Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Food writer, Claudia, has sampled dishes by the world's greatest chefs. But when she hears about a remarkable pastry shop operated out of a convent in a sleepy Italian hillside town, she wants to write a book featuring their desserts and their creator—Sorella Agata. Sorella tells of the young woman, Rosalia, who inspired her, who was kidnapped and separated from her family. Claudia discovers a deep, fascinating story—one that affirms food can do more than nourish the body…

Release date: May 31, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The winding roads of the hills were making Claudia Lombardo feel nauseous. She tried closing her eyes as Felice, her driver, chatted with her in his heavily accented English, but that only made the feeling worse. And though it was the last week in September, it was still rather warm. Then again, they were on the Mediterranean island of Sicily, where one could technically still swim at the beach as late as November, though the locals never did according to the travel guidebook Claudia had read before she left New York.

Claudia could feel her pulse racing in anticipation. Though she had spent the last fifteen years interviewing famous chefs and writing cookbooks featuring their world-renowned dishes, she felt that this next project was more special somehow. She had never traveled outside of the U.S. to interview a chef from another country. And this chef was much different from those she had previously met with, many of whom had achieved celebrity status and were often quite narcissistic.

As Felice cleared a bend in the road, Claudia caught her breath at the view in the valley below. Sprawling acres of green beckoned to her, and specks of white dotted the landscape—goats. A goat herder followed his flock, reining them in. So far the little she’d seen in the drive from the airport was what she had always envisioned Sicily to look like—verdant mountains, deep azure coastline, palm trees, and cactus pear plants. She couldn’t believe she was here.

Though Claudia was half Sicilian on her father’s side of the family, she never really thought about her Italian roots since she was third-generation Italian American. Her mother had Irish in her, but again Claudia’s ancestors who had emigrated from Ireland had done so in the early part of the twentieth century. She just always thought of herself as American, even though her father liked to uphold a few culinary customs that had been passed down in his family through the generations like the Feast of the Seven Fish, or Fishes, which was how most people referred to the Italian Christmas Eve celebration, but she refused to call it that.

Her father’s love of cooking had been instilled in Claudia from the time she was seven years old. And from the moment he’d taught her how to cook, she instantly fell in love. She watched everything her father did and in no time was taking turns with him in preparing the most mouthwatering meals for the family. As she grew older, Claudia discovered she also enjoyed writing. So she decided to combine her passions of cooking and writing to become a food writer. In addition to having Chow Girl—her own blog for food epicureans—she had now published eight books, several of which had become New York Times bestsellers.

Though the primary reason for this trip was to learn and write about the fascinating pastries Sicily was renowned for, it would also be a chance for Claudia to see the island from which her ancestors had originated. Unfortunately, any relatives her father still had in Sicily lived on the western side of the island, near Agrigento. So this wouldn’t be one of those trips where Claudia would find long-lost relatives to introduce herself to, since the town she was traveling to was located in the northeast. But that was all right. She was just happy to be here and get a sense of her roots.

“Almost there, signorina!” Felice shouted to Claudia above the din of his car radio, which was blasting one Italian ballad after another. She had found herself tapping her foot in time to the enchanting music. She could get used to listening to Italian music. For a moment, she had to pinch herself to believe it was all real. From the perfect panorama to the bucolic valleys between the hills and mountains they were driving along to the emotion-laden pop songs playing on the radio, Claudia felt as if she were watching an Italian tourism TV commercial.

Soon, as the driver had promised, Claudia saw the road signs pointing to her destination: Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela—Santa Lucia del Mela Convent. The incline became steeper, and the roadway narrowed even more. Claudia’s heart dropped when she noticed the Fiat hugging the side of the mountain. Immediately, she turned her head so she wouldn’t see the dramatic drop over the mountain’s edge.

Her pulse calmed down once she noticed the road widening again in front of her. They were entering a village that was perched along the mountains. Bicyclists and people on Vespas vied with the motorists. Right as she was thinking she would be able to get out of the stuffy car, Felice began ascending a twisty path up another hill.

“I thought you said we were almost there.” Claudia tried to hide the irritation in her voice, reminding herself she was no longer in New York City, where constantly showing your annoyance to everyone who tested your patience was expected.

