Rosa sat on a high stool, swinging her legs backwards and forwards. Uncle Battista had said she could stay in the kitchen if she would sit still, for today they were preparing some specialities for the Great Exhibition and they had no time for little girls - not even little Rosa.
The atmosphere of the kitchen was warm and humid, heavy with the sweet smell of chocolate and boiling syrup. At the range Julian was making marron glaces - crystalised chestnuts - boiling up the chestnuts in one batch and draining off the syrup in another. As he set out the chestnuts one by one to dry, he lent over and popped one in her mouth. "Don't tell Uncle," he said, "that's for the birthday girl."
June 12th 1851. Tomorrow was her birthday. She would be six and Papa had promised to take her to work with him in his new pastry shop in the Strand and, on the way, they would go to look at the famous toyshops in the Lowther Arcade. Perhaps she would find a doll, but when she hinted at this to her mother, Maria had said sharply that the shops in the Arcade were for looking, not for buying for the likes of us and that little girls must not expect too much.
Forgetting her promise to sit still, she slipped down off the stool and made her way into the shop where Uncle Battista was tending the great chocolate machine which stood in the window. He and Papa were very proud of the machine and when it was first installed a year ago, people had crowded into the shop from the street to see it. Many times she had watched the thick yellow cocoa fat churning and mixing as her Uncle or Ragazzo poured in the sugar. All day the machine pounded and rolled and mixed until the thick dark chocolate liquor emerged, smooth enough for chocolate making. It was hard to see why it took so long, but as Uncle Battista always said "It's not the eyes but the tongue which is the test."
But now it was ready and her Uncle transferred the thick warm liquor to a big bowl and moved into the kitchen. In front of him lay a long trestle table. On it a series of small tin moulds, set on a board. These were for the slabs and tablets of chocolate. Carefully, Battista poured in the chocolate liquor. When the moulds were all full, he gently shook the board, so that the chocolate lay flat and began to shine.
At the other end of the table was a marble slab. Keeping his chocolate warm, Battista whisked in some eggs. A teaspoonful of this liquor poured onto the smooth cool surface formed a round drop about an inch across and soon the marble was lined with drops lying in serried ranks, waiting to be lifted off or to be coated again in silver, for silvered chocolate drops were one of Battista's specialities for the Exhibition.
Uncle Battista was a quiet gentle man and worked slowly and deliberately, not like Julian who often got impatient, did things too quickly and burned the syrup. When that happened, Papa got very cross at the waste and Julian had to reboil the chestnuts and they were sold off cheap to some street trader.
"Rosa, Rosa." She heard her mother calling from upstairs. "Your
soup is ready. Tell your Uncle."
"Alright, alright," said Battista, "we'll
come when we've finished. Up you go, Rosalia."
She climbed the stairs to the big living room-kitchen where the
family and the workmen all ate together. At the open fire stood her mother
stirring the polenta and at the rough deal table down the centre of the room,
Aubron and Burgonino were already seated with their spoons and hunks of bread.
Luke Corrazza followed her upstairs and folded a rough blanket several times on
the bench so that she could sit up to the table with the others. Soon Ragazzo
and Julian joined her. Her mother poured out the thick polenta into bowls and
Carrie and Ragazzo served the men. Rosa liked to sit up to the table like this.
The men were always laughing, telling stories and playing tricks on each other.
Sometines when Mama was tired and cross, when the new baby was crying and the
cooking was too much for her, the men would begin to talk about their village -
Dongio.
"Never mind, Maria," they would say, "one day we'll all make our
fortunes and go back to Dongio. We'll go back to the mountains and the pure
fresh air and buy a piece of land and never stir again."
"Well if anyone
will make his fortune," said Barthes Borsa, blowing on his steaming bowl, "it
will be your Carlo, Maria. Why nowadays he's never here. If he's not making
pastries across the road, he's down at Hungerford Market selling them. And now
he tells me he wants to open a large cafe." Maria nodded. "He wants Luke and me
down there next week to start putting up the counter and shelves and make the
furniture, and he's got Giovanni Graziani coming to put terrazza tops on the
counters. One day that Carlo of yours is going to be a rich man."
"Well if
that's the way of it, he'd better look out," said Uncle Luke darkly, "He might
go the way of my Great Uncle Giacomo."
They all laughed. It was an old
story. Even Rosa had heard it before, but Ragazzo said "What happened to him?"
