The waiter straightened up in astonishment.
"You've never eaten spaghetti?" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you've never even tasted it?"
"No," said Nicky. "We've never even tasted it. You see, we live with our aunt, and she's the president of the Carrot and Nut League, and—"
The waiter cut her off.
"Let's waste no more time," he said. "Two spaghettis coming up!"
John and Nicky did not have to wait long. Within minutes, the waiter had placed before them two large plates of spaghetti, topped with generous helpings of thick sauce. The mere smell of the mouthwatering dish was almost enough for the children, but the taste, and the texture, and the longness of it . . . well, there are no words lengthy enough to describe all that.
At the end of the meal, with their plates scraped clean, Nicky paid, and the two of them said good-bye to the waiter.
"Come back someday," the waiter said with a smile.
Nicky nodded, but she knew that there was very little chance that they would be able to afford another meal. As for John, he knew that it would probably be a long, long time, if ever, before they tasted spaghetti again.
A Very Special Competition
After that, it was back to carrot juice and raw onion for Nicky and John, with only the memory of that delicious spaghetti to keep them going. They tried to bring up the subject of spaghetti to Aunt Rebecca, but it only upset her.
"Certainly not!" she exploded. "I won't have that stuff in my kitchen. Oh, the mere thought of it!"
"But there's nothing wrong with spaghetti," John pleaded. "It's very healthy."
"But look what people put on it," Aunt Rebecca replied heatedly. "Thick tomato sauce, full of heaven knows what! Oils, spices, grease, meat, and so on. No. Absolutely not."
John gave up, and Nicky didn't even bother to argue with her aunt.
"One day," she said to herself. "One day I will have spaghetti again. I know I will!"
Several weeks later, John was reading a magazine that had come with the newspaper when something caught his eye. There on the page was a brightly colored advertisement with a picture of a large bowl of spaghetti. The sight of the spaghetti made his mouth water as it brought back the memory of that marvelous meal in the restaurant. Then he read on and saw that the company was having competition. He realized that this was their chance.
"Look," he said to Nicky. "We should enter."
Nicky took the ad and read it. It had been put in the magazine by the manufacturers of Pipelli's Spaghetti, and this is what it said:
Spaghetti is best served with sauce, as we all know. But what sauce is the best? Everybody has his or her favorite, so why not send us your recipe? We will choose the one we think is the best, and as a prize, the winner will be invited to lunch with our chairman, Mr. Pipelli, right here in our spaghetti factory. You will see how spaghetti is made and you will even be able to try to make some yourself! So enter now!
Nicky looked at John. "Do you really think we should enter?" she said. "Do you think we'd have a chance?"
"Of course we would," replied John. "Somebody has to win."
"But what about a recipe?" asked Nicky. "I don't have one for sauce."
"I've already thought about that," John said. "Do you remember that sauce we had at the restaurant? We could ask the chef if he would give us the recipe and if we could use it for the competition. It doesn't have to be your own invention—it only has to be your favorite recipe."
Nicky was doubtful, but when John promised that he would do the asking at the restaurant, she agreed. After cutting the entry form out of the magazine, she put it in her pocket.
"What are you doing?" Aunt Rebecca asked sharply, but before Nicky could reply, a pan of parsnips started to boil over in the kitchen, and Aunt Rebecca had to run off to deal with it.
"I can't wait," John whispered. "I have a feeling that we're going to win."
They went to the restaurant the next day. The waiter recognized them and gave them a warm, welcoming smile.
"We're not here to have lunch," said John. "We're here for a recipe."
The waiter was surprised, but when they explained what they had in mind he winked at them and said to wait. A few minutes later, he came out of the kitchen with a piece of paper in his hand.
"The chef didn't mind at all," he said. "In fact, he was flattered by your request. Here's the recipe."
Nicky took the recipe and looked it over. Then they both thanked the waiter and left the restaurant.
"I hope you win," he called out. "And the chef hopes so too. He was very interested in the competition. In fact, he says that he is going to enter one of his other recipes as well. But don't worry—he's sure you have the best one of all!"
Waiting to Win
Nicky filled out the form and sent it to the Pipelli Spaghetti Company. Then the waiting began. The ad had said that the results would be announced within three weeks, and to make sure they didn't miss it, the children pored over the newspaper every day. And every day they were disappointed.
"I don't know why you're suddenly so interested in the news," Aunt Rebecca said. "I'm sure you must be up to no good."
Then, one Friday afternoon, John saw the item he had been waiting for. It was a small notice, tucked away at the corner of a page. The winner of the Pipelli Spaghetti Competition will be published tomorrow, it said. Make sure you don't miss it!
John and Nicky could hardly wait. When they finally saw the next day's newspaper, they opened it with shaking hands. Sure enough, there on the front page was a large headline that said, Lucky Winner Chosen!
"I can't stand to read it," Nicky said. "I'll close my eyes. You read it and tell me if we won."
Nicky closed her eyes. There was silence for a minute.
"Did we win?" she asked. "Tell me!"
She opened her eyes. John was staring gloomily at the page.
"No," he said. "Somebody else won."