“We are. At the top of the hill. We have to go through the village first,” Felice said before glancing over his shoulder at Claudia. “You have heard about i dolci, the pastries, of the Sorelle Carmeli-tane? Si? You cannot wait to try them, no? Ha-ha!” Felice laughed.

“Si. I am here to try the convent’s famous pastries, but I am also a writer. I am going to write a book featuring their famous pastries and tell about the history of the convent as well as interview the head pastry chef—Sorella Agata.”

“Ah! Bravissima! You are a writer, and you come here from New York! So far away! Make sure you write nothing but the best about our little mountain town and about the sisters. They are good women, but most of all women of God.” Felice nodded his head knowingly at Claudia.

“So, Felice, you are from Santa Lucia del Mela?”

“Si. Born here, and I will die here.”

“May I ask why you think the convent’s pastries are famous? What makes their desserts more special than, let’s say, the desserts in the finest bakeries in the cities of Messina and Palermo?”

Felice shrugged his shoulders and for a split second removed his hands from the steering wheel, gesturing toward the air. “Naturally, the pastries are very good. But it is more than their taste. Ahhh . . . how do you say?” Felice stammered for a moment as he tried to think of the correct phrase. “The sisters’ pastries are special because of how you feel after you eat them. All the senses are engaged. How do you Americans say? Experience?” He glanced at Claudia in the rearview mirror, meeting her eyes.

“Yes, experience.” Claudia nodded her head, imploring Felice to continue.

“You have a beautiful experience when you eat one of their pastries. You will see what I mean after you try them. Believe me!”

While Claudia could relate to what Felice was saying about the convent’s pastries imparting an experience in addition to taste since she had trained her palate and her five senses to take in every nuance of food, she couldn’t help feeling that the driver was biased and wanted to portray the pastries as being far superior to those found in the pasticcerie of Messina, the nearest large city. After all, he was proud of his hometown. But she was still curious as to the convent’s secret to the success of their pastries.

From Claudia’s research, she had learned about Sicily’s long-standing history of creating the finest pastries and how wealthy monasteries and convents, especially in Sicily’s capital of Palermo and in the city of Catania, had preserved the island’s rich heritage of pastry making. But the convents took it a step further in the late 1800s and began selling their pastries, mainly as a way to keep their doors from being closed. For after Italian unification in 1860, much of the convents’ land had been seized by the government, and many of the convents were shut down. The Convent of Santa Lucia del Mela was one of these convents that had been selling their sweets from as far back as the late nineteenth century. While their business had always done well, it wasn’t until the late 1950s that word of the shop’s exceptional pastries began to spread to neighboring towns outside of Santa Lucia del Mela, and even to the city of Messina. In the 1980s, the shop had managed to get the attention of several famous chefs from around the world, who had heard about the Carmelite nuns’ remarkable sweets and had traveled to the sleepy hillside town of Santa Lucia del Mela to discover what all the excitement was about. And in the past decade, tourists had even begun descending upon the village just to visit the convent’s pastry shop.

Claudia had first learned about Sorella Agata and her famous pastry shop, which operated from the convent where she was also the mother superior, from her friend Gianni, who was the chef at Il Grotto, one of Manhattan’s esteemed five-star Italian restaurants. While Gianni had not been to the convent’s pastry shop and sampled the nuns’ sweets, he knew a few chefs who had and who could not stop talking about the amazing creations being whipped up there. But what really intrigued Gianni was the one dessert that all of his friends had been baffled by—the cassata—a Sicilian cake, originating from Palermo and Messina, that consisted of sponge cake dipped in liqueur, layered with ricotta cheese and candied peel, and covered with a marzipan shell and icing; candied fruit in the shape of cherries and slices of citrus fruit topped the cake. Not only was the cake unlike any other version of cassata the chefs had ever tasted, but they were convinced Sorella Agata had a secret ingredient that was responsible for its becoming the most popular of the sweets sold at her pastry shop. The chefs had looked at different cassata recipes, but they could not nail the unique flavor that was present in Sorella Agata’s. And the ingredients listed in the recipes could not have given the cake this unique flavor.

