Chapter 18
diciotto
‘Lace? Are you one hundred per cent sure you don’t have another one?’ Alessio’s eyes settled uncomfortably on the apron Francesca offered him.
‘What? And men can’t wear lace? It’s Italian lace.’
‘Not my style. I’ll just wear the flour straight from the bench.’
‘Va bene.’ He watched as she tied the apron around her own waist, giving the silken red ties a proper tug behind her. ‘And . . . are you ok being in the kitchen?’ Francesca’s lips pursed. ‘You feel comfortable here with me?’
Alessio gave a little sigh. ‘Unbelievable, but yes. Thanks for checking.’ He leaned against the aluminium workbench and pivoted to take in Trattoria dei Fiori’s poky kitchen.
It was far from commercial grade, but had all the elements needed to churn out the incredible food they served.
The four burners. The two 900-millimetre ovens.
The extended workbench. The large fridge and separate chest freezer.
The open-style shelving holding all their pots, pans and serving ware.
And the spice trolley on wheels, which sat tucked beside Maria’s chair at the end of the bench.
‘Guarda, it’s not what you’re used to cooking in, I’m sure. But it does the job.’
‘Nothing wrong with it. I like it. It’s full of soul.
You are imprinted all over this kitchen.
’ He gestured to the red heart-shaped plastic mirror pinned to the exposed brick wall over the small washbasin by the fridge.
Then he nodded towards the mint-green vintage analogue radio perched atop the open shelving unit.
But it was the items she kept over the workbench that he just had to comment on.
‘This collection is by far my favourite.’ In mismatched frames were icons of Francesca’s culinary experi-ence: Jesus Christ, wrapped in gossamer white robes, arms outstretched as he welcomed humanity into his safety, featuring the words Gesù prega per noi in gold embossed lettering; a black and white image of Sophia Loren twirling spaghetti around her fork; and the depiction of a kind-faced bearded man whom Alessio recognised immediately. ‘Padre Pio. God love him.’
‘You know Padre Pio?’
‘Know him? That very picture used to hang in three places in my nonna’s house.
The first was in the laundry, attached to the wall with a series of decades-old calendars and random fridge magnets from capital cities all over the world.
She never visited one of them herself, mind you.
The second was in the kitchen, attached to the back of the walk-in pantry door, with a set of rosary beads stuck to the frame.
And the third was over the sink in the garage kitchen. ’
‘Your nonni had a kitchen in the garage?’
‘Yeah. The car stayed under the carport. It never went in there. The garage held the second kitchen, including the second fridge. That’s where Nonna and Nonno ran their illegal distillery, making all kinds of spirits and wine.
’ He rolled his eyes as he fondly remembered how they professed the quality of their blends, which only reminded Alessio of the smell of paint thinner.
‘And, you know, all the passata. Hundreds of bottles of tomatoes, filled by hand. That all happened in the garage under Padre Pio’s watchful eye. ’
‘You know, he is very special to Puglia. He spent many of his years living and working in Foggia. The next province over.’
Alessio thought about that a moment. Did this explain his nonna’s fascination with Padre Pio? All the ricordini, the prayer cards, the statues and plaques on the mantle, by her bed?
‘He was actually called Francesco. We have many Francescos in these lands of Puglia, and I personally think it’s because of him.’
‘Were you named after him?’ Alessio watched as she leaned a hip against the edge of the workbench.
‘No, no. I was named after this man.’ She pointed up to the fourth print on the wall, which was of a man staring forlornly into a sacred light.
‘San Francesco Caracciolo. The patron saint of Italian cooks. Papà always said it was his idea to call me Francesca after San Francesco. And now, whenever I come into the kitchen, I always greet San Francesco because I feel he is protecting me . . .’ Her voice faltered for a moment.
‘Especially nowadays. I keep him close, because if anyone can help protect our little kitchen, it can only be Francesco.’
Without conscious thought, Alessio reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s a great thing to have in your kitchen culture repertoire.’
‘Grazie. Mamma thinks it’s silly and always . . . uhm. Mi deride?’ She turned to face him and forced a petulant sigh from her lips to demonstrate.
‘She scoffs?’
‘Esatto! Scoffs.’ Her right hand flew through the air as if slapping the verb into her mental vocabulary bank.
From what he’d seen with his own eyes, and the patchwork of stories Francesca was slowly sharing with him, Alessio made up his mind that while he would remain civil and polite in his interactions with Elena, he most certainly didn’t like her.