He paused. Then, turning sadly to Nicky, he read aloud what was written in the paper: " 'There were hundreds and hundreds of entries in the spaghetti competition. Most of the recipes were very good, although some were not. (Some were very bad.) At last the winner has been chosen, and a letter has been sent to the lucky person.'"
Nicky looked thoughtful. "But it still could be us," she said. "It doesn't say we didn't win. The letter could be on its way to us."
John pondered what his sister had said. She could be right. Maybe there was a letter in the mail for them. Maybe it would arrive tomorrow, or the day after that.
So the next day they waited for the mail to come. When it finally did, they rushed to pick it up, quickly shuffling through the letters to see if there was anything for them. No. There were one or two bills, a magazine, and several letters from members of the Carrot and Nut League—nothing for them.
It was the same the following day, and the day after that.
"How long do letters take to arrive?" Nicky asked.
"I'm not sure," replied John. "Two or three days. Maybe more."
He knew, though, that there was now no chance that they had won, and when nothing arrived in the mail the next day, he told Nicky that there was no point in hoping any longer that they could have won.
It was bitterly disappointing. They had known that there would be hundreds of people entering the competition, and they had known in their heart of hearts that it was very difficult to win a competition like that, and yet it seemed to them that they must have come so close.
"Never mind," said John, trying to sound cheerful. "Whoever did win will be very happy to hear the news."
After that, they did not talk about the competition anymore. They tried to forget about spaghetti, and to give up all thought of ever eating it again. They also tried to avoid the restaurant. They now crossed the street before they reached it, so that they would not be forced to breathe in the delicious smells or see the diners at their tables. Then, a few days later, as they were walking past on the other side of the stree
t, they heard a shout.
"Hello there!" cried a voice. "Hello, you two!"
John spun around. There, standing in the doorway of the restaurant and beckoning to them from across the street, was their friend the waiter. "I want to speak to you," he shouted. Reluctantly, John and Nicky crossed the street to talk to the waiter.
"Where have you been?" he asked. "I've been on the lookout for you."
"We've been going home a different way," explained John, without telling him why.
"I see," said the waiter. "Anyway, the important thing is that I found you."
The waiter brought them into the doorway.
"I've got amazing news for you," he confided. "The chef won the spaghetti competition. Isn't that wonderful?"
John glanced at Nicky. So the chef was the lucky person. If only he had given them the recipe he used, and kept the one he gave to them!
"Aren't you pleased?" asked the waiter.
"Of course," said John bravely. "Please tell him we're very happy for him."
The waiter laughed. "Happy for yourselves, more likely. He can't go."
John and Nicky looked puzzled.
"He can't visit the spaghetti factory," said the waiter. "He's too busy. And so he wants you two to have his prize. He's been in touch with Mr. Pipelli, who says that it's perfectly all right with him. All you have to do is arrange a time."
John clapped his hands together with delight. He could scarcely believe their good luck. They had resigned themselves to losing the competition, and now it was just as if they had won. He was already beginning to imagine what the factory would be like and what he would say to Mr. Pipelli. And Nicky, although still astonished by their sudden stroke of good fortune, was thinking the exact same thing.
A Welcome from Mr. Pipelli
Aunt Rebecca was not at all pleased.
"A spaghetti factory!" she exploded. "Did you say a SPAGHETTI factory?"
"Yes," said John. "Mr. Pipelli's spaghetti factory."
"You can't go," she said. "I won't allow it."
"But why not?" Nicky pleaded. "There's nothing wrong with spaghetti."
"We've already discussed that," said Aunt Rebecca, "and you know my views. No. And that's all there is to it."
John thought quickly.
"It is rude to turn down an invitation, isn't it?" he asked. He knew very well that Aunt Rebecca was particular about manners.
"Of course it is," snapped his aunt. "It's very rude, unless you have a good reason."
"Well," said John, "Mr. Pipelli invited us to have lunch with him in his factory. Wouldn't it be rude to say no?"
Aunt Rebecca was cornered. Eventually, after a lot more grumbling, she had to accept that it would be impolite for John and Nicky not to go, and permission was given.
"Way to go!" Nicky whispered to her brother. "I can almost smell the spaghetti already!"
"What was that?" asked Aunt Rebecca suspiciously. "What did you say?"
But, from the kitchen, there was a squeak from the pressure cooker, and Aunt Rebecca had to run off to attend to a pot of fresh seaweed.
On the day of the visit, John and Nicky were ready before the spaghetti factory car arrived. The driver settled them in their seats, and they began the long journey to the factory.
"You'll like Mr. Pipelli," the driver said. "Everybody likes him the minute they meet him. You just wait and see."
They drove for an hour or so before they arrived. It was a very large factory—much bigger than either of them had imagined—and over the front gate there was a large sign made out of metal letters that read
PIPELLI'S SPAGHETTI—
THE KING OF SPAGHETTIS
The car swept into the driveway and came to a halt outside the main office. Ushered into the entrance hall by the driver, the two visitors were shown to a door that said, quite simply, The Boss.
"Go ahead," said the driver. "Knock."
And Nicky did.
