 or 5pm, the bakery behind the scenes keeps humming along. By the time the tarts and pies come out of the oven, half of the bakery staff have gone home, while the other half are preparing more dough for the evening Pizze, and refiring the oven for pre-order pizza nights. Michele never complained about how hard he worked, but my god, the guy worked like a dog…