Chapter 22 #2
Bursting into Trattoria dei Fiori, Alessio bolted for the kitchen, grabbed a large, deep baking tray, and began collecting the ingredients and equipment.
‘00’ flour. A whisk. A yellow-skinned onion.
Coarse sea salt. The three jars of peppercorns by the fresh herbs – the white, black and pink varieties.
He grabbed the marble mortar and pestle and passed them to the councillor, who flinched under their weight.
Onto the tray went a large bottle of distilled water and a round plastic container of parmesan cheese.
Then, a handful of cutters and pasta stamps.
The last item Alessio plucked from the kitchen was the chipped blue and white Fiore tazza della pasta, which prompted a quizzical raised eyebrow from the councillor.
Alessio stopped for a beat, holding the teacup carefully in his flattened palm, noting how it trembled from the echo of his adrenaline buzz.
He realised this little cup just had to come with him.
Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, Alessio locked eyes on the framed black and white print of San Francesco Caracciolo.
‘I keep him close, because if anyone can help protect our little kitchen, it can only be Francesco.’
The memory of Francesca’s voice made the decision an easy one.
‘You’re in too, mate, come on!’ Alessio said to the emaciated face of the saint, and he pulled the frame carefully from the wall.
Passing it to the councillor he said, ‘Anything happens to this guy, I’ll hold you morally accountable.
’ His joke was lost in translation as the bemused councillor fumbled to right the mortar, the pestle, the cup, and the Patron Saint of Italian cooks.
Then, with a chef’s knife in hand, Alessio headed out the back to the garden, the councillor and San Francesco in tow. Two spindly carrots, a crisp stalk of celery and a handful of fresh parsley joined the collection, then the pair made their way back to the piazza and alighted the stage.
Francesca’s face ignited with hope at seeing Alessio set down his things on the bench, and Alessio knew this was the moment for levity.
He held up a finger to get her attention, then raised the print of San Francesco for her to see.
She doubled over with laughter, then blew him a series of thankful kisses and he winked.
‘Alright, you,’ he said to the saint, leaning the frame against the edge of the workstation. ‘I’ve got work to do. And so do you. Hmm?’
With that he pressed down his chef whites and took a deep breath.
Do this for you. Do this for her. Let’s go.
Alessio triaged the tasks ahead of him. Noting there were fifty minutes remaining on the clock, he felt a familiar tingle in his fingers.
It’s just the adrenaline. Relax . . .
First, the broth. His station had two small gas burners so he turned both on and popped two saucepans from under the workbench onto the heat. Into one went half the bottle of distilled water.
That’s for the pasta.
Chopping board. Knife. He washed the vegetables in the trough of water on the bench, dried them, then made light work of slicing their knobbly, irregular, homegrown shapes.
A glug of olive oil hit the bottom of the second pan and he kicked up the gas before tipping the sliced vegetables off the chopping board and into the warm oil.
Then he reached for the parsley, sloshed it through the water trough and wrapped it in a tea towel, wringing out the excess moisture.
Tearing off the leaves he tossed them in the saucepan, too, reserving the stems. These he placed on the chopping board and, finding a rolling pin, gave them a bruising with the bulbous wooden end.
Their earthy vibrance rose to his nostrils.
Homegrown. Makes all the difference.
He plucked the stalks from the board and tossed them into the saucepan as well, giving it all a good stir with a wooden spoon and making sure nothing caught on the bottom.
In went a few black peppercorns and a pinch of sea salt.
Once he could smell all the layers, he filled the small saucepan with the remaining water and put the lid on.
Next job. The fazzoletti pasta.
Enough for one. He collected a solitary egg from the shared ingredient table, assessing it for cracks and chips. The auburn brown beauty was smooth to the touch and he gave it a gentle bounce in his hand to assess its weight. Perfect.
At his workstation he checked to make sure Francesca was watching from the crowd before plucking the tazza della pasta from his tray and holding it aloft so it caught a ray of sunlight. He didn’t look at her; he didn’t need to. All he had to do was focus on getting that measurement right, her way.
He scooped a cup of flour from the container and gave it a gentle tap on the bench to settle and condense it. Alessio added a little more, then shaved off the excess with the sharp edge of his knife. Millimetre precision.
