Chapter 18
Later that day after all the plaster heaps have been removed, with the help of Alessandro and Enrico, I mop the work surfaces and the floors again. And then, with dust in our throats and sore eyes, we all walk up to La Tavola carrying the three lasagnes, Bello dancing at Giovanni’s side.
‘So, Teresa, Lucia and Rosa, why did they all fall out?’ I ask Giovanni, as we prepare salad and make a dressing in the cool of La Tavola’s kitchen.
Giuseppe is there, happy that his goats are content, and Francesco, who thinks it’s Sunday and is enjoying the atmosphere. Caterina is in the garden, showing Luca and Pietro the vegetables she’s growing.
‘It was the lasagne,’ says Giovanni, ‘from what I’ve heard.’
I put down the knife and look up at him. ‘It can’t just be the lasagne,’ I say. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘Oh, quite a while,’ he says, dipping his head to breathe in the aroma of one of the dishes.
‘This one is Lucia’s, made to her mother’s recipe.
She married the brother of Teresa and Rosa.
There was huge upset when he preferred Lucia’s lasagne to his own mother’s.
It was seen as complete treachery. His confession came out after he’d had too much wine at the wedding. They barely spoke after that.’
I smile at his light-hearted account. Here in the kitchen I feel more relaxed and at home than I have in ages. Aimee and Caterina’s daughter are playing with Bello, and Mr Fluffy has been left on the long table in the dining room.
‘This one is good. It’s Teresa’s.’ He takes a deep sniff and I do the same. ‘She’s worked hard to recreate her mother’s recipe, but eventually learnt her mother-in-law’s version. This one is Rosa’s, her mother’s recipe. Her Tuscan lasagne.’
‘Why don’t they cook the same recipe?’
Giovanni sighs. ‘That’s where the story gets complicated.
Teresa and Rosa’s mother shared her recipe only with Rosa, to woo the young man she wanted to marry.
But when Teresa wasn’t given it, she decided to go about things differently.
She wooed the same young man’s mother, got her recipe and made it for him.
They married shortly after. Rosa married eventually, but the two women didn’t speak and their mother’s recipe was never handed on to Teresa or Lucia.
It was a sign of Teresa and Rosa’s mother’s disapproval and favouritism, that she shared the recipe only with her elder daughter. ’
‘And now they’re all widowed, but still don’t speak?’
‘Only to sling insults and argue over the washing lines,’ says Giovanni.
We pick up the lasagnes and take them through to the big table, with large bowls of dressed salad, glistening with olive oil and lemon juice.
I stare at the salad, lost in my own thoughts, still wondering about the young woman I met, Stella, and how she knew Marco.
I wish I could stop thinking about her, and her words ‘I’m a friend of Marco’, but trying to block them out is getting harder.
‘ Tutti a tavola! ’ calls Giovanni, jolting me from my thoughts and everyone moves towards the table, laid with knives and forks, red and white napkins fresh from drying on the line in the sun after Sunday lunch, jugs of water, stubby glasses and a couple of small carafes of red wine that have been poured from a big box in the storeroom.
Alessandro’s much older brother, Enrico, has washed the dust from his face and hands and slides onto the bench next to Caterina.
‘Let’s eat!’ says Giovanni, and Giuseppe guides Francesco to the table. Aimee and Caterina’s daughter fill water glasses. Alessandro helps to cut up the lasagne while Luca and Pietro hand around the plates. I offer the salad up and down the table, and Giovanni pours wine for those who want it.
I look at Luca and Pietro helping themselves to salad, then passing it to Francesco.
‘ Buon appetito ,’ says Giovanni, and Alessandro raises his water glass as we all join in: ‘ Buon appetito .’
I look along the table at people’s faces and enjoy this moment.
It was what I loved most in the restaurant: the sound of people’s anticipation, good humour and delight in the food and company, as if they were sitting down to watch a film, a show, read a book.
Mealtimes like this are special. To me, it’s what makes Christmas special, the sound of happiness being shared.
It nourishes the soul and the body. I wonder what Christmas will be like this year. I wonder where we’ll be.
I take a mouthful of lasagne, chew and swallow. ‘That is sooo good,’ I say, taking another mouthful.
‘But can you tell whose it is?’
‘Lucia’s. Her mother’s recipe.’
He nods.
‘I could tell by the dish,’ I tell him, ‘just so you don’t think I’ve got amazing tastebuds.’
‘Ah! So you had an advantage. When you have eaten enough of them you will notice subtle differences. Teresa uses more meat, and Lucia cheese.’
‘And Rosa? What’s her secret?’
He has another forkful of meaty ragù , layers of soft pasta and creamy béchamel sauce. His lips glisten with dressing from the crunchy green salad Caterina has collected from the garden.
‘She won’t say … None of them will. They all have their own way of working, how they cut the garlic or which dish they bake it in.’ He waves his fork in a little circle.
‘How many years has it been since they fell out over how to make lasagne?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know exactly – twenty-five, maybe even thirty. All I know is there was an annual competition. Here in the village apparently. Giuseppe will remember.’ He nods as Giuseppe smiles his toothless smile, rolling his hand over and over as if to say it was even further back.
‘At the end of the summer, a long table was laid out, and the entries were judged.’
‘Just lasagne?’
‘Tuscan lasagne,’ he corrects me. ‘It’s different, of course. Lasagne came from Emilia-Romagna. Tuscan people put their own spin on it. But, as always, each family has their own way of making it.’
‘So what happened?’ I say, sipping my spicy red wine. Everyone is enjoying the food and so am I.
