Chapter 38 #2
In a small glass bowl she then added five heaped tablespoons of loose ricotta, pushing it to the side so that the whey could drain from the curds.
Into the opaque liquid she dropped a few saffron threads, watching as the golden colour bled free, tangling with the whey’s milkiness.
She gave it a gentle stir before spooning it all together with the curds. It was bright and joyous . . .
Just like you, Papà. Like our Impastino sunshine.
She gave it a pinch of pepper and salt, another stir, then prodded at the saffron threads. They had done their duty.
Turning her attention back to all the fresh fennel she had picked from her garden, she began with the most pressing task – finishing the pasta itself. She started by setting a pot on the hob to boil, adding a generous amount of local sea salt to the water.
She picked through the fresh fennel fronds, snapping off the younger stems with her thumb and forefinger.
They were fine and delicate, and with care she dotted them over half the length of pasta sheet.
When she was happy with the balanced arrangement, Francesca folded the other half of the sheet up and over the fronds, as if closing a book.
Gently, with only her little fingers, she smoothed the two sides together, sandwiching the fennel fronds between them.
She lifted the pasta sheet from the board and fed it through the machine one final time. She caught it from the other end then turned her back to the bench, not wanting to give all her cards away too soon.
Francesca held up the pasta sheet to the light. It was the ideal thickness – thick enough for integrity and bite, yet thin enough to allow the sunlight to pass through it, catching the embedded fennel fronds like a stained-glass masterpiece.
Evvaiii!
She lay the pasta flat and cut out circles using the rim of her tazza della pasta as a guide.
Scooping little dollops of her ricotta mixture into the centre of every second circle of dough, she covered them all with another circle, and pressed down to seal the edges.
To continue her theme of emulating the sunshine, she proceeded to pinch the edges of each circular raviolo, creating the outward reaching rays of the sun.
‘Fifteen minutes!’ called Felice into the microphone, and Francesca stood back and took stock. At the bench next door, she caught the final turn of Elio’s pasta crank, and noted how his dough had been tinted black with cuttlefish ink.
It was bold. It was striking.
But will it be enough? Felice stressed the simplicity of this dish . . . quality over cinematic value . . .
On the spare gas burner she set down a large frying pan on low heat and added a generous cut of salted local butter, some of the crystals still suspended in its unctuous fatty glory.
She watched as it slowly began to melt. Keeping an eye on the butter, she reached for the large fennel bulb, pulled back the outer layers, then proceeded to shave a handful on a micro plane, almost wafer thin.
She tossed it all into the butter. Then she shaved down some of the greener, more tender of the stems, and those joined the butter too.
She gave the frying pan a swirl mid-air, watching the butter’s glossiness catch the fennel.
Francesca found the rosemary she had picked and dipped it into the pasta water slowly making its way to the boil.
It was only a second-long bath, but it was enough for the green of the thick, roughened leaves to brighten.
She picked each from the woody stalk, tossing them in the warm butter as well.
Despite the breeze and the pungent waft coming from Elio’s sautéing goat – whatever he was doing with it – she could smell the aniseed kick of the fennel and the comforting earthiness of the rosemary. It smelled of home and of the Impastino she knew.
‘Five minutes!’ Felice announced, and that was the moment Francesca looked up to find Elio staring at her.
She locked eyes with him, and he shot her a smarmy grin. He brought his right thumb to his lips and licked whatever was there from the tip. Then he nodded to himself, clearly convinced of his dish’s superiority.
Francesca scowled and looked instead to meek, humble San Francesco Caracciolo.
The patron saint of Italian chefs . . . but surely not of that one.
But what about the other one? Her chef? Alessio.
She hadn’t looked to the crowd since the competition had begun. She had been so focused on her task that she’d not allowed herself a single moment. And yet, with just minutes left, she suddenly feared that reconnecting with him, even with a glance, might just break her nerve.
So, instead she finished her dish.
She dropped the ravioli one by one into the boiling water, left them to cook for two minutes, then drained them before tossing them carefully through the buttery fennel sauce.
‘Ten seconds!’
Her plating was simple – six of the ravioli entwined with the sauce, sprinkled with the last of the fresh green fennel fronds.
‘Five seconds!’
A drizzle of peppery olive oil and crack of black pepper.
