Chapter 22
ventidue
Two weeks later, under the beaming summer sun, the people of Impastino gathered in the piazza. Numerous. Raucous. Impervious to the scalding heat.
Alessio stood by his assigned cooking station on the specially assembled stage, which filled almost a quarter of the square.
He locked eyes with Francesca, who stood front and centre in the crowd, flanked by Maria and Elena.
Even though Francesca’s tense shoulders betrayed her anxiety, he was thankful to see her smile.
Her eyes conveyed her confidence in him, and he nodded his acknowledgement.
He readjusted the red and white striped scarf tied around his neck, symbolic of Giacomo’s legacy, Trattoria dei Fiori, and its rightful place in this year’s festival.
Well, rightful as far as the town knew.
By Alessio’s side stood a councillor of the local comune who would serve as his English translator. While Francesca had insisted she was more than capable of translating for Alessio, Mayor Felice Lorusso had stressed that a third party would be a more impartial choice.
‘Buongiorno, carissimi!’ Mayor Lorusso’s stocky arms rose into the air.
The townsfolk mirrored his infectious joy, whistling, cheering and crying out their enthusiasm.
Alessio’s councillor leaned in close and got to work, his thick pugliese accent soaking through his English translation.
‘Today, as we gather together as a community to celebrate this centuries-old tradition, let us not forget those who have come before us. For it is in their handprints in the dough that we stand, rise and continue to thrive.’ Another wave of appreciative cheering rippled through the audience.
It was then that Alessio spotted the card-playing elderly trio in the crowd.
The spirited men whose game he had interrupted with a cheeky quip that memorable morning at the bar.
Upon locking eyes, the tallest of the three gestured up to Alessio with a clenched fist of support, with the other two applauding the presence of their banter partner.
Alessio nodded down to them and mouthed, ‘Grazie!’ That one little connection, the moment of levity, it meant so much to Alessio.
As if despite the charade, someone else was genuinely happy to have him there.
Alessio’s attention then turned to the other three cooking stations.
Carlo was to his right, Sebastiano to his left, and Elio directly opposite, each also wearing their coloured scarves, chef whites and hats.
Bucktoothed Carlo looked just as goofy as ever, his long limbs creating right angles as he fidgeted behind his station.
Pudgy Sebastiano clearly couldn’t keep his feet still for nerves as he rocked back and forth.
Elio wore a steel-cold, menacing look of confidence, as if it were an insult to the institution that was Impastino’s Festa della Pasta that Alessio was even there.
His competitors were the least of Alessio’s worries right now. It was his Nonna Immacolata who had brought him to Impastino, but in this moment, his mind only had space for Francesca. He forced himself to focus on her and all she’d taught him during their Secret Life of Pasta lessons.
His gaze flicked back to the crowd, and he caught the moment Francesca pulled her gold chain to her lips, speaking tenderly into her cupped palm, kissing the cluster of charms that usually sat against her bronzed skin.
Alessio could lose and walk away, never needing to think about it again.
Adding this life experience to the list of failures on his career card.
But Francesca didn’t have that luxury. Too much of her passion and fire was wound up in this town.
In this competition. This truly mattered to her.
It represented the loss of her father, the distrust of her mother, and the steadfast love and hold of her grandmother.
Don’t fuck this up.
Homing in on the interpreter’s translation of Felice’s words, Alessio straightened his chef’s jacket, cleared his throat and turned to face the audience.
‘. . . The round’s challenge will therefore play out as follows.
’ The mayor’s faithful assistant, Giovanni, slipped Felice a sheet of paper and his reading glasses.
‘Allora . . . ah, here! Eccoci! La prima tappa, your first round, shall proceed per the following structure: you will have an hour to prepare a savoury pasta dish which best represents the Adriatic Sea.’ He gestured beyond the Da Martino restaurant to the open waters which stretched to the shimmering horizon.
Upon hearing ‘Adriatic Sea’, Carlo inflated with hope, only to have it quashed immediately.
