Chapter 23
ventitré
The dishes had been whisked away to the comune offices for a blind tasting by the panel of five judges: two of the town’s centenarians, a married couple of eighty years, Annarita and Roberto Di Vita; a food journalist from Foggia; and two of the sitting members of Impastino’s comune government.
After what felt like an eternity, the judging panel took to the stage, with an extra-gentle helping hand for Annarita and Roberto.
The journalist handed the official envelope containing the round’s results to Giovanni, who, once content it was sealed, passed it to Felice.
Standing by the microphone, the mayor adjusted his collar and cleared his throat. ‘Carissimi, siamo pronti?’ He looked to Alessio’s councillor translator, who nodded his confirmation. They were all ready.
This revived the crowd’s passion, and the thrum of anticipation soared to the sky.
‘Eccoci!’ Felice held the envelope aloft. ‘I will share the judges’ collective comments on all four dishes before we reveal who will be eliminated from this tappa.’
Alessio could feel the beating of his pulse in his neck. He stood as tall as his frame would permit, feeling the sun dry the remnants of the seawater from his hair.
Felice began to read. ‘Piatto numero uno. Prepared by Elio Martino, representing Da Martino.’
At the announcement of his name, the chorus of Martino hand drums started up, their beat echoing around the piazza. Alessio looked at Elio, who seemed to revel in this boisterous attention. A thin grin had stretched across his lips, his head cast high and proud. Alessio bit down on a scowl.
‘A surprising dish for its simplicity, yet complex treatment of flavours. An intelligent plating of oversized orecchiette, coloured with the algae of the sea . . .’
Ugh. That was smart. Fuck.
‘And piatto numero due, by Sebastiano Bellomo on behalf of Lu Ientu . . .’ Sebastiano took a step forward and waggled his joined fists above his head.
Laughter swept through the crowd. ‘Cavatelli in a salsa of macerated lemon rind and pickled seaweed, described as a bright mouthful of the Impastino summer sun.’
Where did he get the seaweed? Did they have it in the kitchen already?
‘Piatto numero tre, by Alessio Ranieri of Trattoria dei Fiori. Noted as the most creatively presented . . .’
Alessio’s heart lurched, and his eyes met Francesca’s in the audience. She rocked back and forward on her heels, fingertips pressed to her lips. He didn’t dare break their eye contact. He needed to see how she would react to what was to come, if she hadn’t guessed already.
‘. . . Fazzoletti in a light vegetable broth, featuring whipped egg white, local peppercorns, and perhaps the most surprising ingredient of the day, finocchio di mare.’
Francesca broke into a grin as Maria leaned closer to Francesca’s side. The finocchio! She mouthed up to him, and he gave her a covert nod. The confirmation was all she needed. He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes as she clutched her hands together.
‘Is this why you took a sea bath? The finocchio marino?’ Felice asked in English, turning to face Alessio.
‘Sì. I did what had to be done.’
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Felice laughed to himself before continuing. ‘And piatto numero quattro, from Carlo Catalano and U Ssale, with his spaghetti infused with . . .’
But Alessio wasn’t listening. All he could see was Francesca, tears now rolling down her cheeks as she embraced Maria.
If he didn’t progress to the next round, something about seeing her so overcome with emotion at his very special inclusion of the sea fennel would be victory enough. He’d managed to bring Francesca and Giacomo into the competition, and he was proud of himself for doing so.
‘Here comes the most difficult part of the judging. The moment we must bid one competitor arrivederci.’
Giovanni fussed with the four of them, pulling them into a straight line, and Carlo instinctively wrapped a supportive arm around Alessio’s shoulders.
‘Grazie di cuore for your passion, for your enthusiasm.’ A cheer rolled to the stage from the crowd. ‘But leaving us this tappa, on account of his dish’s lack of creativity and what the judges agreed was a tenuous connection to the sea, is Carlo Catalano.’
Alessio felt Carlo pull from his hold. He stepped forward and shook Felice’s hand, then Giovanni’s, and gave a nod of respect to the judges. Then, dropping into a slapstick bow, he applauded his competitors as he left the stage.
The only sense of relief Alessio felt was that he had clearly pleased Francesca. Moving to the next round of the competition was simply a bonus.