“Felice, I take it you have tried the cassata?”

“Of course! That is the cake that made Sorella Agata famous. For only she has the gift to make it so delicious. My grandmother told me she’s been eating cassata from the convent’s pastry shop ever since she was a little girl—long before Sorella Agata was baking there. She said it tasted nothing like Sorella Agata’s cake.”

“Well, perhaps then what Sorella Agata is baking isn’t really a cassata since your grandmother says it tasted different from the one she had years ago? Has anyone thought of that? Perhaps she is fooling you all!” Claudia laughed.

“She is a woman of God. She is incapable of deceit.” Felice’s voice possessed a touch of irritation.

Claudia couldn’t help mentally rolling her eyes at his claim that Sorella Agata was not capable of deceit. But Claudia held her tongue, knowing how religious Italians were and how they held nuns and priests in high reverence along with the Pope.

“Maybe I have not communicated well in English what I wanted to say. It is the cassata. Anyone who has had that cake knows what it should taste like, and Sorella Agata’s tastes the way the cassata should, but then there is another layer of flavor. You will see for yourself. You must sample the cassata at one of the other pasticcerie in the village, and then try la sorella’s version.”

“I intend to do exactly that, Felice.”

Claudia was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. She was good at what she did, especially when it came to breaking down tough chefs who were often reluctant to share secrets of what made their cuisines a success. She just needed to build a sense of trust between the chef and herself, and she had no doubt she would be able to do that even with a nun. Secretly, Claudia prayed that Sorella Agata wouldn’t be one of those stern nuns her father had always told her about. He had gone to parochial elementary school, where several nuns taught, and he claimed he still had nightmares about a few of the meaner ones.

“We are here, signorina.” Felice came to an abrupt stop in front of a sprawling building.

Claudia quickly paid him and stepped out of the taxi. Felice took Claudia’s suitcase out of the trunk.

“Arrivederci, signorina. Do not forget to try la cassata.” He chuckled as he said good-bye and got back into his taxi. He’d turned off the car stereo—no doubt out of respect for the convent. But as the car began making its downhill descent, Claudia could hear once again the notes of the Italian pop music.

She turned around and entered the tall wrought-iron gates of the convent’s property. No one was outside. A mosaic-tiled walkway led to a courtyard, where Claudia could now see the magnificent structure that housed the convent. It looked even more charming than in the photographs she’d seen on the website. Porticoes lined a two-story building. The second story featured a large balcony. The off-white stone walls contrasted nicely with the shingled roof. The gardens in the courtyard were immaculately landscaped. Boxes of red bougainvillea, one of Sicily’s most popular flowers, sat in each of the arched porticoes. Cactus pear plants, jade, aloe vera, and other succulents that were well-suited to the island’s arid climate adorned the courtyard. There were various other plants, flowers, and trees, including lemon and orange trees. A statue of a female saint with a small bubbling fountain was situated at the back of the yard, and a makeshift shrine of vases holding flowers circled the base of the statue.

Claudia closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath. The air smelled exceptionally clean, and there was a subtle sweet fragrance of jasmine and citrus in the air. But what she enjoyed most of all was the silence. Claudia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been somewhere that was this quiet—the Grand Canyon when she visited as a child perhaps? Yes, that was it. She opened her eyes and let her gaze survey the gorgeous grounds once more. A strange feeling passed over her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about this place—a serenity and an almost otherworldly spirituality that put her instantly at ease.

She then smelled a familiar scent—bread baking. Or perhaps cookies? Letting her nose lead the way, Claudia followed the aroma, which seemed to be coming from the side of the convent. Soon, rows of arched windows lining the side of the convent’s building came into view. Long lines of people waited at two of the open windows. She then saw the head of a nun, complete in habit and wimple, peering out one of the windows as she smiled and laughed with an elderly male customer while she handed him a plump brioche wrapped in tissue paper. The man paid her and left. Claudia waited to see what the next patron would purchase, but the nun brought out a large cake box and, although she showed the customer the cake inside, Claudia was too far away to see it.

“Mi scusi, Signorina Lombardo?”

