Chapter 18 #3
Deciding to finish on something more refined, Francesca whipped out the crimped cutter and fashioned a farfalla, setting it down beside the rest. Turning her attention to the timer she announced, ‘Annnnd, finito!’ The buzzer rang on cue.
‘Jesus,’ Alessio panted, dropping the rolling pin to the bench. ‘I knew you were good, but you’re also goooood. Look at these babies.’ He peered over at her pasta board and inspected her collection, correctly identifying all of them.
‘Aspetta. Look at your pasta, too.’ Alessio had got as far as ten shapes, well formed and well finished. ‘Which are you most proud of?’ she asked.
‘The raviolo.’
‘Ah. But what did you fill it with?’
‘Just dough.’
‘You made a raviolo with pasta dough filling? That isn’t a true raviolo!’
‘What was I supposed to fill it with?’
She gestured sarcastically around the kitchen. ‘You find something! Anything! I am disqualifying the raviolo on account of heresy against the pasta gods.’ She picked it up and tossed it dramatically into the compost bin, sending Alessio into a fit of laughter.
‘My baby! You killed my pasta baby!’
‘We take our ravioli seriously here in Impastino. I cannot have this leaking to the public. The raviolo is gone!’
‘They took my Hats, my restaurant, why not take what’s left of my pasta dignity, too!’
Watching Alessio playfully mock his own misfortune could have stung her with guilt.
But it didn’t. The fact he was able to poke fun at his past mistakes was an enormous step forward.
And while she laughed along politely with the banter and joking, she did so mostly because she knew it would support him.
‘No, seriamente, Alessio, these are very good here. Really well made. You have good straight lines. The ridges on these are smooth and well defined. But I will give you some feedback . . . Va bene?’
‘Isn’t that the point of these sessions?’
‘Erm. Sì. See here?’ She picked up one of the two cavatelli he’d made. ‘This one is a more authentic length. You want an inch and a half. I use my small finger as a guide. This other one is a little too loose and long. This is what Papà taught me.’
Alessio nodded. ‘Gotcha. But can I say something?’
‘Prego . . .’
‘You cut two flat sheets of pasta and pass those off as lasagne sheets and fazzoletti . . . Please!’ The glint in his eyes was cheeky.
She pressed a defensive hand to her breast and tutted.
‘Alessio Ranieri. The skill involved in delivering perfect sheet pasta cannot be understated. Take a closer look. Give me your hands.’ He flattened his offered palms, and she placed one of each pasta on top.
‘The lasagna sheet. Hand-rolled to perfection. The same width from end to end, all four ways. No snagging or pulling at the corners. All perfectly symmetrical. And three-millimetre thickness. Guaranteed.’ She pulled a stainless-steel ruler from a drawer and showed him exactly how accurate her rolling had been.
‘And the fazzoletto. Not simply a smaller lasagna sheet, as you might think. One-and-a-half-millimetre thickness. Three inches by two inches in width to encourage the pasta to fold on the plate and catch the sauce. And this exact thickness will help it dance in its salted boiling water. Once cooked it will swell to two millimetres.’
Alessio nodded at the samples in his hands, then set them carefully back down on the bench.
Looking up, he said, ‘You’re an amazing woman, Francesca.
’ Even if she couldn’t feel her cheeks warm, she knew by the kindness of his comment that they had flushed to a rosy glow.
She tried to wave the sentiment away, but he pressed again. ‘Take the compliment. It suits you.’
‘Grazie. So, do you trust me yet?’
‘I never said I didn’t trust you.’
‘Because you can trust me. And I promise I’ll be gentle.’
‘I know I’m in safe hands.’
‘Grazie, Alessio.’ Francesca clutched her hands to her chest a moment.
‘There’s something I need to give you. And it’s just to borrow for the competition.
I do need this back . . .’ She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a red and white striped silk scarf.
‘You will need to wear this for the festa. Trattoria dei Fiori’s colours are bianco e rosso.
Elio will wear blue and black. Sebastiano, yellow and black.
And Carlo will wear navy and white. Here, let me .
. .’ She gestured for him to step closer so that she could wind the scarf around the back of his neck.
At this close proximity she could see the faintest of freckles on his cheeks, interspersed with his stubble.
‘Ecco. Così,’ she said, tucking the scarf’s tails into the V-neck of his tee. ‘But you will have chef’s whites on.’
‘I don’t have my—’
‘You can borrow my father’s. They will fit. And besides, it will be nice to see the set all together again.’ Her heart hitched with sorrow and her gaze became unfocused as memories flooded her mind.
‘The set?’
‘Hmm. With the scarf. It belonged to Papà too.’ As she pressed her hand gently to the silk which had already absorbed some of Alessio’s warmth, she smiled. ‘It’s the right thing to do . . .’ she said, her voice catching.
The right thing to do? There’s nothing right about any of this. It should be ME going into battle to reclaim Papà’s title. Not Alessio. Nor anyone else. But there’s no other way.
‘I’ll look after it. Don’t worry.’
‘Grazie. I know you will.’
‘And I was just wondering today how I can repay you.’
‘Repay me?’ Her hands rose in confusion. ‘For what?’
‘For the pasta lessons.’
‘Mah! Shhh!’ She gave him a hefty shoulder push, as if the mere mention were an insult. ‘Look at what you’re going to do for me! Cooking for me. Pretending to be my blood.’
‘No, I’d like to teach you a few things in return. Maybe some kitchen things. Some skills. Curiosities you might have. What do you think?’
Francesca’s mind swirled. ‘Sul serio?’
‘Yes! You didn’t get to finish your course as you wanted. Please. Let me help. Like a swap-meet of kitchen minds.’
She went still as she considered his thoughtful offer. Of course there were many things she wanted to learn and perfect! But where to start? ‘Alessio, I don’t even know—’
‘How’s this?’ He tapped the bench in front of him as he thought. ‘And this is just me thinking off the cuff, right?’
She nodded. ‘Hmm?’
‘Maybe Monday night? We can do another Secret Life of Pasta session, and then I can teach you something. In the past, some of my junior chefs have needed to hone specific skills that require regular practice to really nail. If you don’t do them over and over again, you just lose the ability.
Like tempering chocolate . . . That can be really finicky and frustrating.
And I don’t know, say . . . cooking flambé?
Those sorts of things. What do you think? Might that interest you?’
Francesca couldn’t help the full force of the smile that broke over her face. ‘Alessio, I’d love for you to be the one to help me with those things.’
‘Gently, of course.’
Looking at him standing there wearing her father’s silk scarf, dustings of flour across his shorts, pasta dough drying on his hands and a radiant grin stretching across his handsome face, caused something to flip over in her heart.
You’ve been sent by the pasta gods to save me, haven’t you, Alessio Ranieri? The sign I’d been waiting for . . .