Francesca wanted a cup, and exactly one cup she would get.
He emptied it onto the pasta board to his right and made a well in the centre.
Alessio then cracked the egg into that hollowed circular space and poked his finger through the golden yolk.
He swizzled it for a moment, bringing that lustrous lusciousness to bind with the viscous clear white of the egg.
Once happy with it, he began to catch pinches of the flour as his finger rotated around the well, slowly bringing more and more into the mixture.
Once it had combined he pushed and rolled the dough up and over itself, over and over again.
He pressed and pushed, satisfied that no strands of egg could be seen. It had all blended well.
It took a few moments, but the initial floury skin of the dough gave way to the developing gluten which bound the elements in harmony. It was becoming smooth and uniform to the touch.
‘Once it no longer feels angry, and the egg accepts the flour, you step away. They need time to become one.’
He heeded Francesca’s advice, bundling the dough into a ball and covering it with a clean tea towel before setting it aside out of the sunlight.
For the first time since he’d started work, Alessio took stock of the other competitors.
Carlo was slicing a nondescript green vegetable.
Sebastiano was cranking a length of pasta sheet through the machine affixed to his bench.
Elio was head down, meticulously hand-carving something with a paring knife.
Had any of them actually gone to the water? Actually used something from the Adriatic? A cursory skim over the top of their stations suggested not, so following his instincts, Alessio took off again, bowl and knife in hand.
‘Come!’ he said, running past his councillor chaperone, who had taken to chatting with his colleagues, and who jumped in surprise to see Alessio bounding off the stage. He hurried after him.
A collective gasp emanated from the crowd, and Alessio caught the moment Elio lifted his head to see what was happening. The pair locked eyes for a split second before Alessio disappeared around the bend, headed toward the sea path.
Down by the water’s edge, Alessio’s mind went blank.
Kicking through some of the rocks and sand gathered where the waves tickled the shore, he dropped and cupped his hand in the water. Bringing it to his mouth he caught some on his tongue and waited. There was the salt. There was the briny twang of the open water. But it wasn’t what he needed.
C’mon, San Francesco. You’re meant to be looking out for me here.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what his dish was lacking. The silky squares of fazzoletti pasta. The umami salty hit of the vegetable broth. What he needed was . . .
Texture!
He could hardly plate up shells in the bowl, and didn’t have time or permission to detoxify sea snails in this vegetarian dish. What here linked to the sea? To the land? To Francesca’s take on this rugged, wild coastline?
Suddenly, the call of a gull drew Alessio’s eyes to the jutting rock face that reached over the sea.
No . . . you couldn’t . . .
A smile crept across Alessio’s lips and he reached for his knife.
You have to. It would be the most perfect addition. Do it for Francesca.
He turned to the councillor and said, ‘I’m going to swim under there. Capito?’ He mimed his best freestyle arms, and pointed to the dark glistening waters shadowed by the overhanging rocks. He scooped his hand through the air.
‘No! You can’t, Signore!’ the councillor begged.
‘Either you come with me, or you wait here. Your call. But I’m going to need an answer in about two seconds.’
The councillor waved his hands through the air at the mere thought of following Alessio under the water. ‘No, no!’
‘See you in a sec then. And hold these, please.’ Alessio whipped off his clothes, down to his black Bonds trunks, and bundled it all in a heap in the councillor’s open arms. ‘My wallet’s in my pocket, and I know what’s in there.
Don’t try anything suss!’ He gave him a playful grin then took off into the water.
Alessio waded out to the drop as quickly as his legs could tread against the current. His eyes searched the glossy black rocks for the little red nail polish heart Francesca had drawn.
There it is! You beautiful woman, you!
He steeled himself with a deep breath, locked his lungs, and disappeared under the water, giving the two kicks needed to emerge unscathed on the other side.
He scurried through the water to the beach, kicked through the pebbles, and lunged at the finocchio di mare with his knife.
There’s no way this dish can exist without you . . .
Clutching a fistful of the sea fennel he dove back into the Adriatic.
‘Grazie, San Francesco. You can keep that behaviour up, thank you,’ he called to the heavens before dipping under the rocks, fennel in hand.
He re-emerged and spotted the councillor still holding his clothing by the water’s edge. The man was pacing, his expression concerned.