‘I’m sorry. That’s just shit.’
‘Ha! It is shit!’ She looked up at San Francesco Caracciolo. ‘E che dici tu, eh?’
‘I don’t know about good old Francesco there, but I say we get this show on the road. Ready to teach me everything you know about pasta?’
‘I will certainly try.’
‘Good!’ He was glad to see her spirits return as she flattened down her apron.
‘Just one sec.’ He put a hand on her forearm.
‘If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.
’ He cleared his throat and directed his most theatrical voice to the printed congregation pinned to the wall above them.
‘Buonasera, Jesus, Sophia, Padre Pio. And . . . buonasera, San Francesco.’ He gave a cheeky wink, then stage-whispered, ‘I think I’m allowed in the Secret Life of Pasta club now. ’
Francesca chuckled at his side. ‘You’re an official member. Now, pull down your board and let’s get started.’
The pair each took a large wooden pasta board with a hooking lip that caught the edge of the bench to ensure stability. They fetched the ‘00’ flour, a carton of eggs from the fridge and set it all between their boards.
It was a small white chipped teacup with a blue decorative rim, however, that caught Alessio’s eye. Francesca had brought it over from its previous position next to the Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water by the stovetop.
‘What’s that?’
‘My most treasured possession. My tazza della pasta.’ She passed it to him. ‘It was part of a set Nonna received from all her loved ones as a wedding gift. It’s the last piece.’
‘What do you use it for?’ Given the chips, a once-repaired crack and areas of faded glaze, this little teacup had certainly lived a rich, full life.
‘We use this as our flour measure.’ She reached for the bag of flour and proceeded to open it, scooping the cup through the pure white ‘00’ flour. Once happy with the amount in the cup she levelled it off with the blade of a sharp knife, then emptied it onto Alessio’s board.
Our flour measure?
Alessio’s mind seized and he suddenly realised just how different their approaches to cooking were. How could this teacup be a reliable measure?
‘What’s your flour to egg ratio?’ he asked, already guessing what would come next.
‘One egg, more or less, to one tazza della pasta of flour, per person.’
‘And how much flour is in the cup?’
Dropping a second scoop of flour on Alessio’s board, she shrugged. ‘Boh! I have no idea. It’s the right amount. You get the most perfect dough every time.’ Could she read the concerned expression Alessio knew was showing on his face? He suspected as much, because she added, ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Everything’s wrong! Using a teacup to measure flour? And a cup so worn and chipped that it shouldn’t even be in the kitchen? There are hygiene and sanitation standards for a reason. They ALSO extend to equipment use!
Alessio considered his wording carefully. ‘I am used to . . . For me, precision . . .’
Francesca’s shoulders dropped back, her eyebrows rising. ‘Alessio . . .’
He watched as her hands with their red-painted nails came to rest on her hips, just as he had seen Elena’s do a number of times already.
‘What’s wrong?’ she repeated.
‘Sorry.’ He shook out his limbs. ‘I’m in my head. Old habits die hard.’
‘And what is your head telling you? We need to be honest and open with each other.’
‘One hundred grams of flour per egg. To the gram. Dependent on the flour blend. But if we’re keeping it simple, that’s what my head is telling me.
And it can’t reconcile how your cup – and sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, because it’s clearly very special to you – can guarantee a pinpoint--accurate measure. ’
Francesca’s fingers steepled at her lips for a moment. ‘And tell me, when you measure your hundred grams of farina, are you also measuring the weight of your eggs? Are you accounting for egg white to yolk ratio?’
Oooft. She’s good.
‘Generally, we would buy eggs which measure at the farm-graded large size and use that commercial standard.’
‘But, not “to the gram” accurate, no?’ She cocked her head confidently to the side, and seeing the flash of her deep brown eyes, Alessio knew she had him.
He dropped his head. ‘No. I guess not.’
‘Allora,’ she said, returning to the flour, scooping two perfect cups onto her board. ‘Let’s do this my way, then. Because in my kitchen, this always works.’
She opened the carton of eggs and Alessio could immediately see they were fresh and of local origin. These eggs still featured smatterings of whatever had been kicked around at the bottom of the chicken coop, including short strands of hay which had dried against the shell.
His hand stopped mid-reach, but he forced it the rest of the way. The eggs were a mishmash of sizes. Two were significantly larger than the others, and there were three that were little larger than quail eggs.
So different. Don’t fight it. Just go with it.