Chapter 32
trentadue
While the stakes felt higher this time, Alessio felt far more prepared for what was to come today. Not simply because he now understood the mechanics of the contest, but because he had truly sussed out his competition.
Standing on the erected stage, arranged this time with three workstations instead of four, Alessio’s eyes came to land on his competitors.
Sebastiano. Skill level, high. Creativity, mediocre. Plays it safe. A follower.
Elio. Arsehole status, confirmed. Skill level, expert. Creativity, high. To be watched.
Then Alessio found Francesca in the front row, and she gave him a confident nod which read, You’ve got this!
Felice Lorusso and the trusty Giovanni took to the stage, both dabbing their glistening foreheads with a handkerchief despite being under the temporary PVC cover’s shade.
Today, the blistering August sun showed no mercy to the assembled crowd, which was just as numerous as it had been for the first round, if not more so.
But with the mercury nudging thirty-five degrees at midday, only a brave few stood in the direct sunlight.
‘Impastino, ci sei?’ Felice called out.
The reception he received was joyous and raucous. Banners and flags in colours matching the restaurant teams’ silk scarves were waved through the air, and each restaurant frontage was dressed with matching ribbons and balloons.
The thrum of life and energy in the piazza was intoxicating. As confetti flew through the air and streamers with dancing tails unfurled, Alessio caught himself smiling.
All this for the love of pasta . . .
Of course he knew that was a reductive way of looking at the festival.
For Impastino, the festa was clearly about so much more than just celebrating pasta.
But Alessio realised it now meant something to him, too.
He felt invested. He wanted to do well. And not just for Francesca and her father’s legacy.
He knew he could smash this out to sea for himself, as well.
Alessio felt all this and more. It was a delicious, effervescent energy, reminiscent of the fiery passion he had once known and thrived on in his kitchen at Wicker – before it had become toxic and burned him to the ground.
But something about the scene here in Impastino – the townsfolk, the atmosphere, the thrilling challenge ahead of him – provided the kindling for a new, healthier kind of fire. And Alessio was ready for the first sparks to catch.
‘Round two! La seconda tappa!’ Felice announced into the microphone, while Giovanni tried to quieten the crowd with futile flapping hands.
The councillor returned to Alessio’s side to translate, and they shared a respectful handshake.
Felice continued, ‘Today we have prepared a very special challenge for our expert sfoglini.’ He turned to grin at the three men standing a few feet behind him by their workstations. ‘Are you ready for the task?’
While Alessio and Elio nodded, Sebastiano cried, ‘More than ready to trample these two!’ He reached over and pulled Elio into a playful headlock, drawing an eruption of laughter from the crowd.
‘Ragazzi!’ Felice snapped, not appreciating Sebastiano’s joke.
Once he had righted himself, Elio muttered something in indecipherable Italian under his breath to Sebastiano. But Alessio read the tone loud and clear: Now’s not the time!
‘And so it is with the greatest pleasure that I officially open today’s challenge.’ The chatter and cheering of Impastino’s locals finally diminished to a low murmur. ‘Our town may be small, but what it lacks in size it more than makes up for in spirit, life and dolce vita . . .’
Alessio’s eyes found Francesca’s again, and they shared a look of confusion. Where was Felice going with this?
‘La dolce vita, no? Il dolce far niente. The sweet, slow life is what draws so many visitors to Italy each and every year, and many to our town. We have it all. The coast. The beach. The Adriatic. Our agricultural plains. Our wild, untameable hillside charm. And we get to enjoy it all year round. Our life in Impastino is a very sweet one.’ He emphasised that one loaded word.
Sweet. It’s a dessert pasta!
Alessio’s bloodstream flooded with adrenaline, the kick of which he felt immediately. A flurry of confused thoughts, nonsensical brainstorming, rushed at him, and he suddenly felt unsteady on his feet.
No, breathe. You don’t know the details yet. One step at a time. Just listen to the instructions.
Felice’s voice sharpened. ‘Your challenge today is un pasto dolce. A sweet dish.’
Sebastiano was unable to hide his disappointment. He threw his hands in the air, incredulous, his stance tense. Elio’s first reaction had been a sly sideways glance at Alessio, which Alessio registered but didn’t return.
None of what happened around him mattered. All he could focus on was Felice’s lips, which now seemed to move in slow motion as Alessio processed the task ahead.
‘. . . Sì! Our first ever pasto dolce challenge!’ Felice beamed at the crowd, now dotted with expressions of intrigue and curiosity.
