first dish requires the use of a contraption called a bigolaro. “It’s
Venetian in origin,” Mantuano explains. “They call it the burro
because it looks like a donkey.”
Indeed, this machine with a small bench for a body and a metal
contraption for a head does look like a donkey. As Grueneberg and
Mantuano discuss who’s going to operate it, I ask if I can.
Mantuano grins his signature grin. “Sure you can.”
I sit on the bench, and Grueneberg presses the pasta dough into
the metal apparatus. Then I pull down on the lever and start
turning a wheel, which extrudes the dough through several large
holes.
“This is hard work,” I say when the going gets tough.
Mantuano grins.
Grueneberg has placed a bowl of double-zero semolina flour
beneath the extruder to catch the fat strands of pasta (so they
don’t stick), and when we’re finished, she shows me how the
bigolaro gave the pasta a rough exterior that will catch the sauce
better.
As for the sauce, Grueneberg and Mantuano have set out on the
counter a beautiful array of small purple, yellow, and red heirloom
cherry tomatoes. They start by salting a big pot of boiling water:
“The most important thing is to salt the water,” says Mantuano.
To a pan, Mantuano adds slivered garlic that’s been soaking in
oil, along with more olive oil to coat the rest of the pan, and then
he cranks up the heat. When the garlic is sizzling, he adds a bunch
of the tomatoes and shakes the pan vigorously. “You really want