Night 4: Roberta, Gelato with Four Colours
The Late Night Diner is a part of Rhodes Island's canteen. That goes without saying – to whom had anyone ever heard of a diner in the boiler room?
As the name implies, it opens around midnight. There are only a handful of customers at a time.
Operators off their night shift could take an order and bring back to their quarters. Night owls could sit dining-in while leeching off the Diner's wi-fi. The Doctor would come for instant noodles from time to time.
Drinks are in the cooler. Anyone burdened by their own thoughts could take one and chug it down, anytime.
Menu? No such thing exists. What the Chef prepares is what you get. It all depends on his mood of the day.
Welcome to the Rhodes Island Late Night Diner. In here, you might even meet a familiar face or two.
The Diner looked different tonight.
The tables and chairs were switched out for long-legged variants. The lights were purposefully dimmed. Scented candles lit atop of the petit round tables, their orange flames rhythmically danced. The Chef had a bowtie around his neck. When his first customer arrived, he was busy pouring treated milk and sugar into a mixing machine.
"Buonasera, del Capo!"
Judging from the way she rolled her tongue, the Chef knew his customer must be a native Siracusian speaker. He set aside the small pail for carrying milk and gave her a welcoming gesture."Bounasera, signorina."
"What are you making tonight..." Roberta climbed on top of a tall-legged stool, stretched her neck and looked into the kitchen. "Oh! It's gelato! What kind do you have?"
"Let me see. I got strawberry, dark chocolate, mocha, peppermint, vanilla, and..." the Chef buried his head into the fridge, "What would you like?"
The young lady put a finger to her lips and hesitated. Then she took out her personal eye shadow palette and said, "Erm...how about the ones matching these colours here. Nothing too sweet please."
"You are a professional, you know that? Went to test your new make up on the Doctor again?" The Chef glanced at the muti-coloured palette, and grabbed a box of strawberry, a few sticks of vanilla pods, a bar of dark chocolate and a bag of matcha powder.
"Nah. I went down to Engineering today for reveal ceremonies of their newly developed production equipment." Roberta took out her tablet and flipped through the photos, "Look at this. Closure gave quite a few speeches today and this was the make up I designed for her."
The fresh strawberries were diced, then mixed with some water and a good amount of sugar. Drops of lemon juice were squeezed in to prevent oxidization. Then it was blended into a puree and poured into fresh milk. The Chef turned on the mixer. Time for some cold mixing.
The thick liquid was whipped at high speed. Mixing thoroughly with air, it puffed up shortly. Then it was quickly frozen with the help of an ice cream machine. Within a few minutes a batch of fresh milk ice cream were ready – smooth as silk and fluffy like clouds – the authentic Siracusian gelato.
"Still, what makes you change the décor? You turned the Diner into a Siracusian ristorante," holding her cheeks with both hands, Roberta watched as the Chef dug the ice cream out of the ice cream machine "Looks quite authentic too."
"It was not my idea, really. Lappland heard about some good news from her hometown and insisted on a celebration. Got me working and had it done during the day." the Chef cleaned up the interior of the ice cream machine, and poured in a fresh pail of milk, "And she wanted ice cream too. But looks like she's going to be a no-show. Probably still drinking at the bar."
"Yeah, sounds like her alright." Roberta covered her mouth and snickered.
The vanilla pods were sliced open in the middle, then put into a pot of fresh cream to simmer on the stove. When the aroma of vanilla was thick in the air, the Chef turned off the heat and poured the infused cream through a filter. Then it was poured into a pail of milk after cooling down.
The history of ice cream in Siracusa is as old as its mafia culture. What began as hand-whipped plain milk ice cream evolved into factory produced icy treats with a myriad of colour and taste, just like the various Families who started almost bare-handed, then carved out their territories and traded crude sticks with well-crafted crossbows, finally becoming the il capo of their own little kingdoms today.
Relaxing herself with the scent of milky sweetness in the air, Roberta let her mind wander. She saw herself walking down the street, barely a teen back then. Squeezing hard in her hand were a few sheets of Columbian dollar bills – her hard-earned allowance. She would later spend them on a ball of vanilla or strawberry ice cream, then sat on the tall stool carefully picking away at it with a tiny wooden spoon.