‘Well, the competitions were a thing of great pride, for the family and the individual who made a lasagne. Recipes passed down from grandmother, mother to daughter. That was when it all came to a head. The village wanted to bring the families together, and the mayor at the time thought a good way to get the women out of their homes was to organize a lasagne competition.’
‘I can see that wouldn’t have been a good idea.’
Giovanni laughs. ‘Nonna Rosa accused Nonna Teresa of trying to steal her recipe and stealing her man, and they both accused Nonna Lucia of stealing their brother from the family. The event ended in napkins being hurled, families pitted against families, fists flying. The younger women in the families had fiery tempers, which they let rip. Finally, the event was abandoned and the women were escorted home by their battle-scarred families and husbands.’
‘Oh!’
He nods. ‘It was a big deal back then.’
‘So it was all over a man!’
‘They’d never say that. It was a matter of pride and honour … and the man.’
We laugh. And suddenly Stella’s words pop back into my head.
‘But it’s so sad that they haven’t spoken in all those years.’
‘The accusations never went away. Rumours have a habit of hanging around if they’re not brought out into the open,’ he says, meeting my gaze.
For a moment I wonder if he’s talking about the nonna s or Stella.
‘They all married,’ he carries on, ‘and had families of their own. But the families have moved away for work or for town life. As you can see, not much goes on here.’
‘And they’re left on their own, like whoever owned Casa Luna.’
‘A lot of people are on their own here now. It’s why I wanted to help. This place was here when I had my … difficulties. It was quiet. I could re-centre myself. Work out what was important to me.’
I notice him rub his hand.
‘I didn’t mean to end up here. I just did. And although they didn’t know me, their lasagnes kept me going until I started to feel more myself again. That, and the stunning sunsets.’
‘So you set up this place?’
‘It was up for rent. I didn’t really know what I was going to do.
My partner and I had split and it took me a long time to get over it.
I was working ridiculous hours, trying to make it in London in the big kitchens.
As I’m sure you know, it can be a brutal way of life.
No room for anything or anyone else. Once we’d split and after losing Richie, my friend, work got too much for me.
Things were spiralling out of control. I followed in his footsteps, using substances to keep me awake in service, substances to help me sleep.
It was a dreadful dark place. I knew I didn’t want to go the same way as Richie.
He ended his life. It was such a waste. I mean …
it’s just food. There was no way I wanted to continue in that world. I was leaving it for good.’
‘But …’ I look around.
‘I didn’t want to go back into fine dining.
Before I got into catering I’d worked my way across Europe picking up odd jobs and skills along the way, like plastering and bricklaying.
I thought this place could be a lock-up for my tools and a workshop for a carpentry business.
But once I was here I felt more energized.
The fog began to lift, and I wanted to say thank you to the people who had kept me going when I arrived.
One Sunday I opened the doors and cooked lunch to see who would come.
Lots did, but some didn’t, so I took whatever was left to people who hadn’t left the house.
Who were inside, alone. I knew how it felt to be alone. I felt alone when I left the kitchens.’
‘And you just stayed here?’
‘It was a good place for me to be. It’s a secure base.
It was a breather in my travelling. I offered to do odd jobs, and cooked for those who wanted it at the weekends …
away from the pressure of the commercial kitchen.
I began to fall in love with cooking again and creating a space where people could enjoy food and company.
Maybe I’ll take the idea to other towns one day. It seems to bring people together.’
Was Stella one of those people … maybe Marco too?
Bringing them together here at La Tavola?
I feel as if I’m wading through treacle, trying to find the answer that is hidden in the darkness.
He’s right: food brings people together.
It’s what I loved about the restaurant and about Marco.
It’s what I miss … I shake myself out of my reverie.
My days in hospitality are long gone. And I certainly don’t want to talk shop about how hard it was to be a restaurateur in the UK.
Caterina seems to pick up on my deflated mood. ‘It may feel bad now, but we have hope,’ she says, ‘for you, and your children. Losing your husband, you have to search for the hope. It might not be there now, but it will come.’
Her words choke me. I swig my wine. I hope she’s right. There doesn’t seem to be much hope right now. And now Stella, whoever she is, is muddying the waters and the memories. Maybe once I sell up here and move back, with some money in my pocket, I can think about starting again.
I watch the children, who are laughing. At least I have these two, I think. And they seem happy, sleeping better … Maybe it’s the heat.
‘You’re right,’ I say, and put another forkful of the delicious, creamy, meaty lasagne into my mouth. There’s hope.
Suddenly the front door is pushed wide open. ‘Hey! Ciao! ’ The figure cuts quite a dash in the doorway. It’s Stella, whose words have been messing with my head.
‘Hey! You’re back,’ says Giovanni, and the mood in the room changes.
‘Just a flying visit. I’ve met some friends on their way to Greece. Thinking of joining them.’
‘Why don’t you have something to eat? You can tell us about it.’ He turns to me and says quietly, ‘Remember, everyone is welcome here.’ He lays a hand on my arm. He’s right. But I’m not ready for this. I feel hot and my appetite has gone. I watch her.
He stands and goes to the kitchen for another plate. Stella follows him.
Caterina watches her go. ‘Stella bases herself here, but she’s from nowhere. She comes when she has nowhere else to go.’
I glance in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Giovanni looks out for her. Makes sure she gets fed when she’s here. But when Stella is around, trouble is usually following her.’ At that moment, Stella comes out of the kitchen, carrying a plate. She smiles at me – a smile that makes me uneasy … very uneasy.