‘You will have one hour only. Again, you will be chaperoned by the comune’s councillors to fetch what you need from your restaurants.
Then, with whatever time remains, you will create a dish which responds to the following statement.
’ He let a long pause linger, clearly enjoying having the townspeople hang on his every word.
But Alessio wanted it out of him. ‘The sweetest thing in Impastino is . . .’ He checked his watch and started the timer Giovanni proffered. ‘You have one hour. Via!’
The sweetest thing?
Alessio turned and propped himself on outstretched arms on his mobile workbench.
Sweetest?
He tried to reach past the adrenaline and focus solely on his palate. What was uniquely ‘Impastino’, but also sweet?
The grapes. The sultanas.
Cinnamon.
Pine nuts.
The flora-infused honey.
The sea air . . .
Yesterday’s vision of Francesca bringing a delicately fuzzed peach to the tip of her nose tore through his focus.
Peaches? No.
Then it was a mouthful of the honey-caramel-coated popcorn of the night before, and the way she had licked the tips of her fingers between nibbles.
No. This isn’t the time.
Dried figs.
Golden spiked fichi d’India, picked and consumed still sun-warm.
The image of Francesca reaching up to pick the cherries by the roadside fluttered temptingly across his mind.
One for the basket, one for her perfectly luscious li—
Alessio’s eyes flicked open and he bolted from the stage, pulling his councillor along behind him.
With his tray at the ready, Alessio surveyed Trattoria dei Fiori’s kitchen to see what he had at his disposal.
He grabbed the ‘00’ flour and Francesca’s tazza della pasta. An egg-less pasta base was what he needed. Lighter, in both colour and in the mouth.
And colour? Colour . . .
He knew what he needed, but where did they keep it?
He rummaged through drawers, pushed past containers and tins.
He reached beyond all the tubs, cans and packets at the front of the shelves and drawers, but what he desperately needed he couldn’t find.
He felt his blood pressure rise and perspiration break out across his back and chest.
Don’t lose your focus now . . . grab everything else!
He plucked a thick-skinned lemon from the countertop basket by the herbs and nestled it against the flour.
He collected cinnamon, a pot of honey. Then it was across to the fridge, the councillor in his wake.
Out came a tub of mascarpone cheese and the last of the cherries they had collected on a dedicated trip two days earlier.
He counted them, carefully checking them with his fidgety fingers.
More than a dozen. Plenty!
He closed the fridge and moved to the bottle store unit, up against the opposite wall. Sweet. What was sweet here? Moscato?
Ugh. Sickly . . . cloying. Loose on the palate.
Just as his nerve was about to shatter, he spotted a small bottle of vin santo.
Fuck yes! Sweet, yes. Smooth, yes. Complex.
Tucking the bottle of dessert wine under his arm, he plucked San Francesco’s picture from the wall once more – because why break with tradition now?
Then his eyes scoured the countertop. Onto the tray he dropped the collection of bronze-tipped pasta cutters and wooden pasta stamps, having chosen the two he felt most suited the dish he had in mind – the decorative sun print and the blooming flower stamps.
Time would tell which he would eventually use.
‘Come on, Francesco,’ he murmured to their inanimate protector. ‘Where’s the beetroot powder?’ He made for the collection of small clay canisters on the wheeled trolley. One by one he turned their labels outwards. Salts. Spices. Dyes. Dried herbs. And . . .
‘Barbabietola!’ He removed the stopper, tilted the canister so that some of the pink-burgundy powder tipped into his palm.
‘This is brilliant,’ he called to his councillor, who nodded excitedly, but probably had no idea what Alessio meant.
The canister hit the tray, and Alessio reached for an empty jar he found sitting by the sink.
He gave it a rinse, then said, ‘Outside! Let’s go. ’
At the very bottom of the garden, Alessio stooped low to sift through the edible flowers Francesca grew in the cooler pockets of the vegetable patch.
He picked only the pink-coloured violets with white dotted hearts, collecting five or six.
He dropped them into the empty jar, then picked one extra purple one.
He walked over to the councillor and pushed the flower’s stem into the man’s shirt pocket, leaving the delicate petaled bloom to playfully poke out.
‘Enjoy, my friend. Just for you!’ Alessio gave his arm a reassuring pat before adding, ‘I’m done.
Finito. I’ve got a competition to win!’ And with that, the two bolted back to the piazza with their goodies.