Garofalo Pasta, 1929

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When Domenico first settled on the idea of making pasta for a living, he chose the city of Naples on the Italian coast to be the home of his now-famous spaghetti. Neapolitans adored pasta; it was the food of their mothers, and the dish God had given them. Pasta was sacred in Italy. But why choose to make spaghetti in Naples? Because the mild climate made it the perfect location for drying pasta. When Domenico first moved to Naples, he had started out by hanging the noodles on the balcony of his tiny apartment, where the warm sea breeze could waft over them. His wife was his only helper, and together they managed to produce a few dozen kilos of pasta at a time.

Their first task was to source eggs and wheat flour, then Domenico would mix the ingredients in a large pail, using his strong, hirsute arms. His wife never doubted that success would come. Soon they had help from the local children; kids from dirt-poor neighbourhoods who would show up at the door each morning carrying pasta rods, to transport Italy’s national treasure through the streets and alleyways. Naples was the poorest city in Italy, and the proudest. A proud Neapolitan ate pasta every day. Demand was high, and the children went out to sell the spaghetti in the city centre. Three metres cost a few lira, which was not much. There was little better to fill an empty stomach. The Neapolitans ate their fill, and Domenico’s wife collected stacks of coins each day. It had been her idea to invest in a pasta factory. Domenico became a wealthy man. The children who had come to their door every morning to sell their spaghetti in the narrow streets of Naples remained loyal to them.

Luca and Paolo remembered Domenico’s kindliness from those early days. He would give them credit of a few metres of pasta, which Luca and Paolo would hand over to their mothers for the evening meal. The factory needed a name. Domenico’s wife decided to call it Garofalo. Today, Garofalo is the most popular pasta brand in Naples. The factory runs at full tilt, and Luca and Paolo still report to the factory’s tall front gate every morning with their now-famous pasta rods. In they go, to hang metres of spaghetti on the rods. Demand is high. “We need to make the factory bigger!” Domenico’s wife would sometimes grumble before they went to sleep at night, but Domenico believed they had grown enough. They’d come so far already. He still remembered the days when he’d dried pasta on their little balcony, shooing away birds and gulls from the port who would have ruined him without a second thought.

Paolo and Luca wandered through the narrow alleyways of Old Naples. The Neapolitans observed them. No-one dared interfere with their enterprise, for fear of incurring the wrath of their mamme. “Three lira a metre!” cried Luca. “God bless you, this is God’s bounty!” added Paolo to a passer-by who had just purchased two metres of pasta. The two boys stopped, full of pride, and took off their caps. This was what it meant to work, and to earn one’s living. They were almost men, after all. And the men of Naples would not die poor. The passer-by took his two metres’ worth and the two boys ascended the streets that climbed past the souvenir shops. A mechanic repairing a Fiat 500 stopped them. He was hungry, and bought himself three metres’ worth. “Thanks, lads!” he called.

To this day, Garofalo remains a closely guarded Neapolitan secret.

Alan Alfredo Geday