The “Kindness” Award, received by the Biscottificio in 1971

If a shop should be pleasant and welcoming, a biscuit and pastry shop should be even more so.
The Mattei shop on Via Ricasoli has undergone several refurbishments over the years.
Originally, it featured tall wooden shelves reaching almost up to the ceiling; in the 1950s, those same shelves were adapted and painted white.

By the late 1960s, the original furnishings were replaced with new ones, the flooring was redone, and the wooden display counters gave way to metal ones.

The shop in the 1970s Towards the end of the 1980s, the various awards were given a new place inside stucco frames. The two entrances were redesigned to accommodate, alongside the doors, two wooden display windows with glass shelves, created to showcase the products and catch the eye of the most curious passers-by. Above them, two photographic portraits: the 19th-century one of Antonio Mattei, founder of the city’s oldest biscuit factory, and the 1960 portrait of Ernesto Pandolfini, our grandfather and the one who carried the tradition forward.
(Both of them seem to be standing there, keeping an eye on everything…)

Beyond the pleasantness and harmony of the furnishings, a shop is shaped above all by the people who welcome you inside. Many people have stood behind the counter of our historic shop on Via Ricasoli over the years, but one shop assistant in particular has remained in the hearts of our customers and in ours: Maria Muscedra.

Maria, like the tondine (a type of almond), arrived at the Biscottificio Mattei from Puglia in January 1962, when she was not yet 18 years old. Our grandfather had passed away shortly before, and there was a need for a new shop assistant. Her father arranged for her to live in the attic just above the Biscottificio, where Maria stayed until her marriage—at the age of 50—before moving with her husband into the apartment on the floor below. But her truest, greatest love was the Biscottificio. She always put it first. She even forbade her husband from coming into the shop, and if he so much as appeared, she would strike him with a withering look! She was affectionately called Mariina because in the 1970s she worked alongside another Maria in the Via Ricasoli shop. Since they shared the same name—and given her small stature and delicate build—the nickname stuck with her.

In the cover photo:

The two Marias behind the counter with Uncle Olimpio - Maria Muscedra and Maria Conti. The “Kindness” Award, received by the Biscottificio in 1971, is thanks to them.

Mariina, dark-haired, petite, lively, kind yet straightforward and down-to-earth, independent, proud, and with a strong character—was not just a shop assistant. She could do a bit of everything (except setting foot in the production area), but her true specialty was tying the biscuit bags. She did it at an incredible speed and with remarkable care.

She was the one who taught it to my sister Marcella. In December, after closing time, we would prepare the gift boxes for shipping orders, and we often worked late into the night—despite the fact that she had come into the shop before 8 in the morning. We are deeply grateful to her for everything she taught us and for the many years she worked with dedication and unconditional love. She treated our shop as if it were part of the family. Maria was always there: the first to arrive, the last to leave. Perhaps because, for her, the Biscottificio was a bit like home. A deeply devout woman—like her father—she cared greatly about the image of the Pope in the back of the shop. She took care of sorting leftover or damaged goods that were donated to the soup kitchen or to various parishes; for this reason, she knew the phone numbers of almost all—if not all—the priests in the city, whom she would call in turn.

On a personal note, I thank her for teaching me how to deal with the public, how to give change, and how to treat every customer with kindness (even when you feel your temper rising!). Even after retiring, she continued to work at the Biscottificio, and she did so for nearly 60 years, until she realized she was beginning to lose her sharpness. Only then did she decide to step away—and with that, to let go of everything. She passed away a few years ago, but she is still there, every time I lift my eyes toward that little statue dedicated to kindness.

Letizia Pandolfini