Chapter 6
sei
Alessio propped his elbows on the table’s edge and ran his hands over his face.
‘Ok. Here goes. I grew up in Melbourne, in an inner-city suburb called Brunswick. Both sets of nonni settled there after emigrating and marrying in the post-war period. My parents met when they were young – close family friends – and went into hospitality together. My dad has the business brain and stamina, my mum the creative vision and the ability to talk the leg off a chair. Together they opened a small café, which over my lifetime has evolved and expanded to twice the original size, and remains today one of Brunswick’s most loved eateries.
Good coffee. Excellent vibe.’ He managed a proud smile.
‘I grew up working there, like you did here. Before and after school, all my school holidays, I was there. But my parents pushed me to do something else in the future. Beyond school, I mean. They know how hard hospitality life is, particularly when you’re an owner–operator. They wanted something else for me.’
‘That didn’t happen, though?’
‘No. I went to a good school. All boys. I enjoyed it, did well, was liked. I think.’ This drew the faintest of smirks, and Francesca laughed. ‘Mum and Dad wanted me to pursue any other career. To be the first in the family to go to university. But all I wanted to do was cook.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I followed my heart.’
‘To food?’
‘To a kitchen.’
Alessio watched as Francesca’s body language mirrored his across the table; the bent arms, the symbolic leaning reach of interest. Her investment in the conversation was clear. So, he opened up. All the way up.
‘I’ll cut a long and convoluted story short.
Apprenticeship. Diploma. Sous chef at an up-and-coming restaurant in the city.
Bought in on the restaurant. But then the executive and head chefs both walked within six months of me starting.
I’m boosted to executive, and with a loan and Mum and Dad’s help, I buy out the rest of the business and rebrand it.
I named it Wicker. That was the first year.
And the name was a nod to Brunswick and the European migrants who settled there: –wick.
Wicker. Serving modern Australian food with a European twist.’
Francesca’s eyes scrunched tight then blinked open. ‘Oddio! That’s a year!’
‘Four amazing years followed. Booked solid. Impeccable kitchen team. We won all kinds of prestigious awards. Recognitions. Awarded three Hats, which is an award system in Australia. You can’t get more than three. And very few do.’
‘Alessio, that’s incredible. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you. But I had no life. I practically slept at the restaurant overnight. Astronomical stress levels. Anxiety. Panic attacks. And most of my team suffered, too.’ He shook his head. ‘They say everything happens for a reason.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Well, the COVID pandemic came through and shut it all down. We went from a million to zero. I remember hearing somewhere that Melbourne was the most locked-down city in the world during the pandemic. For nearly two years we were shut. We reopened in 2022, and for the following two years we tried to recover, but the damage was done.’
Her head tilted to the side. ‘Damage?’
‘Mostly financial. Two years of loan repayments and staff wages with little to no income.’
‘How could you stretch it that long?’
‘I was in denial. I can see that now. I’ve had to work hard to accept it.’
Francesca nodded. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault, eh? I bet there were many other restaur—’
‘I know. And thank you.’ He huffed a little defeated breath.
Did he want to reveal the next part? The ‘reaction’ part of the story?
The subplot that revealed the true colours of his character?
Those deeply magnetic brown eyes of hers, full of empathy, had him pinned.
Would she think less of him when she knew?
Did it matter? It was too late anyway. He had to finish the story.
‘I became very difficult to work with during that last phase.’ Alessio’s throat constricted around his next swallow. ‘Very.’
Francesca’s hands shifted back down to her lap where he could see them twist and pull at the linen napkin. ‘How very difficult?’
‘I was losing control. It broke me. One loan repayment at a time.’ Swallowing a mouthful of wine, he said, ‘I’ve always been stubborn, and many would say controlling in the kitchen.
But I worked hard to earn the right to be that way.
As it was all crumbling, though, the people around me suffered.
And I’m still coming to grips with that.
I feel a lot of . . .’ His eyes rose to the cloud-studded summer sky. ‘A mix of shame and guilt, let’s say.’
‘It’s a good thing that you can recognise this, eh?’
‘I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy. Oh, and of course, in case it wasn’t clear, we closed in late 2024.
Right before the pandemic I’d been approached about a cookbook deal, and the producers of one of the most popular cooking shows had stopped by a number of times, keen to arrange some kind of semi-permanent guest spot for me as a judge.
Then, after the pandemic, everything fell apart.
We lost our three Hats and the team was bruised.
Just like my reputation and ego. What took years to build was quashed in a matter of months. Gone. Finished.’
Was she concerned, sitting across from him at the table? Her energy had stilled; her expression was melancholic. Or perhaps it was worry? Whatever it was had emptied her eyes of their buoyant joy.
‘What is your relationship with the kitchen now?’ she asked quietly.
‘I never want to set foot in a commercial kitchen again, as long as I live.’ He balled a fist and tapped it theatrically on the tabletop.
Francesca’s eyes closed and her forehead furrowed. ‘But what if an opportun—’
‘Never. I can’t. For the past eighteen months I’ve been working with a cousin of mine from Mum’s side of the family.
He runs an international import business, buying groceries and smallgoods from overseas and selling them wholesale in Melbourne.
I couldn’t even work with Mum and Dad at the café. It just triggers me.’
Francesca looked wounded, and Alessio was touched by her sympathy. She nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’
Alessio watched as she rose from the table to finish preparing the next course; simple hand-cut tagliatelle with a light cherry tomato and garlic sauce.
