My first job on leaving school was at Valvona & Crolla, 19 Elm Row, Edinburgh, EH7 4AA - pictured above.
According to my parents I was determined to work there from being just a small boy when we would go in and Carlo would present me with a treat for being a good lad while my parents shopped in, what was then, a much smaller shopping area.
I don’t remember this. But I remember the months I worked in the store before we moved away. I’ve been thinking about doing a post with some experiences and memories for some time but hadn’t got round to it. Well, today on Instagram, there was a call for any memories as the store approaches its 90th anniversary.
As the picture up top shows Valvona & Crolla has a narrow, unprepossessing, shop front. It belies the treasure trove of goods which open up when you enter.
When I started working there the customer space extended only about twenty or twenty-five back from the entrance. As you went in, on the left, the wall was lined with wooden shelves in which were stacked jars, tins, and packets. Lower down were bins filled with packs of pasta. Above were pickles and preserves, tinned anchovies, olive oil, marron glace, nougat, vacuum packed coffee - both ground and beans - and a myriad seasonal things, such as boxes of Panettone from late autumn onwards.
At the end of this short space was a deli counter and, from memory, it was where you’d go to get a sandwich or roll made up. We got lovely soft and billowy rolls - and other breads - delivered from a local Italian bakery and there was a steady trade Monday-to-Friday of office workers dropping in to get a salami and cheese roll for their lunch. In shelving above this section my memory is of boxes and boxes of sugared almonds. I’m sure there were other things, but what they may have been escapes me.
Yurning left the shopper would come to further deli counters, in much the same way the shop is set up today. As you moved down there were different salads - seafood salad introduced me to whole baby octopus, which I still enjoy. There were olives, garlic and artichokes in olive oil, and other essential antipasti.
Next was a counter filled with all manner of salami, prosciutto, mortadella, and other cured meats and pate’s. When the area that is now the OMNI Centre was initially under development Polish builders would come in to buy kielbasa, we being the only place they could easily buy it in late-eighties Edinburgh.
Behind this counter were the slicing machines and orders from a few slices to a few pounds were filled cheerfully. I have a distinct memory of an event one Saturday which bears telling.
A customer had asked for wafer thin slices of, I think, mortadella for a dinner party she was hosting. The young server sliced the amount requested and placed it on the counter for the customer to put in her basket. The woman, instead, opened the packet of meat and began picking through the slices, complaining that they were not complete rounds, and therefore useless for her requirements. The person serving was apologetic, but pointed out this requirement had not been communicated in the initial request and she had concentrated on producing the thinnest slices possible, which had been asked for.
This did not soothe the customer who now loudly berated the server and demanded to speak to management.
Mary Contini enters the scene. She calmly confirmed that, when slicing as thinly as had been requested, guaranteeing a complete round of mortadella was not possible.
Well, the customer ramped up her ire and loudly advised she’d asked for a manager, not whatever Mary was.
There was a moment of quiet and Mary, in a tone so icy it could have come from an Italian glacier, said, ‘Madame, I am the owner. Now, after you’ve finished handling the meat with those disgusting nails, you can leave the store. You're not welcome here.’
The woman left. I think we all vowed that if Mary asked us to collect eggs from a dragon’s nest, we’d walk through lava to do so. The decision to back her staff over a customers unreasonable attitude has stuck with me for thity-five years as a shining example of management/ownership.
But back to our tour of the shop as it was when I started!
Down by the door, just before the till, was the coffee. There was a bin each for High Roast, Mid Roast, and Low Roast coffee beans, and a coffee grinder. People would have their own special blends and grinds made-up and, on Saturdays, storeroom trips to replenish the bins with fresh sacks of beans were frequent.
Now, when you go into the shop, there is an area where wine bottles are available to pick up and inspect; handy taste notes from the staff can be read on conveniently placed shelf labels.
Back when I worked in the store wine, and spirits, were behind the deli counters, and they went all the way up to the roof. You either knew what wine you wanted, or you asked for help. And help was readily available. Philip Contini would happily guide you to a wine that suited both your taste and price range. There’ll be more about Philip and wine a bit later. But for now, it’s worth talking about the ladders on rails that allowed access to restock the high shelves, or the long poles which were used to grip the neck of a bottle and bring it down to sell.
Oh, and then there was the shelf which had the increasing size of champagne bottles. A standard bottle, two bottle Magnum, four bottle Jeroboam, six bottle Rehoboam, and a twelve bottle Methusaleh. I’m pretty sure there was even an eighteen bottle Salmanazar, but I could be wrong.
There is one aspect of the shop to know about that continues today, but felt so much more intense in the smaller space of the time. Hanging from racks and rails above shoppers heads there were salami, prosciutto, strings of onion and garlic, and bunches of herbs. It gave a feeling of being in a cave of wonders, where everywhere you turned was a new surprise, a fresh delicacy unknown to as yet uncultured taste buds.
And the smell of the place, it’s ingrained in me. The fresh coffee, fresh bread, meats, cheeses, garlic, onions. I loved the smell when a new wheel of Grana Padano was opened, or a truckle of Chewton Cheddar unwrapped.
In Part Two I'll chat about the bits that were out of sight for the general public, some of my duties, and how I learnt to love Italian wine.
text and picture by stuartcturnbull