To her, Siracusa was just a name. But she had always felt that things were better there than in Columbia. Better streets, better neighbours, the lingering scent of tobacco in the wind...
And ice cream made puff by Siracusian air.
Chocolate was melted and Higashi matcha powder was dissolved in milk. In mere minutes they were transformed into frozen treats of light brown and dark green. The whipped ice cream when freshly frozen would usually be at twenty-one Fahrenheit. It needed another round of quick-freeze till the temperature lowered to five before it could reach the best state for display in the cabinet. Roberta, sitting on top of the tall stool, dangled her feet casually in the air. For fresh gelato that the Chef had poured in his heart and soul, it would always be worthy for the wait. No matter how long it might be.
The strawberry ice cream was decorated with berries and cherries. The vanilla one was accompanied by to sticks of vanilla pods and a few peppermint leaves. The one made with dark chocolate naturally had a layer of chocolate chips on it. As for the matcha flavoured one, the Chef sprinkled on some grounded-up roasted pistachio. It's a Siracusian tradition when it comes to decorate the ice cream. Not only they had to represent the flavour, but also needed to be good-looking to entice potential customers. The Chef took out a small glass bowl the shape of a square funnel, and filled it with a ball of ice cream from each flavour. He pinned a small umbrella on top of the pile before handing it to Roberta.
"Buon appetito." The Chef said, and passed her a tiny wooden spoon.
Summer heat brought about weariness and fatigue. The chilly ice cream was perhaps the best countermeasure for that. And having a small bowl of cold, sweet treat as retaliation would certainly bring out a sense of hard-earned happiness from the operators who had toiled all day long.
Which one should I start with? Roberta hesitated. The gelato was looking so ever beautiful.
Maybe I should take a photo first?
After a quick snapshot, she decided to start with vanilla. Tiny black marks dotted the inside of the faintly yellow ice cream ball – the vanilla grounds left in the milk after filtering. She picked up a chunk with her tiny spoon and sent it into her mouth. The ice cream melted the instant it touched her tongue. First came the rich sweetness of the milk, then the refreshing scent of vanilla followed.
If there was only one flavour of ice cream to be left in the world, she would surely choose vanilla. Roberta thought.
Then she dug into the dark chocolate ice cream ball. Slight hints of bitter intertwined with the sweet ness of the milk. Somehow it brought the sweetness out even further. Chocolate chips were crushed in between her teeth, their crunchiness had granted the thick and soft of the ice cream another layer of texture. Roberta savoured the faintly bitter treat carefully. Other than the very distinguishable flavour of the chocolate, she also detected another form of bitter yet pleasant fragrant.
"It's mocha!" she smiled happily at the Chef.
Next was the strawberry one. Ice cream shops in Columbia had always liked to use fresh fruit as a selling point, but everybody knew what they used were canned fruit and jam. The owners and customers had both kept to themselves about this open secret. Roberta took a large chunk and ate it in one bite. With the melting of ice cream, the sweet and sour of the fruit quickly spread in her mouth. This was what fresh fruit should taste like – no copious amount of syrup, no artificial food flavouring assailing the senses, just a natural sour-sweet taste, and the tiny, grainy feeling of the pulp brushing off her tongue.
Matcha was a bit more bitter than the dark chocolate. Mixed in with the roughness of the thoroughly roasted pistachio grounds was the fluffiness of the ice cream. An unique sensation to be sure as the two textures clashed in her mouth. It's not a popular combination among Siracusians. But compare to the blasphemes spaghetti al cioccolato, this had been a very respectable and friendly spin on the Siracusian classic.
"Thank you for the treats!" Roberta jumped down from the stool, "Buonanotte!"
"Buonanotte." the Chef watched as the young lady skipping towards the living quarters.
Few days later, the Chef heard something from his customer's personal tablet. It was a commercial in the energetic voice of a young lady.
"All-purpose setting eye shadow palette! For both wet and dry uses! Designed with unique Siracusian sensibility, it has cloud-like softness and smoothness of gelato, completed with the sweet scent of vanilla! Sold only at Studio Roberta and customized to your personal needs! Limited time only!"
Of course.