‘But the catch of the day is . . .’ Felice continued, raising a dramatic finger into the air.
‘Your pasta dish cannot contain fish or crustaceans of any kind.’ Carlo’s face fell and he scowled to himself.
‘In fact, your challenge is a vegetarian one.’
A simmer of intrigue rippled through the crowd, and Alessio spotted Francesca and Maria whispering to each other.
Vegetarian. He could do vegetarian. But represent the sea?
‘You are encouraged to take a few minutes to plan your dish before you collect whatever ingredients you require to execute your entry. Supplied as standard, in keeping with the practice of previous years, you will find extra virgin olive oil, salt, pepper and eggs. We don’t want you running around with eggs!
’ A gentle hum of laughter rose up from the crowd.
‘You will each be accompanied by a member of the comune council as you gather your necessary ingredients, so as to ensure no collaboration or communication with others. There is to be no consultation of books, recipes, et cetera. No phones, no technology.’
Alessio gave his councillor a nod and whispered under his breath, ‘You’re coming with me?’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
The four participants nodded in unison and the townsfolk cheered. The other assigned members of the council took to the stage, acknowledging their contestants.
Felice’s crackling voice broke over the noise. ‘Are we ready?’
The crowd’s cheering rose to a roar, and the epic thumping beat of a handheld drum sounded from one of the balconies of the surrounding buildings.
Alessio could see Elio growing impatient across the stage, his hands gripped in fists and his self-important frame tense.
That’s nerves, right there.
Something about seeing Elio so clearly wound up, nervous, even, bolstered Alessio’s confidence. Elio was feeling the tension, too. While Sebastiano, Carlo and Alessio all stood to lose, it was Elio – and Elio alone – who stood to lose the title. This was a position Alessio was happy not to be in.
Felice signalled and Giovanni passed him a stopwatch. ‘Un’ora! Sixty minutes. E . . . via!’
On cue, the townsfolk exploded into applause and cries and cheers of support for their respective competitors. Firecrackers popped overhead, the white smoke lacing the breeze in the piazza.
Sebastiano, Carlo and Elio burst from their stations and bolted to their restaurants, with the crowd parting to provide each a pathway. Onlookers dispensed slaps on the back and even playful head rubs as they passed.
But Alessio stood still in the midst of the chaos, prompting his councillor to check if everything was alright.
‘Bene. Bene,’ Alessio assured him with a placating hand. ‘I just need to think.’
The councillor nodded and took a respectful step back, giving Alessio some breathing room. ‘But of course!’
This was the moment to put into practice the anti-anxiety technique Patrick had taught him. Alessio depended on it in moments of great stress and worry, when those self-defeating words failure and pressure threatened to suffocate him from the inside out.
Alessio closed his eyes and pictured the waters of the Adriatic Sea. He drew in a long, full breath and summoned to mind Patrick’s guiding voice.
‘Take yourself out of your body. Someplace else. Completely.’
Alessio’s memory pulled him back to his first night in Impastino, back to that dark walk through the town by moonlight.
The heavy heat on his lids drawing his eyes closed; his chest stiff with the unknown.
But he had felt it: the relief of the breeze off the sea.
The way it had refreshed him that night as he stood overlooking the path down to the shore.
‘Now, think about your senses. Try to drop your attention into your body. Leave the outside world. Only you exist right now.’
The slippery caress of the wind past his cheeks, against that aquiline nose of his. Up through his hair. Slippery.
Slippery . . .?
The mouth feel returned. The slippery silkiness of Francesca’s fazzoletti pasta, rolled delicately fine, swimming in a salty broth. Swimming . . . the sea . . .
Then, his senses took over.
Green. Sea foam. Bubbling. Pebbles, rocks on the shore. The sand.
His eyes opened with bright determination.
Turning to the crowd, the first person his gaze found was Francesca, her hands in a white-knuckled steeple, looking scared and confused.
All he could communicate was a smile and a nod, but she understood, and a look of relief came over her features.
Now, it was all up to him. He ran.