‘Three . . .’
It was understated, yet immaculately put together.
‘Two . . .’
Just the right balance of chef-y and awareness of its humble roots.
‘One! FINITO!’ Felice called, and the crowd answered with a roar.
And she was done.
It was then, as she passed the low-lipped white bowl to Giovanni, that she finally looked for Alessio in the crowd.
There he stood, his left arm wrapped around Maria, holding her tight, the other holding on to Elena’s arm cast. His bright eyes and sun-burnished cheeks seemed to convey all the admiration and hope he held for her in his heart.
She gave him an acknowledging nod and blew the trio a kiss.
Alessio mouthed over the top of those swarming around them, ‘Proud of you.’
She mimed catching the sentiment in her hand, before pressing it to her chest.
The sound of the brass bell drew their attention back to the stage.
Elio stepped forward and passed Giovanni his dish – a collection of rippled, curly-edged, inch-wide pasta, tinted black.
Atop the pasta sat three rounds of seared bone, exposing the gooey yet crispy-topped marrow.
Micro greens dotted the plate in just the right places, bringing a sense of harmony and balance to the otherwise darker shades of the dish.
It had been glazed with some kind of reduction, a jus, which glistened in the sunlight.
Francesca looked at their dishes side by side and felt a pit of dread open up underneath her.
It’s . . . it’s . . . immaculate.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
Precise. Clever. Stunningly beautiful with the black, the caramelised bone marrow. It’s a truly professional plating.
Felice stepped forward and gestured to Elio’s dish. ‘Elio, representing Da Martino and in contention to retain last year’s title, please explain the pasta you have created. We shall call it piatto numero uno.’
Elio took the microphone while the ever-present drumbeat and cheering of his supporters echoed around the piazza.
‘I’m calling it “Martino cord with goat marrow”.
’ Francesca looked again, noting how the lengths of pasta did indeed emulate the contorted twirls of wound cord.
‘Goat, on account of our early ties to the lower lands of the Impastino valley, where we still have grazing land. And the corda, because once you’re tied to the Impastino family, there’s nothing that can set you free.
Once Impastino, always Impastino. There’s no greater place in the world, let alone in Puglia. ’
His smile was sickly sweet but deeply disingenuous.
‘And the black, may I ask?’ Felice peered over the table to inspect the dish.
‘Representative of the town’s strength. Its boldness. The Adriatic Sea running through our veins.’
Francesca despised the way Elio nodded his head almost triumphantly. She didn’t miss the disdainful, dismissive glance he gave her own dish.
‘Grazie, Elio. Now, Francesca, tell us about the pasta you have created. We shall call it piatto numero due.’
Francesca too stepped forward, catching the microphone in her hand.
Her gaze fell on Alessio in the crowd, and his radiant smile reset her focus.
‘Grazie, Sindaco. Today I give you my “Giacomini” . . .’ A twitter of acknowledging laughter flitted through her support camp.
‘Named in memory of my father, but representing the sunshine, life and joy of Impastino. Our town lives and breathes a humility in proportion with its beauty and wonder. Impastino is both simple, yet complex. We devour the sunshine that beams down upon us when we draw food from the land. Impastino knows how to silence you with its permanence, and make you howl with pride at its beauty. And this is my interpretation of that.’
Felice placed a kind hand on her shoulder. ‘And the shape?’
She looked to her dish. ‘I have made circular ravioli, representing the sun, filled with fennel-spiked ricotta. I’ve tinted the ricotta with saffron to capture the colour of the sun’s rays.
Embedded within the pasta layers themselves are the fronds of the fennel growing in our garden.
Fennel, which is both fresh and earthy. The sauce is a reduction of local salted butter and fresh fennel, kissed with rosemary. ’
‘Why the rosemary?’
She paused. ‘. . . Because rosemary is the herb of remembrance.’
Felice’s face broke into a genuine smile. He thanked Francesca for her entry and then signalled for the dishes to be taken away for judging in the comune offices, away from the crowd.
Francesca knotted her trembling hands in a ball in her apron, remembering the wow factor of Elio’s plating. It certainly looked the part, but did it have the heart?
All she could do now was wait. She closed her eyes and cast her face to the sky, where the sun’s restoring glow washed over her.