CONCLAVE CONFIDENTIAL

Vatican core, pasta and drag queens.

Tupac Shakur’s “All Eyez On Me.” Picture it: the Vatican soundtrack in a dystopian flick. Goosebumps, right? Because right now, all eyes are on the Holy See.
The new Pope election, 133 cardinals, the conclave – have you even seen the movie? The speculation is thicker than Roman traffic on a Sunday.

Rome is heaving. It was supposed to be some sort of Jubilee, all pious reflection and whatnot. Instead, the Eternal City has morphed into a papal Love Island.
Minus the swimwear, presumably. Well hopefully.

Now, despite being practically born in the shadow of St. Peter's, my spiritual compass points elsewhere – a sharp left turn into enlightenment roughly 23 years ago, back when converting to Buddhism was a genuine family scandal and the whole mindfulness thing hadn't been hijacked by kale enthusiasts and downward-dog devotees.
Despite being a Buddhist, I’m mad curious about this whole Conclave situation.

The real burning question for me here isn't just who gets the pointy hat – it's the logistics. Picture 133 cardinals, a United Nations of scarlet and piety, who are staying in the most prestigious Airbnb in the world for a few days before being locked in a room to make a decision.
How do they even communicate? (Translators are not allowed.)
And more importantly, what's on the menu before the conclave?

My catering-obsessed brain (no surprises there, it pays the bills) is in overdrive.
Imagine the culinary chaos: global palates, dietary restrictions I can't even fathom, all trying to break bread and elect a spiritual leader. Intrigued? Honey, I'm riveted.

Turns out, papal palates have a history.
Around the mid-nineteenth century, King Francis II of the Two Sicilies was wining and dining a cardinal (future Pope Julius III). The royal chef, tasked with creating a dish in the guest's honour, had a stroke of carb-genius: ditch the classic pasta crust and use tomatoes instead. Boom. A papal pasta evolution.

Flashback to February 7th 1550, when Pope Julius III assumed the papacy, he liked that pasta bake so much that he added his signature dish to the Vatican kitchen: the "Timballo del Cardinale." Sounds fancy, right? Cardinal's pasta timbale.
Peel back the ecclesiastical jargon, and it's essentially a banging pasta bake with tomato sauce, mozzarella, basil, all snuggled under a blanket of confit tomatoes.
Nothing groundbreaking, but undeniably delicious.
Basic but brilliant (that could be my drag name).

And the tradition stuck. Every conclave since has been fuelled by this glorious pasta bake. You could practically argue that every single Vicar of Christ has been chosen on a belly full of holy carbs.

Fast forward to today, and the carb-loaded feasts are apparently relics of a more… indulgent era. Pope Francis, a revolutionary in more ways than one, even apparently had opinions on the Vatican's catering. Gone are the days of the decadent timballo; now, it's all about virtuous greens and lean proteins.
HE CHANGED THE MENU!

Before the conclave, cardinals now face a breakfast that sounds less like a pre-election power-up and more like a monastic morning: light and, dare I say, joyless.
Lunch is a slightly more substantial affair – a risotto or pasta, followed by white meat or fish, and then seasonal vegetables strictly from the Vatican allotment.
Freshly baked bread, a mere suggestion of wine, and absolutely no hard liquor.
The party's officially over, folks.

Apparently, the only concession to earthly pleasures is a simple baked treat on Sundays – a biscuit, maybe a plain cake.
Frugal, penitent, restricted: the culinary equivalent of a hair shirt.

But here's where it gets interesting. While their stomachs are being denied any real fun, their lungs apparently have more freedom. Cigarettes are still allowed, another burning question: “Do they vape?” They do, but not flavoured e-cigarettes.
However, and this is where the plot thickens – imported spirits are strictly verboten. Think airport security, but run by nuns.
Apparently, a significant amount of cognac has been confiscated from these holy men this year. Naughty boys, indeed.
Perhaps they needed a little liquid courage to face the daunting task of choosing the next pontiff. One can only imagine the heavenly sighs echoing through the Vatican as their vintage brandy was whisked away.

CONCLAVE – literally ‘with the key,’ meaning those cardinals are locked in tighter than my jeans after Christmas dinner until they pick their new leader.
No escape, no take-backs. High drama, low Wi-Fi, I imagine.

