Chapter 5
cinque
Francesca watched the moment play out from across the table, as if in slow motion.
Alessio collected a wodge of torn mozzarella and slice of sun-ripened tomato on his fork. He locked eyes with her and proceeded to dunk the stacked combination in a dollop of Francesca’s ‘not-pesto’.
He brought the mouthful to his lips and took the bite she hoped would convince him that she was a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen.
Someone he could trust. A partner with whom to hopefully take this next step.
His eyes closed and Francesca watched as he bit through those milky acidic layers of tricolore paradise.
Alessio’s brow furrowed.
Was it confusion? Was he trying to place those nuanced hints of the land which surrounded them? Of the flavour, she had no doubt. She knew her ratios. She knew how to balance all the elements on the palate. But his neutral expression worried her.
Francesca wasn’t a professionally trained chef in the traditional sense.
She had learned everything from watching and copying Maria, her father, and despite their challenges, even Elena, in their humble trattoria kitchen.
Her process was to watch and observe, try, sample, poke and prod at dishes at various stages of cooking.
And when the time was right, at the moment when decisions needed to be made – final touches of seasonings, a turn, flip or addition of a glaze – she had to pay even closer attention.
This had to happen before she attempted something herself.
Perfectionism, to the core.
But when she cooked for herself, by herself, up there on that sun-drenched terrazzo overlooking Impastino’s beating heart, none of that seemed to matter. All bets were off. She could burn, blister and undercook to her heart’s content, with only the clouds or stars as her witnesses.
Alessio broke her from her musing. ‘What were the herbs again?’
‘Finocchio selvatico e centocchio. Wild fennel and chickweed. They grow in the garden. Also beside many of Impastino’s lower roads which lead to the farming land.’
He placed his fork down with considered confidence. ‘That was phenomenal.’
‘Veramente? You mean that?’
‘Yes. Truly.’ He reached across and helped himself to more from the platter. ‘The sweetness from the chickweed balances the aniseed kick of the fennel fronds. The hum of garlic there in the back, but all cut by the—’
‘Red wine vinegar.’
‘Very clever.’ In went another mouthful. ‘Fresh. Zingy. Intelligent.’
Francesca could feel the heat rise to her cheeks at his assessment and she smiled. ‘I like to pair flavours that grow well together. The herbs coexist in the garden beds and by the roads, so why not on the plate?’
Alessio nodded his agreement. ‘Where did you train?’
‘As in, study?’
‘Yes.’
It felt as though all the blood drained from her stomach into her legs, pinning her to the bench.
Now she had to keep up her part of the deal he had wagered.
She needed to tell him her story, in exchange for his.
No one apart from her father, and eventually Maria, knew this part of her, and up until this point she had wanted to keep it that way.
While the logical and rational part of her brain constantly reminded her that there was no shame in what she had done for herself, the emotional and anxious part begged to differ.
However, sitting here with this handsome, unexpected man, Francesca conceded that perhaps he could also be a safe space. She suspected – she hoped – that he too shared her love of food.
‘I am not professionally trained, really,’ she started, and her hands knotted themselves self-consciously around the linen napkin in her lap.
‘I learned all my foundational cooking from simply being here and watching it all happen. From my nonna and father, mostly. Some things from my mother, Elena. You will meet her today or tomorrow. But really I only have one true passion. And it is something that is deeply rooted in this town, but I beg and pray to the gods for it to become more than simply “a passion”.’ Her air quotes forced her to stop wringing the napkin.
‘And what’s that?’ Alessio leaned forward and took another sip of wine.
‘Pasta,’ she said simply.
Alessio sat back. ‘Pasta?’
‘Sì.’ Her hands met at her sternum. ‘Alessio, pasta is the reason I pull myself from bed each morning. It is the driving force behind all my creativity, my energy, my wild nonsensical daydreams.’ Noting how he mirrored her whimsical smile, she explained, ‘I’m a sfoglina. A pa—’
‘Pasta maker. Fresh pasta.’ He nodded his understanding.
‘Esatto! All my life, here in this place, in this town, it has always been pasta. The town is a pasta-making town. Here in Impastino, pasta is life. It’s religion.
The name “Impastino” means Little Dough.
It’s in our blood. All of us here. It’s my greatest love affair.
My father was a sfoglino. A multi-award-winning sfoglino, and he taught me all that he could under the circumstances .
. .’ She trailed off and Alessio’s eyes narrowed.
‘What circumstances?’ He reached for another helping of the caprese salad. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, no. You should know. My mother and I have a somewhat difficult relationship. But it wasn’t always this way.
I told my parents when I was fourteen, halfway through liceo classico, that I wanted to leave school as soon as it was possible to study pasta making.
I wanted to train, as you said, in this very specific field of the culinary arts.
I could see what we were serving here at the restaurant, and while I appreciated it for its homely traditional beauty, it wasn’t . . .’
‘Refined enough?’
‘Esatto! I wanted to learn the haute cuisine approach to pasta making, no? Elegant. Elevated. Like the dishes I would study in my cookbook collection. But Mamma insisted for years that it wasn’t necessary.
She thought I would learn everything I would ever need to know here at the trattoria.
So, instead of following the path to Bologna, I remained in Impastino.
I left school and worked full-time. To do the honourable thing.