Claudia almost jumped out of her skin. A short nun stood before her, smiling shyly, almost like a young schoolgirl. But Claudia could tell by the few fine lines and wrinkles that were etched on her face that she was probably in her sixties. The dark circles beneath a set of large, intense black eyes also attested to the nun’s age. Her smile and her eyes were kind. The nun was dressed in a chocolate-brown habit. A white coif covered her hair completely, and a white wimple covered the sides of her cheeks and neck. A black veil draped her head.

“Si, io sono Signorina Lombardo. Buongiorno, Sorella.”

Claudia sent out a silent thanks to her father for making her take Italian lessons on the weekends while she was in elementary school. Then when she was in high school and was required to take a foreign language, she had figured she’d be one step ahead if she took Italian. Her high school Italian teacher, whom she managed to keep for all four years, had instilled in Claudia a deep admiration for the language, so she had decided to continue studying it in college. Just to be sure she could still easily understand the language and speak it, she had decided to take an immersion course in Italian in Manhattan. The class had been for students who already had a solid mastery of the language and wanted to refresh their skills.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Sorella Agata.”

So this was the famous pastry chef and mother superior of the Santa Lucia del Mela convent and pasticceria. The pastry shop simply went by the convent’s name. Claudia didn’t know why she was surprised this was Sorella Agata. She had pictured Sorella Agata to look different. Taller perhaps, and though she was a little plump, Claudia had expected her to be more portly because she was a pastry chef. Silently, Claudia scolded herself for her ridiculous assumption. Claudia was a food writer and as such was forced to taste countless dishes, and she wasn’t overweight. If anything, her parents were always telling her she was too thin and needed to put on a few extra pounds. But she exercised daily, knowing how easy it would be to lose her size 4 figure with all the incredibly delicious food she was tempted with in her line of work. And she only allowed herself a bite or two, at most, when she sampled the extraordinary creations of the chefs she interviewed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Sorella Agata.” Claudia shook her hand.

“I hope your trip wasn’t too tiring?” Sorella Agata said in English.

“You speak English?” Claudia was surprised. Their e-mail exchanges had been completely in Italian.

“I’ve studied it on and off over the years. I’m more comfortable speaking it than writing. That is why when we were e-mailing I didn’t do so in English.” Sorella Agata’s eyes met Claudia’s for a moment before she quickly glanced away. Again there was that hint of shyness—another surprise for Claudia. She would’ve never imagined a mother superior of a convent and the head pastry chef of a shop that had gained acclaim throughout Italy to be meek. Perhaps it was her training as a nun that made her this way? After all, weren’t nuns taught to be humble at all times?

“Well, we can speak Italian if you’re more comfortable. Please, don’t resort to English on my account, Sister. I studied Italian when I was in school, and I also took a refresher course for the past few months in anticipation of coming here. I actually rather enjoy speaking Italian.”

“Thank you, Signorina Lombardo. That is kind of you. Perhaps when you are interviewing me for the recipe book, I can speak in Italian, but when we are just talking casually like we are doing now, we can speak in English? I would love to learn more and not waste this opportunity I have with an English-speaking visitor.”

“That sounds like a perfect arrangement. You might have to help me as well with a few of the harder words.” Claudia laughed.

Sorella Agata also laughed as her gaze met Claudia’s, and this time it was Claudia’s turn to glance away. There was something about Sorella Agata’s intense black eyes that made her feel as if Sorella Agata knew more about Claudia than she did. But the nun’s warm smile quickly put any awkwardness Claudia felt to rest.

“Let’s go see your room. I’m afraid it won’t be as lavish as what you are probably accustomed to when staying at hotels, but it’s clean, and we actually had several of the rooms, including yours, renovated last year. We’ve started taking in tourists who are looking for cheap rooms to book while traveling through Sicily. Many of the convents and monasteries are doing this throughout Italy nowadays. We can always use the extra income even though our pastry shop does quite well.”

“Yes, I actually read an article in the New York Times about the growing popularity amongst tourists of staying at monasteries and convents. Was it your idea to begin renting the rooms of your convent, Sorella Agata?”