The door flew open the second Nicky's knuckle hit the wood. There before them stood a stout man in a checkered suit. He had curly black hair, sparkling eyes, and a smile that seemed to split his face in two.
"Well, well," he said. "My two guests! Please come in!"
John and Nicky entered the room cautiously. It was even more splendid than they had imagined. On the walls were large paintings of Italy, framed in heavy gold frames. On the mantelpiece, above the marble fireplace, there were cups and trophies, and at the far end was a huge wooden desk, on which stood a large gold pen stand.
"Yes," said Mr. Pipelli, as if reading their thoughts. "It is a splendid room, and I have indeed made a great deal of money from spaghetti."
"I didn't mean to stare," John said apologetically. "It's just that I've never seen . . ."
"But you are here to stare," Mr. Pipelli protested. "That's why I invited you. Today you may stare and stare as much as you want, and nobody will think it the slightest bit strange"
The driver had been right. Both John and Nicky liked Mr. Pipelli immediately. Whenever he spoke he smiled, and when he wasn't speaking, his eyes twinkled with merriment. He was just the kind of person who would run a competition like this, and he was just the kind of person who would make sure that the winners had fun.
"Well," said Mr. Pipelli, rubbing his hands together. "Let's go and take a look at the factory. I've been in the spaghetti business for twenty years, you know, and I feel as excited by what goes on here now as I did the day I started. So let's not wait anymore! Let's go and take a look at how spaghetti is made!"
They walked out of Mr. Pipelli's office and made their way along a passageway that led into the heart of the factory. At the end of the passageway there was a door, which Mr. Pipelli opened with a flourish.
"In this very room," he said, his voice lowered in awe, "we see the beginnings of spaghetti."
John and Nicky craned their necks to see behind Mr. Pipelli. They were standing in the entrance to a large room in the center of which stood a gigantic mound of flour. From this mound, people in white overalls were using large shovels to pour the flour into huge metal mixers. As the flour was shoveled in, white clouds rose like steam, making the faces of the workers seem as pale as if they had just seen ghosts.
"A dusty business at this stage," remarked Mr. Pipelli, taking out a large silk handkerchief that he used to remove the fine layer of flour that had already settled on the front of his suit.
John and Nicky followed the spaghetti manufacturer as he led them across to the mixing machines. At the side of each bowl, there was a woman with a watering can. As each shovelful of flour was put into the bowl, she tipped her can over the edge and poured in a stream of thick, greenish liquid.
"Olive oil," explained Mr. Pipelli. "It's very important in the making of spaghetti. And these ladies know exactly how much olive oil to put in each bowl. They all come from the same part of Italy—every one of them—where everybody, absolutely everybody, knows all there is to know about olive oil!"
John looked at the woman next to the bowl, who smiled and winked at him, and before he knew what was happening, she tossed back her head, opened her mouth, and poured a stream of olive oil right down her throat!
John looked shocked, but Mr. Pipelli just laughed.
"Don't worry about that," he said. "They live on olive oil. There's nothing they like better."
He nodded to the woman as they began to move on.
"Thank you, Olive," he said. "And take the rest of the day off, if you want!"
As they walked on, Mr. Pipelli turned to the children and whispered, "She won't take the day off. She loves her job so much that she'll want to stay. This is a very happy factory, you see!"
Things Go Wrong
"Next," said Mr. Pipelli as they prepared to leave the room, "we will see what happens to the dough. This is the really exciting part!"
Wondering what they were going to see next, John and Nicky followed their host through a door into another large room. This room was much noisier, since it was fi
lled by a large machine, which was shuddering and shaking and making a strange squelchy sound.
"This," said Mr. Pipelli proudly, "is the actual spaghetti-making machine! This is the very heart of the factory."
John and Nicky gazed at the giant machine. At one end, there was an open bowl, almost the size of a swimming pool, where the dough that had been mixed next door was being loaded in great, sticky globules. From there, a number of thick pipes led into the machine itself, one side of which was covered with a variety of dials and levers. Then, at the far end of the machine, more people in white uniforms were bustling around with strands of finished spaghetti in their hands like bundles of wool.
"This is the spaghetti spinner," explained Mr. Pipelli proudly. "It is, in fact, the most advanced and expensive spaghetti spinner in the world. Not only can it make spaghetti, it can also make macaroni, cannelloni, tagliatelle, and every other shape of pasta you could dream of!"
Mr. Pipelli's expression had become dreamy.
"Just the names of all the pastas make my mouth water," he said. "Just think of them! Capellini! Vermicelli! Nastrini! Farfallette!"
He closed his eyes in ecstasy, but soon remembered that he had visitors and came back to Earth. With a look of pride, he pointed to the other side of the room.
"And that's the finished product being hung out to dry," he said. "That's only a week's worth of spaghetti—enough to supply an entire city for at least a year!"
John and Nicky gazed at the towering white racks on which the spaghetti had been hung to dry. "You could get lost in that," John thought. "And if you did, it would be like being in a spaghetti forest."
Mr. Pipelli made his way toward the machine, beckoning the children to follow him.
"These dials control the shape," he said, pointing to a line of buttons and wheels along the side of the machine.
Alexander Mccall Smith Page 4
