Chapter 11
undici
Francesca bolted upright, despite the boneless sensation in her legs. ‘You’ll what?!’
‘I’ll do it.’ Seeing Alessio stand a little taller helped to placate her hammering heart.
‘But I can’t and won’t do it under these circumstances.
’ He gestured between the women. ‘I’ve learned the hard way what a toxic environment does in the kitchen.
When you bring your outside issues in, it taints more than the atmosphere. It sours the food.’
Elena was having none of it. ‘Alessio, you do not need to do this. This is ridiculous. Just go and save your name and dignity. I doubt there will be much left of ours by the end—’
But Maria had clearly understood enough and heard enough.
‘Stai zitta, tu!’ she bellowed, rising from her chair.
Then she launched into a pugliese tirade, although Francesca barely heard it.
All of her focus was on Alessio, still standing by the door with his open palms outstretched, looking exhausted.
Their eyes met, and Francesca wished Maria and her mother would simply disappear so she could speak with him alone.
After a few moments of relentless back and forth between Maria and Elena, Francesca broke. ‘Basta! Enough! Be quiet!’ She shook her head. ‘Mamma, Nonna, go back to the kitchen. You need to get lunch service ready! Alessio and I will talk. In private.’
‘Cesca—’
‘No, Mamma! You said it yourself, I made the mess. Now, let me clean it up.’
It wasn’t until they had reached the bottom of the garden, away from prying eyes and straining ears, that Alessio felt he could breathe again. The wafting earthy aroma of the tomato vines mixed with the sweetness of the abundant basil roused his senses.
He patted the wooden slat of a sleeper bed bursting with viridescent flat-leaf parsley, encouraging Francesca to sit beside him.
She did so, and immediately started speaking. ‘Alessio, I’m so very so—’
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘I know. You’ve said that. We will get to the competition in a sec, but just tell me this first – has she always been so difficult?’
Francesca twitched at this unexpected opener. ‘Mamma?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She has always been protective of the trattoria. Always. But since we lost Papà things have been much worse. She’s trying hard to maintain control, to uphold the legacy my Papà forged for us.
She wants to keep us safe financially and socially.
I understand that. But she’s not coping with her grief.
It’s very difficult to work with her. I do love Mamma.
Please understand that. I don’t want it to seem like I don—’
He nodded. ‘Does she always belittle you?’
‘Belittle?’
‘Uhm.’ Alessio searched for the words. ‘Talk down to you like you’re a child. Seems like she doesn’t trust you.’
‘Never quite this bad. I’m used to it now.’ Alessio watched as she tried to force a smile.
‘This is not ok.’
‘I know. But I can’t do anything. She is grieving. She had a terrible shock finding Papà.’ She pointed over her shoulder to the patch filled with flowering fennel. ‘Just over there. And I wasn’t here to help her. I was in London, lying about my plans. The guilt . . .’ She sighed.
‘That may be so, but you deserve better than this.’ Alessio watched as her gaze dropped to her fingers. She was picking anxiously at her nails. ‘And Nonna?’
‘She tries her best to keep the peace, but it was Nonna who suggested Mamma leave the apartment. That’s why she lives in the home she inherited from her parents. Not far. It wasn’t working, us all here together.’
‘I can see why.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘Now, tell me what the hell is going on with this festival.’
Francesca rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her cheeks between her palms. ‘It’s a pasta festival.
Our annual Festa della Pasta. The town will gather for three rounds.
July fifth. August second. And the final, August twenty-third.
One representative from each of the four restaurants of Impastino will compete, with one being eliminated after each round. ’
Alessio nodded. ‘Right. And these are all men?’
‘Yes. Only men are allowed. The male head chefs of the family.’
‘Which is why I’m now your “second cousin”.’ She didn’t see his air quotes as her face was buried in her hands. ‘And what do I need to cook?’
‘We don’t know until the moment when the challenge is announced on the day. All that is certain is that the base of the dish will be pasta.’ She looked up and turned to face him. ‘I don’t doubt for a second your brilliance as a chef. But . . . how is your pasta?’
‘I know pasta.’
‘I know you know pasta. But how well do you know pasta?’ There was a desperation in her eyes. ‘Really truly know pasta?’
‘I know pasta.’
Seemingly unconvinced, she rose from her perch and dusted off the back of her dress.
‘Do you know the optimal atmospheric conditions to release the gluten in the dough? Do you know the perfect undisputed ratios of semola rimacinata and tipo “00” flours to water and egg? Do you understand the complexities of the more than three hundred pasta shapes? The regional variations? How to use the many implements and tools? The ideal drying time? The sauces and dressings that are accepted as standard pairings, and why? Do you understand the seasonal variations in the weights of the pasta shapes, and their cultural signifiers? Links to festivals, religion, art, historical events, sagre, icons of culture? Can you colour, tint and tone pasta? Can you freehand as well as machine-cut? Can you pattern, line, knit and plait it? Can you intuitively read the success of a dough by its bounce-back? Do you know—’
‘Ok, ok.’ He stood to join her, hands raised in respectful surrender. ‘I get the point. Can we be real? Egos aside?’
