Once upon a time in Palermo, the abbess of the Matorana convent wanted to cook up something special for the local bishop’s Easter visit. She instructed the good sisters to form their famous almond-paste confections into the shapes of fruits and to hang them from the trees of the convent garden. The bishop was delighted, and Frutta di Matorana, the “Fruit of Matorana,” soon became a favorite of Sicilian aristocrats.
For centuries, almond paste was Sicily’s greatest export, prized as far north as the royal courts of Scandinavia. More recently, Sicilians have been bringing this artistry west—even to Brooklyn. Or, should I say, especially to Brooklyn. I’d been told that the only marzipan delicious enough and beautiful enough to compare with that from Villabate, a town near Palermo, was made in Brooklyn, at the Villabate Pasticceria & Bakery. Which is why, on a lovely spring day, I find myself on the N train from Manhattan, heading toward Bensonhurst.
On the ten-block walk from the 18th Avenue subway station to the shop, I pass through a Russian neighborhood. But when, at the produce stands, I begin to see not cabbage but cardoons, frying peppers, sweet anise, and eggplants, I know I’m nearing my destination.
The scents of bread, pastry, vanilla, lemon, cinnamon, and almonds greet me at the Villabate’s door. A circle of gleaming curved glass display cases are bursting with sweet delights, some familiar, some mysterious. Open racks hold semolina bread still warm from the oven. And filling the room’s center, banks of wire shelving hold brilliantly colored Mylar-wrapped packages of imported Italian sweets. Gathered with bows and pointed ceilingward, they shimmer like the stage-effects fire that used to peek out of cardboard windows in long-ago plays. The narrow, alley-like aisles of the shop feel like some kind of souk.
Patrons swarm around the store, then station themselves in wavy lines until they reach the counter, where they place their orders, mostly in Sicilian. Shopgirls and impatient customers roll their eyes as a fussily coiffed patron can’t make up her mind. This is not a place for “shopping” or questions: You know exactly what you want, or you move to the back of the line.I nudge my way forward to ask for Emanuele Alaimo, the owner. Assuming that I’m jumping the line, no one lets me pass. One man, with a look of silent rage, actually blocks my way. “I just want to see Emanuele,” I tell him. With a grumpy “Humph,” he ends the standoff. I’ve interrupted the rhythm. Just then, the kitchen door opens, and Emanuele enters the shop, giving me a glimpse of back-of-the-house bustle. A serious man in his fifties, he meets my jubilant greeting with a taciturn handshake. His gentle eyes sadden: He’s very busy, he explains. Can I return later? A nearby customer, noticing my disappointment (I’ve traveled all the way from Los Angeles to meet Emanuele), offers a suggestion. “Go see his brother. He has a shop, too,” she says, handing me her business card. “Tell him I sent you.”
Another ten blocks later, I land again in a deeply Sicilian area. I could be back at the Villabate—the Europa Pastry Shop is practically identical. Thrusting out my business card, I explain the nature of my visit to Nino Alaimo, a robust man in his early forties. In return, I get a big smile and a warm handshake while his wife, Cathy, sizes me up. “What are we standing here for?” she says. (I guess I’ve passed muster.) “Come in the back; we’ll show you around.”
In the spotless, white-tiled heart of the Europa, trays of sfingi, large puffs of pâte à choux, are being filled from giant pastry bags with ricotta cream or egg custard. A baker prepares sfogliatella, a Neapolitan clam-shaped pastry filled with a sweet porridge of ricotta and semolina. Racks of cannoli shells are being submerged in hot fat just until they’re crisp.
In a quiet corner, I spy the sweets I’m after, marzipan in various forms, in various states of completion: lemons, apples, pears, bananas, oranges, loquats. Hand-sculpted pigs in lifelike shades of porcine pink stand, their legs in a snow-bank of flour so that they dry evenly.
Reclining Easter lambs have been painted freehand, so each bears a subtly different expression—bemused, docile, snooty, and even “come hither.”
The shepherd of this flock is Giacomo Mauro, a wiry man with dark eyes and a thick crop of black hair. He tells me that he began to learn the art of pastrymaking as a boy in Sicily. Now, having lived in America for more than 30 years, he is the head baker for the Alaimo brothers. He’d be happy to show me his technique, he says. But now there’s more important business to attend to—lunch.
“You must stay,” Cathy and Nino insist as places are set on a wooden pastry table. Place mats are paper sheet-pan liners; dishes are disposable aluminum cake pans. Giacomo prepares a pasta with tuna in a tomato-cream sauce, followed by fried rings of squid with a squeeze of lemon. Both are served from large mixing bowls, and a crisp white Sicilian wine is poured. I think I may have stumbled into the best restaurant in the neighborhood.
As if a dinner bell is ringing on the streets of Bensonhurst, our party of 7 soon grows to 15. The back door admits a food importer, a mushroom distributor, the real estate broker who had given me her card, an executive from Italia Oggi, and a host of others. The large bowl of pasta barely notices the strain of its task. Conversation (mostly in Sicilian) is lively—especially as Nino recounts his family story.
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