In the early part of the 20th century, his great-grandfather, Vincenzo, came to America with his family from Villabate, Sicily. One daughter, Francesca, was homesick, pining for the man she loved. So Vincenzo sent her back to Sicily to marry. But when the newlyweds attempted to move to the States, they were turned away at Ellis Island because Francesca’s husband, Emanuele Alaimo, had tuberculosis. Sadly, they returned to Villabate. Emanuele died young, and his widow, blaming the tragedy on their rejection by the immigration authorities, vowed never again to return to America. But in 1968, one of their sons, Angelo, with his wife and children, did emigrate, fulfilling his grandfather’s dream.
Nino, then 11, remembers that the very day after they had arrived, his father, a bread baker by trade, found work at a Sicilian bakery in Brooklyn. “That’s what we came for,” said Nino. “To work.”
Eight years later, Angelo and his two sons, Emanuele and Nino, opened a bakery in Bensonhurst that made bread and cookies. Little by little, pastry was added. Over the next ten years, Nino would leave the business to follow other pursuits, then return, then leave again. Yet always, as if by a sacred vocation, baking called him back. Eventually, on his own, he opened the Europa. Now, Nino and Cathy are planning an expansion to include a café and restaurant. They’ve even set up a Web site, www.europapastry.com, to market their goods nationwide.
As lunch ends, with strong espresso and exquisite pastry, Giacomo clears the space in front of him and gets down to business. First, he takes a tray of the marzipan fruit, perfect representations but still looking like plaster. Then he mixes a bright lemon color using powdered food coloring and artificial alcohol. (New York State regulations prohibit the use of real alcohol by pastry shops.) Holding a brush straight down in one hand, he takes a “plaster” lemon in the other and, while twirling it in the palm of his hand, applies the color with a rapid flicking motion. Suddenly it’s a virtual lemon. He sets it on the tray beside the “naked” fruit. The contrast is startling.
Crab apples are colored in three stages, to reflect the hues of the real thing—yellow, then green, then red. The loquats require the most skill: After the characteristic orange is applied, Giacomo adds dents and brown accents for “ripeness.” Eye-feasting is one thing, but it pales next to the pleasure of actually eating these royal fruits. Upon taking a bite, the sugar melts, filling the palate with remarkable sweetness. Then comes the flavor of blanched almonds, still sweet from the sugar, but with an easy bitterness.
Although mesmerized by Giacomo’s skill, I have to tear myself away—I’ve promised to return to the Villabate. I bid Nino, Cathy, the bakers, and the shopgirls a long, warm Sicilian good-bye.
Back at the Villabate, things are a little calmer. Emanuele and his wife, Lina, invite me into the kitchen, which is still humming with activity. A baker surrounds a mountain of fig filling with an enormous piece of pastry dough. Rolling it down the table into a thick rope, he then cuts it into small cookies, ready for baking. Across the room, molds of tiramisù are being topped with lavish swirls of sweetened mascarpone cheese.
Bread is baked hourly, and in the baking room, loaves of semolina bread are being readied for the oven. As Emanuele, Lina, and I chat, he watches the swirl of activity, occasionally ducking off to give directions to the bakers. Evening has fallen, and it’s time for me to return to Manhattan. But Emanuele has another idea: “Go see my son. He has a shop on 86th Street.” It is, of course, ten blocks away.
“My first job was at the sink; that’s where everybody who comes to work here starts,” says 26-year-old Manny Alaimo, owner of the Bellaggio Pastry Shop. He bears a striking resemblance to his father, and like Emanuele, he has been in the pastry business almost all of his life. At the age of 10, he resented having to work, he says with a laugh, but at 14, that changed. “I liked making stuff and foolin’ around with the ingredients,” he remembers with a smile. “But best of all was how people really appreciated what I made.”
“When I was a kid, this part was my grandfather’s bread bakery,” Manny says. “The guy we sold it to made it a pastry shop and bigger. When I found out he was going to sell, I got it together to buy the store. It’s been a lotta work,” he adds. “But this shop means a lot to me.” As if on cue, trays of freshly baked cookies emerge from the kitchen. More than 12 hours after the workday has begun, the ovens keep rolling, just as they do at the Villabate and the Europa.
As I’m leaving the Bellaggio, I spot an elaborate cake decorated with a stunning sugar calla lily. “My brother-in-law makes those,” Manny says. “Does he have a shop, too?” I inquire frantically.
“Oh, no,” Manny says, “he works in back.”
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