Why New Pasta Makers Have Oil (And Why It’s a Good Sign)

It’s an unsettling experience. You’ve just unboxed a gleaming new electric pasta maker, perhaps a sturdy stainless steel model like the Newhai WWX9. You plug it in, feed in your first sacrificial piece of dough as instructed, and it comes out streaked with a disturbing black, greasy residue.

Your first thought is likely: “Is this a defect? Is it toxic? Should I return it?”

This reaction is understandable, but the phenomenon isn’t a flaw—it’s an unavoidable artifact of manufacturing. In fact, it’s one of the first clues that you’ve purchased a piece of durable machinery, not a plastic kitchen toy. Let’s decode what’s happening, why it happens, and how it relates to the very texture of the pasta you’re about to make.

The Ghost in the Machine: Decoding the “Black Dough”

That metallic, oily smell and the black residue are not signs of a faulty product but the lingering memory of its creation. Machines like this are born in an industrial setting, forged from materials chosen for strength and longevity.

The body, rollers, and cutters are often made from Type 430 stainless steel. This is a specific ferritic alloy, prized for its high chromium content. This chromium forms a “passive layer” on the steel’s surface—an invisible, self-healing shield that gives it the “stainless” quality by preventing rust.

However, to shape this tough steel into precise rollers and cutters, it must be machined, cut, and polished. This high-friction industrial process requires the use of lubricants and cutting fluids. What you’re seeing is the last trace of this manufacturing process.

While alarming, reputable manufacturers use food-grade lubricants (NSF H1 certified) in the final assembly stages, which are deemed safe for incidental food contact. The “black” part is often a mix of this lubricant and microscopic steel particles from the polishing process.

The Commissioning Ritual

This is why the manual insists on a crucial first step: commissioning. Running a piece of sacrificial dough through the rollers 15-20 times is a simple, effective act of applied chemistry. The sticky, pliable dough acts as a high-surface-area sponge, performing a process called adsorption. It physically binds to and lifts away the trace residues from the steel’s microscopic peaks and valleys, leaving you with a food-safe surface.

This first ball of dough isn’t wasted; it’s the final step of manufacturing, performed by you. It’s the act that transitions the machine from a factory object to a trusted kitchen tool.

The Engineering Trade-Offs of a Home Machine

Understanding your pasta maker also means understanding its design limitations. These aren’t flaws, but deliberate engineering choices that balance power, cost, and safety for home use.

Torque vs. Watts

You might see a 135W power rating, as on the Newhai WWX9, and compare it to a 1000W blender, thinking it’s underpowered. This confuses two different types of power. A blender needs high speed (wattage) to pulverize. A pasta machine needs low-speed, high rotational force (torque) to muscle through dense, heavy dough.

The machine’s genius lies in its internal gearbox. It translates the motor’s speed into the high-torque force required to knead and roll. It’s a weightlifter, not a sprinter.

Heat and the “Duty Cycle”

This hard work generates heat. Some users report their machines shutting down during extended use. This isn’t a failure; it’s a feature: the thermal switch. This small safety device cuts power when the motor gets too hot, preventing a burnout.

This points to the machine’s duty cycle. It’s engineered to make a family-sized batch of pasta, not to run continuously in a commercial kitchen. Respecting this limit—letting the machine cool after a large batch—is key to its longevity. The noise, too, is a byproduct of this powerful gearbox; it’s the sound of work being done.

The Real Reason You Bought It: Lamination vs. Extrusion

The “industrial” feel of your machine is directly linked to the superior pasta it creates. This machine performs lamination, a process fundamentally different from cheaper extrusion machines.

• Extrusion machines work like a garlic press, squeezing dough through a die. This process is fast, but it generates high friction and can shear the gluten. The resulting pasta is often functional but lacks that signature al dente bite.
• Roller machines (laminators) mimic the traditional, laborious hand-rolling process.

When you mix flour and water, two proteins (glutenin and gliadin) form gluten in a chaotic, tangled mess. The magic happens at the rollers.

With each pass, the adjustable rollers (which might go from a thick 3mm down to a paper-thin 0.5mm) stretch and fold this gluten network. They coax the tangled strands into long, aligned, cross-linked sheets. You are, in effect, weaving a delicate protein fabric.

This laminated structure is what creates the legendary al dente texture—a pasta that is simultaneously tender yet resiliently chewy. The cutters (for example, a 1.5mm round noodle or 4mm flat noodle) then simply divide this perfectly prepared sheet.

So, yes, your new machine might arrive with an industrial “ghost.” It might be louder than you expected and needs a rest. But these aren’t the failings of a bad product. They are the honest characteristics of a powerful tool designed for a specific, superior purpose: to transform flour and water not just into pasta, but into a culinary masterpiece defined by its perfect, laminated texture.