’ Francesca could feel the skin under her eyes tighten.
‘How old are you, Francesca?’
‘Thirty-three. You?’
‘Thirty-five. And even after all these years, she is still against you doing further study?’
Francesca sighed. ‘She is a southern Italian woman who has had to spend her life asserting herself in an antiquated community with patriarchal values. Defence is her default setting, and the . . . the . . . rancori? Sorry, I don’t know the English.’
Alessio quickly Googled while chewing. ‘Grudges?’
‘Ah, sì. Yes. The grudges remain. She is very stubborn. She forgets nothing.’
‘And you’ve been working here ever since leaving school?’
Francesca filled her lungs. ‘Not exactly. I left two years ago and moved to London to “perfect my English”.’ Again, she made air quotes with her fingers.
‘We told Mamma I was going to study a specialised tourism English course to help boost the business and to set myself up for when I would one day inherit the trattoria. But that was a lie.’
Alessio leaned forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the table. ‘A lie?’
‘Nonna. My father. They were the only two who knew. Papà saw the potential for me to eventually take the lead in the kitchen and transform what we do into something more refined, as you say. But Mamma never agreed with him. So, he helped me escape to London where I studied pasta making under Gattuso Giostro.’
‘The Gattuso Giostro? At his culinary school?’
‘Sì. è un genio, Alessio. And a truly wonderful person. I was so worried that when I met him I would be disappointed. You know, they say never meet your idols. But Gattuso and all the tutors were bravissimi.’
‘I guess the London connection accounts for that inflection in your accent.’
She giggled, now also reaching for her wine. ‘I know. I can’t shake it. And we have so many British tourists come through the town, it simply gets recharged.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, his eyes coming to rest on her lips. ‘Sort of . . .’
‘Non sono posh, eh!’
‘No, not posh. Just effortless. And educated.’
Francesca had never considered herself to be formally educated. And hearing this made her retreat a little behind her embarrassment.
‘Take the compliment,’ he said, offering a playful wink.
Francesca smiled into her wine and was thankful for the moment’s distraction.
‘Grazie. But London didn’t go to plan.’ She picked at a dollop of ‘not-pesto’ on the platter and brought it to her mouth.
‘I was there for eleven of the twelve planned months. Just as I was preparing for the final unit of study, a sort of culmination of the course, my father died unexpectedly.’
Alessio sat back, winded. ‘Francesca . . .’
‘Just over a year ago. Mamma found him in the garden by the herbs with his usual chef’s knife, trowel and empty jars by his side.
He was picking the finocchio. The fennel.
’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘The doctor who assessed him said he had a heart attack. Died in seconds. No one could have saved him.’
Alessio shook his head. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. I came back as quickly as I could that day, and worked hard to fill his shoes in the kitchen. Since then I haven’t .
. . I mean, I can’t, really leave. Nonna still assists with preparation.
But Mamma and I take turns running the kitchen.
If we spend too much time together we tend to come undone. ’
‘Ooooft. That must be difficult.’
‘I think this is how it will always be for us.’ She scooped up a tomato chunk and popped it in her mouth, enjoying the acidic wash over her palate. ‘I’ve made my peace with it.’
His eyes narrowed and once again he leaned forward. ‘Have you, though? Really? You don’t seem very at peace with it.’
Francesca’s voice found its usual fire. ‘And what am I meant to do, eh? Nonna is ageing and getting weaker by the day. Mamma is still in shock and mourning and won’t seek help.
She has moved out of the apartment she shared with Nonna after Papà’s death and now lives in her parents’ house, the one she grew up in.
Those nonni died years ago. We have different visions for what to do with Trattoria dei Fiori.
It was just too difficult for me to go anywhere.
And with Papà gone, I can’t see any possible way for me to evolve and advance what we do in the kitchen.
Because I will eventually also lose Nonna, and she’s my main support. ’
‘What do you still need to do to finish that course?’ asked Alessio quietly.
‘Alessio . . .’ Her tone sharpened, warning him away from such thoughts.
‘Seriously, what do you need to do?’
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a final exam and a practicum. I could prepare for the written portion from here, but I need to complete the final practical test in person.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s so inconvenient.’
‘I know.’ Her hands caught her face and she moaned. ‘And Mamma still knows nothing about it.’
‘Are there set dates for this exam?’
‘Yes. It’s held over a week. From August thirty-first to the end of the first week of September. I’m still on the mailing list.’
Alessio’s eyes scoured the table, and it looked as if he were searching for something. ‘I wonder if you could—’
‘Mah! Don’t be ridiculous! I left over a year ago!’ Her curls bounced as she threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I learned what I needed to. That’s it. Finito!’
‘But don’t you want that paper with your name on it?’
Francesca’s eyes fixed on her wineglass. ‘I can write my name on a paper napkin and it will have the same meaning, Alessio.’
‘Never say never,’ he offered, and took another bite of food to signal the end of the subject.
Grateful for this, she flipped the focus. ‘And you?’ Her open, welcoming palm rose over her plate. ‘How have you come to be here for three months?’
She watched as Alessio pressed his lips tightly together. A loaded pause settled between them before he said, ‘Because I lost all that I worked hard for.’
Francesca’s face dropped. ‘Scusami?’