Once they are all locked in, there is a group of bishops called “Revisori” (Reviewers) who are in charge of checking all the food that goes into the room.
Some things have been prohibited, like silver utensils, on which messages could be engraved, and some food is also forbidden, such as “pasticci in crosta” (pies with shortcrust pastry), in which messages could be easily hidden.
There is an army of cooks, “Credenzieri,” in charge of the inventory of the tableware. We chefs, darling, are always in control, even in the Vatican.

Sometimes, a Conclave can take a long time; the election of Gregory X took three years!
After that, to solve the problem of an excruciatingly long election, they simply changed the menu.

Nothing like the power of food to overcome differences of opinion… or more likely nothing unites (or motivates) like the threat of starvation.

The new menu for the conclave has been drastically reduced to a single-course meal, and if there still isn't a unanimous decision for the new pope after five days, the menu changes again: a draconian regime of bread and water would take place until a successful election occurs.

Now, the papal selection process itself? It's like a high-stakes episode of Survivor: Cardinals vote in secret, and once a new Pope is chosen, those ballots go up in smoke.
Then comes the big question for the new chosen one: "Fancy being Pope, then love?"
Imagine the pressure! (They can say NO, more drama.)
If he says yes, it's time for a rebrand, a spiritual drag makeover if you will.
New name, new persona, sashay away into the history books.
(Suggestions for the next pope: Pope Leo the Fierce, Benedicta Bombshell, The Immaculate Conceptionista, Pius the Pious Pussycat...)

And just like any contestant on a reality show facing a life-altering decision, the new Pope gets a phone call.
Forget calling the press for an exclusive one-on-one Meghan Markle style, this is more likely a quiet word with a family member or to cancel Netflix.
Then comes the dressing-up montage, the ceremonial robes, the whole shebang, with red ropes,

jewels, tiara and makeup (the last part might be inaccurate).
Finally, the "Room of Tears", a small chamber next to the Sistine Chapel, before you go and salute the world as the new Pope.
Just like sobbing over a bad hair day or a very bad tattoo, this is apparently where the emotion hits you before your big debut to the world, like a bride having a proper blub at her first dress fitting.
A bit dramatic, but hey, it's the Vatican.

As the cardinals navigate their flavour-restricted path to choosing a new leader, one can only surmise that a truly inspired decision might just require a little less dogma and a significantly better dinner because the fate of millions may well hinge on the quality of the Vatican's bread and water. You can't make this stuff up.
Amen to that.

IL TIMBALLO DEL CARDINALE
Cardinal’s pasta timbale

Ingredients:

3kg beef tomatoes
1kg passata
800g mozzarella
500g rigatoni
300g breadcrumbs
250g grated parmesan
basil
oregano
parsley

Preheat your oven to 180 °C (approximately 350 °F). Line a baking tray with greaseproof paper.

• Slice the tomatoes horizontally and scoop out the seeds. Arrange the tomato halves, cut-side up, on the prepared baking tray.

• In a blender, combine the breadcrumbs, a bunch of basil, plenty of oregano and parsley, a glass of olive oil, salt, and pepper. Blend until you have a coarse mixture.

• Stuff each tomato half generously with the breadcrumb mixture. Bake in the preheated oven until the tomatoes are very dry, almost slightly burnt.

• Remove the tomatoes from the oven and let them cool completely.

• While the tomatoes are baking, prepare the sauce and cheese. In a bowl, mix the grated Parmesan cheese with the diced mozzarella.

• In a saucepan, season the tomato sauce with salt, pepper, and basil. Simmer over low heat until the sauce has thickened.

• Line a baking dish, approximately 30 centimetres in diameter, with baking paper and grease it well.

• Arrange the cooled stuffed tomato halves in a radial pattern in the baking dish, starting from the centre and placing them skin-side down. Ensure they also line the edges of the dish, pressing them gently so they adhere.

• Cook the rigatoni pasta in boiling water for 3 minutes. Drain the pasta well and transfer it to the saucepan with the simmering tomato sauce. Stir to coat the pasta evenly.

• Cook the pasta in the sauce for another 3 minutes. Then, add the Parmesan and mozzarella mixture to the pasta and sauce, stirring until the cheeses are incorporated.

• Pour the cheesy pasta and sauce mixture over the arranged tomatoes in the baking dish. Press down gently with your hands to eliminate any gaps and ensure an even layer.

• Place the timbale in the preheated oven (180 °C / 350 °F) and bake for 45 minutes.

• Remove the timbale from the oven and let it rest for about ten minutes before serving.

• To serve, carefully invert the timbale onto a serving plate. This dish is also delicious served cold.