Andrea is measuring flour: 12.5kg soft wheat 0, 1.5kg wholemeal and 1kg farro. He scoops it from three paper sacks into one, which is then upended and poured into the mixer in the corner of the stall. If you’d asked me last year what dry flour smells like, I might have answered “not much”. Now, having spent the last six months meeting pasta and pizza makers, I’ve learned that good, fresh flour, and especially wholemeal, smells hopeful and sappy, like fresh sawdust and a clean baby. “It smells alive,” Andrea says as he pours 10 litres of water into the mixer. The smell is especially satisfying in the cool of the market at 8am. Once the flour and water are dough, they’re left to rest for an hour and we go for coffee at the market bar.
The new Testaccio market may be bright and modern, the opposite of its old, bosky incarnation, but its spirit has remained much the same. This is both good and tricky. Good because it means it’s still the resilient, hard-working market it has always been, with a tangible sense of shared history and community between stall holders, some of whom have been there for more than 50 years, and whose families have worked stalls for almost a century. Tricky, because it means suspicion and resistance to change – which means newcomers need to be resilient and hardworking.
Husband and wife Andrea and Paola Manco are the very definition of this. At Casa Manco, the smell of sap is masked by the aroma of espresso and hot milk, and the sound of the mixer replaced by the fierce gurgle and steam of the bar’s coffee machine and the lyrics of Lizzo’s Juice: “I’m not a snack at all. Look, baby, I’m the whole damn meal.” Having lost almost everything in a devastating collision of circumstances (the Italian economic crisis and state duplicity), the couple decided to start something new; Andrea, an architect, taught himself to make pizza dough, and Paola to top and bake them.
They weren’t the only new arrivals in the tightly knit market, but they chose to make one of Rome’s edible canons, pizza al taglio (pizza by the slice). They earned their place, respect and queues by making something exceptionally good. Andrea’s dough is baked into a platonic ideal of pizza with substance and chew while being soft as an aerated cushion.
Back at the stall, the mixer is turned on. Only now is the yeast added, a mere 18g, followed by salt and olive oil. While the dough twists and turns, Andrea gives me the domestic quantities, which I will use as a starting point and adjust as I learn. They are: 610g 00 or 0 flour, 90g wholemeal or farro flour, and 8g dried yeast mixed with 500ml room-temperature water. Those mixing by hand should combine the dried yeast with the two flours, then add to the water in a bowl. Once the mixture becomes a shaggy ball, turn it out on to a floured board and knead in 12g fine salt and 15ml olive oil – dough scrapers are useful here. The language of dough is a vivid and human one; flour is alive, it needs to be oxygenated, its mood varies depending on the time of the month and it gets nervous if you work it too hard. Then, like all living creatures, it needs to rest. Andrea leaves his for four days in the fridge, but my domestic version needs only 12 hours, covered with clingfilm. I then remove it from the fridge two hours before baking.
Positioning is everything. Unlike many of the stalls selling street food, Casa Manco is in the midst of the fruit and vegetable stalls, the butchers, and wine being sold by the litre. Paola shops every day – Roman produce and culinary tradition meet her own innovative cooking with roast tomatoes and pecorino, baked fennel and lemon, soft cheese, smoked meat and prunes, greens with anchovy, pine nuts and raisins.
For my version, she suggests marinating halved cherry tomatoes with olive oil, salt, sugar and oregano overnight, then roasting them until sweet and wrinkled. Back home, my seven-year-old son proves much better than me at stretching the dough with his fingers to the width of the tin, then giving it dimples with his fingertips. Like dough, baking is all about practice and feel, Andrea reminds me. You can be given specific instructions, but it is a matter of trial and error.
We turn the oven up full whack to 260C. I smear half the dough with passata and the other with olive oil, and bake for 20 minutes, the shredded mozzarella and grated parmesan going on for the last three minutes, and the roast tomatoes and basil at the end. That hopeful smell returns alongside Lizzo’s lyrics: “Look, baby, I’m the whole damn meal.”
Pizza
Prep 30 min
Rest 14 hr
Cook 20 min
Makes one large pizza (I usually make double)
500ml water, at room temperature
8g dried yeast
610g 00 or 0 flour
90g wholemeal, semi integrale or Farro flour
12g salt
Passata
15ml olive oil
Toppings
Mozzarella, drained and shredded by hand
Parmesan or pecorino, grated
Oven-roasted tomatoes
Basil
Pour the water into a large bowl. In another bowl, mix the yeast with the two flours. Add two-thirds of the flour to the water and, using a fork, stir. Add the rest of the flour bit by bit, stirring. Once you can no longer stir, turn the sticky mixture on to a board and continue to mix by hand, lifting the edges up and over – dough scrapers will help here.
Sprinkle over the salt and mix again. Make an indent in the dough, add the oil, and mix again. Lift the dough back into the bowl, cover with clingfilm and leave in the fridge for a minimum of 12 hours. Remove from the fridge two hours before baking.
Working on a floured surface, press and stretch the dough into a square the size of a baking tin with the tips of your fingers. Lift into the tin and press into place, using the tips of your fingers to make dimples. Smear two-thirds of the pizza base with passata and drizzle the other half with olive oil.
Bake in a hot oven (at least 250C) for 20 minutes, adding shredded mozzarella and grated parmesan for the last three minutes of cooking. When the pizza is done, remove from oven, and add the roasted tomatoes, basil and more grated parmesan.
