Chapter 38
trentotto
Felice signalled for the round’s paperwork, and Giovanni supplied it with a dramatic flourish. Settling the documents on the lectern Felice stepped up on his stool and flicked through the papers one by one.
Francesca watched on, curious, as Felice kept going, seemingly unable to find something. He checked again, then reordered the papers and shook his head.
Something’s not right. Has something been tampered with? Is it something to do with the break-in?
Felice summoned Giovanni to his side and the pair proceeded to whisper. Francesca strained to hear, picking up ‘task outline’ and ‘theme’.
Someone was looking for information about today’s challenge! Someone thought Alessio was a real threat! There’s only one person that could be . . .
The men nodded furiously between themselves, then Giovanni retreated, taking all the original paperwork with him, but not without casting a disapproving glance Elio’s way.
That look! That’s it!
Francesca, now wearing Giacomo’s apron, his chef’s jacket and his red and white striped silk scarf tied around her high curly bun, kept a watchful eye on Elio. The crowd, aware now that something was amiss, had taken to shouting their questions to the stage.
Clearing his throat, Felice raised his hands for silence and ad-libbed, ‘We have had to make some last-minute . . . tweaks, but all is well. The final tappa of this year’s competition is all about our roots and traditions. Impastino’s history. The town’s identity. What makes Impastino so unique.’
Francesca watched as Elio’s head snapped around in response.
Not what you thought you’d be cooking today, hmm?
Francesca felt a surge of confidence.
She knew these lands like the back of her hand.
The thirsty valley. The lapping waves of the Adriatic.
Her father had taught her everything she knew.
They had explored together, foraged and tasted together.
Giacomo had shown her the way, and now it was up to Francesca to translate that on the plate. Her way.
‘Your challenge is a simple one.’ Felice turned for a moment to acknowledge Francesca and Elio behind him.
‘But don’t let its simplicity lull you into a false sense of security.
’ He raised an eyebrow playfully to the townsfolk.
‘You must invent your own pasta shape representative of the Impastino lands. The dish may be sweet, savoury, whatever your heart desires. But – it must represent Impastino. Understood?’
Francesca nodded, casting a look to her left. Elio didn’t so much as flinch, let alone respond to Felice’s instructions. In fact, his expression was totally flat. Deflated.
‘And following the usual proceedings for the final tappa, this round will be based on a points system. Up to five are awarded for taste. Another five for plating and presentation. And a final five for interpretation of the theme. Fifteen in total. In the event of a tie, we have an impartial judge on stand-by for a blind tasting, whose assessment will decide the matter. Giovanni, an hour please.’ The ever-faithful Giovanni already had the timer poised mid-air.
‘Together!’ he welcomed into the microphone, and the people of Impastino joined him in a raucous chorus. ‘Tre . . . due . . . uno . . . VIA!’
With that, Elio bounded from the stage and darted through the crowd that had gathered in support of him in front of Da Martino. The drums continued to thump, but Francesca simply ignored them.
Grinning, she took a step forward and called out to her supporters, ‘Thank you so much! I owe you all a coffee!’
A trill of laughter rippled through the crowd and they parted for her as well. She stepped from the stage and set off across the piazza, the comune-assigned councillor in tow.
She didn’t run. She was thinking hard.
Impastino. Impastino. The lands of Impastino . . .
Despite her smile and the concentration which guided her feet, one word and one word alone filled her heart.
Papà.
Francesca knelt down by the fennel patch, setting her collection tray down by her side. She assessed the lush green and yellow foliage, the fronds and stalks, reaching upwards towards the sun.
In the very spot where her father had taken his last breath, she took her first steps in the competition.
With a sharp knife she gathered bundles of the frond-tops, as well as some of the younger stalks, coloured enough to have matured for their taste, yet juvenile enough to be tender to the bite. Then she pushed her fingers around in the soil, assessing each of the white bulbs for their size.
She hoicked one from the patch, exposing its tangled web of soil-laden roots.
‘You’re coming with me.’ With two sharp slashes of the knife, she stripped the fennel bulb of its base and stalks.
She darted to a tap on the lower level of the garden and gave the bulb a good wash.