‘Please. I’m tired of always being on the defensive in the kitchen around here.’
‘Right.’ Catching her eye, he said, ‘My pasta is great. Excellent. I can colour and flavour, cut and shape, all good. Machine. By hand. Whatever. Do I know the nuanced local takes on pasta? No. Do I approach pasta making with an intuitive perspective? Absolutely not. In a commercial kitchen precision is king. Everything is measured to the gram, to the millilitre. Because it comes down to plating, costing and stock management. Each plating of a dish, when it leaves the kitchen, must be identical to the thirty that came before it. Aesthetically. By taste. Size. Weight. Don’t think me rude for saying this, but my take on pasta is going to be very different from yours.
I’m not trying to be reductive or simplify what you do here, I’m just being honest about the commercial realities. ’
Francesca exhaled slowly. ‘I’m relieved to hear you say this. Our approach here is more organic. Fluid. Emotional. Responsive to the moment. Born from tradition. Our history.’
‘I never had that luxury in my kitchen.’
‘Luxury?’
‘The rich history. Decades of traditions.’
‘Decades? No, no! Centuries.’
‘See, I’d say that’s a kitchen luxury. Having a cultural legacy to live up to, rather than critics and reviews.’ He paused a moment. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Per favore!’
‘While the mere thought of doing that again stresses me no end,’ he gestured behind them towards the trattoria, ‘I do miss things.’
‘What things?’
‘Cooking just for me. For pleasure.’ He exhaled. ‘What even is that? Playing and having fun with food. It’s been a very long time since anything in the kitchen has given me any joy.’
Her eyes, bright and renewed, met his. ‘If you are truly open to this experience, Alessio, please let me teach you how to approach pasta my way. The Impastino way. It would be an honour to share our cultural legacy with you. You might even enjoy it. Reignite that joyful passione.’
It had been a long time since Alessio’s skills had been tested.
Even through all his challenges in his own kitchen, it had never been about the food.
Instinctively he wanted to dismiss her offer with a confident, I’ve got this, I don’t need teaching!
But there was another element to this ridiculous opportunity.
Perhaps, by participating in this festival, Alessio might just get closer to his own nonna’s past. By embracing the town’s traditions and history, might he unveil some truth or connection to her story?
As if Francesca could see into his mind, and hear his nonna humming to herself as she kneaded dough on a Sunday morning in preparation for lunch, she said, ‘You want to know these lands, the lands of your nonna? Her story? Well, it is written all over this town, across our fields, and it gathers on our tables. Alessio, this is what you’ve been looking for. ’
He nodded, but seeing as they were alone he felt it important to add, ‘What you did wasn’t right, Francesca. You shouldn’t have enrolled me in this without my permission.’
‘I know.’
‘I would never have done this if you hadn’t forced my hand.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve put me in a difficult position with your mum and nonna. And look at that scene that jus—’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She looked forlorn.
‘I won’t cook in your kitchen. For the restaurant, I mean. I just can’t. That’s not why I’m here, Francesca.’
She nodded. ‘I . . . I understand.’ But there was a hesitation that broke the conversation’s flow. ‘The rules state that the competitor must be the male head chef of the fam—’
‘And I’ll play whatever games you need to keep up appearances. I’ll be your second cousin. Whatever you’ve told them. But please don’t ask me to cook for the restaurant.’
‘Alright.’
‘Whatever you need to teach me about pasta, we do after hours. Closed dining room. Empty kitchen.’
Her eyes widened. ‘And, in secret! It’s between us.
Just you, me, Mamma and Nonna. And the pasta.
Nobody in town can know!’ She threw her hands to the sky.
‘If anyone should find out what we’re doing .
. . the lying . . .’ She swallowed hard.
‘It would ruin what’s left of my family and our business. ’
‘I get it. The frozen fish drama . . .’ He noted her reddened eyes. ‘You don’t think people would understand?’
Her smile seemed forced, as it failed to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I hope they would. But memories are long in Impastino. And grudges run deep.’
Alessio smiled kindly. ‘Ok. I’ll do my best. And, you know, this might just be the circuit breaker I need to . . . well . . .’
He felt her warm hand reach over and search for his, giving it a thankful squeeze. ‘Grazie.’ She held his gaze a second longer than felt necessary, and that extra beat felt loaded – with fear, hope and something else.
‘Can we begin soon?’ she asked.
‘Erm.’ He wasn’t ready for this. ‘Can you give me a few days to find my feet in town? Just to settle in?’
‘Of course. How about Saturday night?’
‘Sure.’ He pushed a breath between his teeth. ‘But I can’t really say no, right?’ He meant it as a joke but somehow the humour was lost between her fumbling hands and those hollow, pleading eyes. ‘“The Secret Life of Pasta” it is, then. Starting Saturday night.’
He hadn’t even unpacked his suitcase yet.