A contented breath left his lips and he went to remove his chef whites. As he turned he caught the moment Sebastiano and Elio shared a dark, loaded look, before both turned to stare in Alessio’s direction.
Clearly, the competition has only just begun.
Francesca couldn’t contain herself. Once Alessio had been released from the competition and had returned to the trattoria, she pounced on him.
‘Alessio! Incrediblie! Sei stato troppo bravo! Veramente, troppo!’ She threw her arms around him, nearly winding him. ‘I can’t believe you did that! You went in the water!’ She reached up and tousled his salty hair.
Before Alessio could reply, or even acknowledge the special moment, Elena chimed in. Closing the front door, she shut out the rest of Impastino. ‘And here I was thinking that we were upholding some kind of charade.’ She gestured to the way Francesca gripped Alessio’s shoulders.
‘I’m not doing anything wrong, Mamma. We are just celebrat—’
Elena pulled the white lace voile curtains over the windows and snipped, ‘Perhaps you should do so in a more appropriate and dignified manner?’
‘Mah!’ Maria bustled past Elena and joined in the group hug.
Francesca squeezed him tighter. ‘I am so proud of you! You were brilliant today.’ The space in her chest which had previously held all her tension and worry now effervesced with joy and hope.
She stepped back to take stock of him, holding his hand at arm’s reach.
‘You are now a true member of the Trattoria dei Fiori family, and of Impastino.’
Francesca turned to welcome Elena into the shared embrace, only to notice where her mother’s stare had landed – on Giacomo’s silk scarf. A knot looped around Francesca’s stomach.
‘That was my husband’s, you know?’ Elena’s voice shook as she gestured to the scarf.
Alessio pressed a hand to the scarf before respectfully removing it and giving it a quick fold against his chest. He proffered it to her and said, ‘Yes. Francesca told me about the long legacy. I hope I did it justice.’
Francesca’s eyes darted between the two, her stomach turning another revolution.
Elena paused for a moment, her gaze settling on the scarf. ‘You did. Believe it or not . . .’
Both Francesca and Maria straightened.
‘Uhm . . . thank you, Elena. I appreciate that.’ Alessio’s outstretched hand still filled the space between them, the scarf symbolic of all the weight of Giacomo’s passing and the unfillable void he had left behind. ‘Why don’t you hold on to this until the next round?’
Francesca watched the rise and fall of Elena’s chest as she considered this.
‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘You keep it. Some of Giacomo’s kitchen magic might just rub off on you between now and then.’
Francesca blinked disbelievingly. This was a momentous step for Elena, a grand gesture of support, no matter how curt or uncomfortable the delivery.
‘Mamma . . .’ she said softly, turning to throw her arms around Elena.
Although her mother had been caught off guard, Francesca did feel Elena’s arms wrap around her to return the hug. Right now, this was enough.
Elena cleared her throat, and with what Francesca could see were eyes on the verge of tears, she said, ‘We have dinner service to prepare for. Congratulations, Alessio. But now life must go on.’
Alessio nodded. ‘Sure. Thank you.’
Just as Francesca turned to suffocate Alessio with another hearty embrace, Elena added, ‘The finocchio di mare . . .’ Her eyes came to rest gently on Francesca.
‘That was a thoughtful touch, no matter how foolish you looked up there, sopping wet like a fishing net. Mamma, dai, in cucina.’ Elena took Maria by the arm and whisked her through the swinging doors.
Alone in the dining room, Francesca gripped the front of Alessio’s shirt to pull him towards her and whispered, ‘Are you ok? How did it feel up there?’
Alessio grinned down at her. ‘Fucking amazing. I loved every second.’
Looking straight into his eyes, she said quietly, ‘You took my broken heart and put it back together today. Grazie.’
Alessio wrapped his arms around her lower back, and the feel of Giacomo’s silk scarf tickled her skin. ‘I think it was you who did that for me.’
In breathy, hushed tones, she said, ‘Meet me on the terrazzo at ten once I’m done with service. We need to celebrate this properly.’
Alessio’s hold on her tightened and his moist lips grazed the delicate skin behind her ear. ‘For you, I’ll be there.’