‘The soil stays here!’ she called up to the councillor, who nodded, collecting the tray and knife.
‘Andiamo!’ she called, collecting a few sprigs of rosemary on her way through.
Back in the trattoria’s kitchen she added to her collection: ‘00’ flour; semolina; saffron threads; salted butter; a small plastic tub of fresh ricotta; some dried fennel seeds, plus, of course, her little tazza della pasta.
Francesca looked to the wall above the workbench and stopped short, her heart skipping a beat.
Oh no! Where is it?! He’s gone!
She turned in a daze, only to find the councillor already holding the picture of San Francesco Caracciolo. ‘For luck,’ he said with a wink, and the pair shared a giggle before returning to the piazza.
The sun bathed the stage with its resonating heat, permeating even the PVC shade overhead.
As one o’clock neared, the shadows began to lengthen, but the sun’s rays still caught the backs of Francesca’s bare legs as she stood by her workstation. She could feel the sting of the burn building, but kept her hands and mind busy on her task. A little sunburn was the least of her concerns.
Just as she decided on the final knead of her egg dough, a cry from Elio’s supporters broke her attention.
Francesca looked up to see Elio finally return to the stage with his councillor.
They each carried a tray of ingredients and utensils, and a leg of goat was flung dramatically over Elio’s shoulder.
With a slimy grin he nodded to Francesca before turning to his crowd of followers.
For good – and dramatic measure – he pulled the leg from his shoulder, slamming it down hard on the metal surface of his workbench.
The implements and accessories all rattled and, clearly delighted with the melodrama of the moment, Elio feigned rolling up invisible sleeves, cricked his neck and stretched out his fingers.
Out came a meat cleaver and BANG, the leg was split in two, bone and all.
Clearly, in Elio’s mind, today was just for show. Frustratingly for Francesca, he regarded this competition as a mere formality, an annoying stepping stone to his second title.
Don’t underestimate me just yet . . .
She couldn’t care less about the culinary fate of the goat leg, or whatever else Elio was about to concoct just a metre or two in front of her.
But what was unsettling was that this time, this round, their workstations faced each other, their splashbacks pushed back to back. If she looked up, he was there.
No, head down. Focus on the pasta. Focus on you now!
She divided her dough in two and flattened one mass in her palm so that its size and shape would pass through the pasta machine.
In it went for the first press. She pulled it out, doubled it over on itself, put it through again.
Then again. She tightened the machine one notch, and back through went the dough.
Over and over. She lost herself to the rhythm of the machine, the crank and the smooth metal.
It soothed something inside her. And as the pasta sheet continued to flatten and lengthen, the initial thoughts she had for the dish began to sharpen in her mind.
CLANG!
The cleaver came down on the benchtop once again, more loudly this time.
She didn’t look up, knowing that this was all for theatrics. It was textbook ‘Elio Martino’.
She dusted her wooden pasta board with a swish of semolina and lay the pasta sheet down on top, careful not to fold or bunch the edges.
‘Is that your game face?’ she heard Elio murmur over the top of their splashbacks.
‘Go away.’
‘That’s not very neighbourly.’
She scoffed. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’
The cleaver smashed down again twice in quick succession. ‘Ooofft. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I have no interest in beating your banter.’
‘Wasn’t talking about the banter.’
She could just imagine the snide, condescending look on his face. What she wanted to do was pull the crank from her machine and clobber him with it. But common sense prevailed and she simply kept going.
As she turned to look for the fennel seeds, she caught a glimpse of the picture of San Francesco. She noted how his right hand was pressed humbly and mercifully across his chest.
Humble. Merciful . . . simple . . . like Papà.
The buffoon across from her had none of the integrity and spirit of the man who had raised her in the kitchen. Giacomo’s kind, guiding hands and encouraging words, the gentle way he showed her what to do, that was her father. And that was the continuing spirit of Impastino.
She forced Elio from the periphery of her consciousness, blocking out his cruel words and taunting tricks.
To the dish . . .
Francesca pulverised a few dried fennel seeds to powder with the mortar and pestle. She made sure each pound of the pestle against the well of the mortar echoed the hammering of Elio’s meat cleaver.