Francesca insisted that Alessio sit and enjoy the sunshine while she tossed the pasta into the salted water to cook for its three minutes. All the while the shift in her energy plagued him.
I shouldn’t have told her. Why did I tell her?
He berated himself over and over again, feigning nonchalance while wondering how to repair the rift he seemed to have created.
This is what you do best, Alessio. You go in too hard and push people away. You always fuck it up. You’ve scared her.
Squashing a generous handful of tomatoes with the back of a fork in the saucepan over the hob, Francesca asked, ‘So, why have you come here to Impastino? An escape?’
Alessio reached across the table and filled their glass tumblers with sparkling water, then took a sip from his own.
‘In short, yes. I need a reset. My cousin has found other more appropriate help for his business, and Mum and Dad are happy for me to stay away for now. They know I need this time to . . .’
‘To?’ Into the pan went a glug of oil and a pinch of sea salt. She picked a solitary garlic clove from the little woven basket by the herb jars and smashed it with one powerful slap of her palm against the tiled benchtop. It too went into the pan.
‘Well, get a change of scenery. And I thought I would take the time to learn about my nonna on my dad’s side.’
‘She was from Impastino?’
‘Yes. She was born here but emigrated after the war. I spent a lot of time with her growing up. When I wasn’t at the café with Mum and Dad, that is. Nonno died young, so it was just her.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Immacolata Mazzotta. She became a Ranieri through marriage.’ He sighed. ‘She died a few months ago.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Practically ancient. She thought she was ninety-nine.’ He raised a brow. ‘But really, who knows? No one kept proper records back then. She didn’t have many official documents with her at the end of her life. We think she was born in 1925 and emigrated to Australia in late 1946.’
‘That was that generation. Bureaucracy wasn’t a priority.
Putting food on the table was.’ Francesca checked the pasta, scooping one length of tagliatelle from the water with a fork.
She blew on it then chewed it, her satisfaction at its bite marked by a confident nod to herself.
Francesca took a mug from a cupboard under the bench, filled it with boiling pasta water and set it aside.
She killed the gas and pulled the pot from the stove, emptying its contents into the vintage cream-coloured enamel colander in the sink. ‘What was she like?’
‘Nonna? Tough as old boots. Stubborn and self-righteous. Showed very little emotion beyond discontent and melancholy.’
Francesca emptied the colander of steaming pasta back into the saucepan, gave it a toss into the air, then loosened it with a generous slosh of the reserved pasta water. Over her shoulder, she asked, ‘Was she always like that? Even before you lost your nonno?’
‘Dad says always. As far back as he can remember.’ Something twinged in his stomach; despite how difficult she had always been, Nonna Immacolata had been an incredible woman.
Difficult, yes. But loyal and proud of her family, and desperately protective of her only grandchild, Alessio.
‘I guess I’m here to get to know her better, in a way.
To see what I might learn about her that we don’t already know.
I feel like I owe it to her. Something is telling me she was very misunderstood. ’
‘Alessio,’ Francesca started, now making her way to the table with the sizzling-hot saucepan of pasta. She set it down on a folded tea towel and took her seat once again. ‘If your nonna left traces of herself, of her life here in the town, we will find them.’
‘We?’
‘Of course. I can help you. There are many resources we can use and people we can speak to.’
‘Francesca, that’s not nec—’
‘Your little Italian will only get you so far. Let me help you.’
Watching her plate up two mismatched bowls of tagliatelle, tossed in that glossy sweet sauce, Alessio wanted to push back but couldn’t.
He wanted to go this alone, but acknowledged his language skills were lacking.
Francesca knew the land, he didn’t. She was offering the help so selflessly and openly, so he said, ‘Grazie. I appreciate that.’ He twirled his fork in the tagliatelle, knotting the strands in one tight cluster.
He took a generous first bite and closed his eyes. At first it was the tomatoes . . .
Cherry, but definitely datterino variety.
Olive oil, but slightly acidic. Perhaps cultivated on volcanic soil.
Garlic, purple. Or wild.
And . . .
‘White wine?’ he asked.
Dry. Local. Citrus undertones.
‘Just a splash. A local bianco from one of our suppliers. Friends, really.’
The pasta was toothsome yet smooth. Al dente.
It had just the right texture to catch and hold the sauce.
As simple as the combination was, Francesca had married the elements perfectly.
Sweet yet tangy, and above all perfectly balanced.
It wasn’t just on account of the clearly superior ingredients.
Whatever it was that fuelled Francesca’s cooking intuition was innate and natural. A beautiful thing.
And, watching her sitting across from him, twirling her own fork of tagliatelle, the word ‘beautiful’ lingered in Alessio’s mind.
Beautiful.
The food. The setting. The company.
‘Thank you for this incredible lunch, Francesca. And for making me feel very welcome.’
‘Prego.’
‘It probably sounds very clichéd, but just being here chatting with you . . . I feel like I’ve known you . . .’
‘Forever?’
‘Ha! Yes.’
Twirling her fork in her plate, she said, ‘I feel it too. It’s very easy. Natural. Are you single, Alessio?’ Francesca’s lips wrapped around her fork, capturing the hearty mouthful in one.
He nodded. ‘Very. You?’
Setting her fork down beside her plate, she said between chews, ‘Also, very.’
His mind blurred with the stinging question – could time with Francesca be enough to keep him there, in that little apartment, hovering over one of his greatest fears?
He smiled. ‘Good to know.’