Chapter 32 #2
Alessio’s hands moved with confident dexterity.
The fidgeting and worried haste of the first round had given way to a determined resolve, and it resonated through his fingers as they made a well in the flour on the board.
He added one teaspoon of beetroot powder to a half-glass of water, stirring it to the brightest shade of pink.
He poured the tinted water into the well and began to slowly mix in the flour using just a finger.
The pink slowly muted to a pastel shade as the flour diluted its colour, and by the time it had all been combined – with the addition of some extra water to loosen the mixture – l’impasto, the dough, was a delicate, feminine pink.
It had warm undertones of red, mimicking the natural shade of Francesca’s lips.
He caught himself smiling as his hands continued to knead the dough on his board. It was going to be just perfect, because he had the most divinely sweet inspiration.
Setting the smooth-skinned dough aside to rest, his attention turned to what would be the filling. He quickly set to work chopping and mincing the cherries, macerating them in a teaspoon of caster sugar and a splash of the vin santo.
He managed a moment to steal a quick glance over the top of his station at Sebastiano and Elio, both hard at work, and both with their hands on the local honey and cinnamon.
No. Step away. They can have them, be the point of difference.
He pushed his pot of honey and little jar of cinnamon aside, and nodded reassuringly to himself.
Into the cherry mince he added a heaped tablespoon of lusciously thick mascarpone, giving the mixture a gentle stir.
The red warmth of the cherries was subdued by the cream’s milky magic, and the pink soon matched that of the pasta dough.
He dipped the tip of his little finger into the filling and tasted it.
Sweet, but not overwhelming.
The cherry is there.
There’s the kick of the vin santo.
Just the right balance of tang from the mascarpone.
Just needs . . .
He reached for the lemon, sliced it with one deft chop and dribbled in some of the juice. He stirred and checked once again.
Got it.
But don’t get cocky.
‘Trenta minuti! You have half an hour!’ Felice announced into the microphone, and Alessio sensed both his competitors pick up speed at their stations. But he felt none of the panic.
Ok, let’s sort this pasta, then . . .
He took the elastic ball of dough into his hands and gave it a gentle squeeze, watching as the pasta sprang back to fill the imprint of his fingers. He pulled at it, stretching it into a flattened oblong, ready for its first pass through the machine.
Checking the machine was securely fastened to the bench, he adjusted the width settings and fixed the handle in place.
Then, he began. From the thickest to the second-thinnest, he cranked and wound the sheets up, over and through, time after time.
With each pass the sheets grew silkier, smoother.
The beetroot stain remained steadfast, gloriously colouring the sheet.
It was joyful and striking. Exactly what he needed.
On his final pass, Alessio pulled the sheet from the machine and lay it flat on his floured bench. He assessed both of the wooden stamps he had brought from the kitchen, and the one that spoke to him, impressing upon his heart all the wonder and desire she conjured in him, was the flower design.
Un fiore for Francesca Fiore.
Alessio pressed the stamp into one end of the length of pasta, checking for the quality of the imprint.
It left an intricately petaled flower in bloom.
Alessio was delighted, but would need to press harder for a more defined final result, as cooking the pasta would soften that sharp clarity as it swelled.
And so, he pressed and printed across the sheet until he was happy with the floral artistry.
Taking a wavy bronze-tipped cutter he prepared two matching lengths of pasta that would form the top and bottom of the large solitary raviolo.
Four by four inches would be enough for one truly decadent mouthful of Impastino’s sweetest treasure.
With ten minutes to go, as marked by another announcement from Felice, Alessio finished the raviolo by laying the two cut pasta sheets design-down on the bench.
He gathered one generous dollop of the filling and lay it in the centre of one of the sheets, placing the other on top.
With his palm he cupped the bump containing the cherry-laden filling and gently pressed down to seal the layers together, expelling any trapped air.
Alessio then carefully slid the raviolo into the pot of boiling water which bubbled away on his portable stove.
Sixty seconds. That’s it. Just cook out the flour. Short and sweet.
He watched as the raviolo dove and rose from the bottom of the pot, pushed and pulled by the current of the boiling water. Its colour had intensified slightly in the water, but that only heightened the pattern which now stole the show.
Alessio reached for a low-lipped bowl and set it to the side. With a broad slotted spoon he scooped the raviolo from the water and let it steam dry for a moment before slipping it carefully onto the bowl.
‘Cinque minuti!’ Felice cried, holding up five outstretched fingers.
Alessio looked up to see the moment Sebastiano’s fingers gave way while draining some pasta. Half the contents of his colander had spilled into the trough, with the rest dropping to the floor.
‘CAZZO!’ Sebastiano shouted, which prompted all heads to turn in his direction. While everyone watched Sebastiano fuss with the pasta, cursing himself, Alessio’s eyes flicked to catch Elio’s lips twitch into the faintest of grins.
Alessio couldn’t help but give his head a disgusted shake.
He’s meant to be your mate.
It was then that Alessio had an idea. ‘Felice!’ he called, summoning the mayor and his councillor to his station. ‘I’m nearly done here. If I finish early, am I allowed to help Sebastiano rescue his dish?’ His councillor translated.
Felice’s face contorted with confusion. ‘Help your competitor?’
‘Yes. Do the rules allow me to do that?’
‘I guess so. There’s nothing there that says you can’t. It has only ever been done once befo—’
‘Good. I’ll be finished in a moment.’
Alessio reached for a piping bag and filled it with the remaining cherry filling. He piped three generous dollops onto the plate around the raviolo, then sprinkled the dish with the pink violets, being sure to pinch off the stems before each drop.
Then, with a final drizzle of vin santo, which added a golden shimmer to the plate, catching in the valleys of the pasta’s floral decoration, he was done.
He delivered his plate carefully to the judging station, then proceeded to Sebastiano’s workbench to help in whatever way he could in the dying minutes of the contest.
Noting this move the audience cheered, and choruses of ‘Bravo, Alessio!’ and ‘Forza, Trattoria dei Fiori!’ could be heard over the top of the general cacophony.
Alessio was hardly aware of it. All he knew was that out of respect for their craft, and in the spirit of healthy sportsmanship, he must once again roll up his sleeves.
And between his broken English, shaking hands and kind smile, Alessio knew Sebastiano appreciated the support.
Sebastiano plated up what was left of his cinnamon-spiked tagliatelle, while Alessio followed his instructions, melting a knob of butter on the stove, and adding to it a generous squeeze of Impastino’s honey.
It took just seconds to come together, and with a relieved sigh, Sebastiano drizzled the warm, sweet sauce over the pasta.
Sebastiano was finished, sadly with only half the intended amount of pasta, but with most of his dignity intact.
It wasn’t until the bell rang and the competing plates were lined up for judging that it felt like Alessio could take a breath.
He gave Sebastiano a hearty pat on the back, wished him well, and then turned his eyes to the crowd, searching for Francesca.
The moment he picked her out in the front row, shaking her head at him with red blotchy eyes, her hands clasped over her cheeks, his stomach dropped.
Did I just push myself out of the competition?