“Si. It was. I’m afraid all the business decisions are left to me. My fellow sisters do not want to be bothered by the more technical side of our operation. They are content to lead their lives of prayer, to make the best pastries possible for our village people and all those who visit our shop, and to do community work. Of course, I consulted with them and would not have opened up our doors to tourists if the other nuns weren’t in agreement. We all live here together and must respect everyone’s wishes. Although they agreed, they would still rather leave the dollars and cents stuff to me. I don’t mind. This is part of my calling, and I am glad to serve as God sees fit.”

Claudia couldn’t help thinking it must be hard for Sorella Agata to take on so much responsibility alone, especially since she was getting up there in years. From what Claudia had read about the nun, she was sixty-six years old. She appeared to be in good health, although Claudia could see the slight rounding of her upper back, no doubt from all the bending over she did while making her famous pastries.

Sorella Agata led Claudia to the back of the building and through a heavy oak door. They went down a long, dark, narrow hallway. The intoxicating aroma of freshly baked goods was even stronger behind the convent’s walls than it was out in the courtyard, and it only intensified the deeper they went into the convent. Claudia soon heard a din of voices and pans clanging about.

“We have to go through the kitchen to reach the rooms where you’ll be staying,” Sorella Agata explained.

As they entered an enormous kitchen, Claudia couldn’t believe her eyes. Trays upon trays of the most heavenly assortment of sweets lined the counters either waiting to be placed in the ovens or still cooling in their pans: steaming cookies and biscotti in every shape and size; berries coated in shimmering glazes sitting atop custard tarts; fluffy swirls of cannoli cream bursting from crisp golden shells. But what really caught Claudia’s eye was the fruit-shaped marzipan. She could only imagine all the time and painstaking effort it took to create the marzipan and shuddered to think of anyone’s ruining their perfection by eating them, though she knew that was their purpose. Nuns and laywomen worked quickly, taking out baking sheets and pans from the ovens, icing dainty pastries, frosting cakes, stacking biscotti and other cookies on platters and wrapping them in cellophane, topped off with personalized ribbons bearing the convent’s name. Claudia stopped following Sorella Agata to inspect one of the ribbons more closely. A small medallion of Saint Lucy dangled from the ribbon. Instinctively, Claudia reached for her Canon camera in her leather messenger bag and began snapping away. Forgetting all about Sorella Agata, she turned to the pastries on the baking sheets and also took photos of those.

“I see you have a passion for your work,” Sorella Agata said after a few minutes had passed.

“I’m sorry, Sister. I just couldn’t resist when I saw all these beautiful pastries. It’s apparent you have a great passion as well.”

Sorella Agata’s face glowed as she observed her workers busily going about their business.

“Si. Baking and serving God are my true callings.”

“What are these?” Claudia pointed to a platter of small round cakes, coated in pink or white icing and each topped with a maraschino cherry.

“Ah! Those are special. Virgin’s Breasts.”

“Did I hear you correctly?” Claudia knitted her brows in confusion, refusing to repeat what she believed she’d heard. For if she was wrong, the nun would no doubt be offended.

Sorella Agata gave a soft laugh. “Si, you heard correctly. Virgin’s Breasts, or Minni della Vergine, as we say in Italian. They are pastries that were created to honor the memory of Saint Agatha—or Sant’ Agata as we say in Italian—who refused to marry a man and was tortured for it. Her breasts were cut off, and she became the patron saint of rape victims.”

“Agata. That’s your name.”

Sorella Agata nodded. “She is a great saint, and I chose her name so that I may follow in her completely selfless example. Are you Catholic, Signorina Lombardo?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you know your saints?”

Claudia couldn’t help feeling she was back in grade school and was being quizzed by a teacher.

“My father would mention a few of his favorite saints and what they were famous for, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the stories.”

“Saint Agatha is my favorite, which comes as no surprise since I chose her name when I took my vows as a nun. She refused to marry a wealthy Roman consul because she had dedicated herself to God and wished to remain a virgin. To punish her, the Roman consul had her imprisoned in a brothel, but she still refused to give up her virginity so she was tortured and her breasts were cut off.

“Traditionally, we would only prepare these miniature cakes for the feast day of Saint Agatha, which is February 5th, but they were so popular with our customers that we decided to carry them year round. And when our town holds its annual Saint Agatha feast, the Virgin’s Breasts are the first to sell out of all the food that is sold.”

“What is in Virgin’s Breasts?”

“They are actually miniature cassatas, which as I’m sure you know is a popular Sicilian cake. If you haven’t guessed it already, the cherry that tops the pastry is to give it the anatomical correctness of the virgin’s breast.”

“Ah! Of course.”

Claudia was tempted to delve right into the subject of Sorella Agata’s famous cassata, but she needed to be patient and wait for when the moment was right. She wondered if these miniature cassatas meant to symbolize Saint Agatha’s breasts were made with the same recipe that was used for the standard size of the cake. If the same recipe was used for the Virgin’s Breasts, then they must impart the intense, unique flavor that Sorella Agata’s cassata was famous for. Claudia leaned in to snap another photo of the miniature pastries, but this time she took a close-up. When she looked up from her camera, a tall, quite elderly nun stood in front of her.

“Per te,” she said to Claudia, imploring her to take the small plate holding two Virgin’s Breasts. Her voice was raspy and very low as if much effort was required to utter a full sentence.

“Grazie, Sorella.”

“Signorina Lombardo, this is Madre Carmela.”

“Piacere.” Claudia bowed her head toward the old nun, who bowed her head in return and smiled. Then she walked away slowly, shuffling her feet. It occurred to Claudia that Sorella Agata had referred to the old nun as madre. She was confused. Wasn’t Sorella Agata the mother superior at the convent?

“I’m sorry, Sorella Agata, but I noticed you referred to her as Madre Carmela. I thought you were the mother superior here?”

Sorella Agata smiled. “I am, but Madre Carmela was my predecessor. I still choose to call her madre out of respect.”

“Do the other nuns address her as madre as well?”

“No, I am the only one. And you’ll see the other nuns do not address me as Madre Agata. When I became the mother superior, I insisted they continue to call me Sorella Agata.”

Hmmm. Claudia found this interesting. It was as if Sorella Agata was not comfortable with setting herself apart from the nuns, but rather wanted to remain on an equal footing with them.

“Go ahead. Try them.” Sorella Agata motioned with her head toward the pastries on Claudia’s plate.

“I’ll just have one. Since I work with food, I have to pace myself.”

Sorella Agata frowned, and then gave Claudia a head-to-toe assessment, no doubt noticing how thin she was. Unlike Claudia’s parents, she refrained from scolding her, but her face held enough reproach.

Claudia broke off a piece of one of the Virgin’s Breasts with her fork and placed it in her mouth. Immediately, her mouth burst with flavor. Every taste bud was awakened. The miniature cassatas were beyond incredible! Surely, they had to be made from the same recipe as the regular-sized cassata cake that had made Sorella Agata famous. Claudia had gone to several authentic Italian-American bakeries in New York City before coming to Sicily and had tried their cassatas. While a few stood out more than the cassatas from other bakeries, they all still shared a common flavor. If Claudia had been blindfolded, she would have known each of those cakes was a cassata. She took another bite of the light but intensely sweet pastry, and again, each of her senses felt completely engaged. It was just as Felice, the cab driver, had described it. Before Claudia realized what she was doing, she had polished off both of the miniature cassatas. When she was done, she stared at her empty plate, realizing only then that she’d broken her earlier promise to have just one of the pastries. Sorella Agata was staring at her with a sly smile.

“They’re very delicious, si?”

“Si, sono incredibili! I don’t think I’ve ever tasted pastries quite as delicious as these.”

Sorella Agata looked pleased with Claudia’s comment. “You will probably say that with many of our sweets here. They are quite unique, especially in comparison to the American desserts.”

“You know about our desserts?”

“Yes, well, not personally. But I like to research and learn as much as possible about all pastries, not just Sicilian or Italian sweets. I make my own versions of apple pie and chocolate cake. But I’m sure they must not be as good as the ones you have in America.”

“You should make them for me some time, and I can tell you how close yours are to the American versions. Sorella Agata, you are quite a renowned pastry chef from what I’ve heard. There aren’t many pastry shops that have had world-class chefs visit them to sample t