Chapter 39
trentanove
Felice accepted the sealed envelope from Giovanni and Francesca felt her lungs tighten, as if pulled together by a drawstring.
Then, aided by Francesca’s councillor, the judging panel stepped up on the stage.
Of the five, three gasped upon seeing Francesca there by Elio. The other two exchanged puzzled looks.
‘I will explain everything later. Over a large glass of wine,’ Felice explained, away from the microphone.
‘Perhaps a bottle. Or two?’ Giovanni added, and those closest to the stage laughed.
Now facing the townsfolk, Felice beamed and held the envelope high in the air.
‘Let’s read the individual feedback on both dishes before we announce the winner and award this year’s Mattarello d’Onore.
’ From under the lectern he withdrew an ornately carved wooden rolling pin, and Francesca’s eyes fixed themselves to the prize, stealing all her focus and nerve.
You’re not getting a second one of these, Elio. This one is for me, Papà and Alessio.
The crowd roared and banners and ribbons danced through the breeze.
Felice withdrew two sheets of paper and began reading from the first. ‘“Piatto numero uno. We, the judging panel, were impressed by the precision and execution of this dish. It is striking and bold, confident and self-assured . . .”’
Seeing Elio glow through this ego rub, Francesca tried to tune out. She looked to Alessio in the mass of Impastino’s locals, and he mouthed again, ‘Proud of you.’ She forced a smile through her nerves.
‘“While the flavours were balanced and the plating was creative . . .”’
Francesca’s adrenaline peaked.
While . . . while? While is just another way of saying ‘but’ . . .
‘“. . . there was something missing from this dish. It was very rich and heavy on the palate . . .”’
The smugness of Elio’s earlier demeanour flickered for a moment and he clasped his hands tightly behind his back.
Oh my God . . .
‘“It lacked a freshness. A liveliness. While delicious and presented with expert precision, we think this to be an area for improvement. Understanding how Impastino inspired this dish was difficult to place without specific context. Despite this, overall, this dish was an excellent entry by a master chef.” Now, the points: four for flavour. Five for plating and presentation. Four for its handling of the theme. Thirteen points!’ While cheering broke out across the piazza, Francesca steeled herself with a deep breath.
Felice moved on. ‘“Piatto numero due. This dish seemed flatter . . .”’
Francesca’s heart seized and her eyes locked with Alessio’s. All she could do was focus on the words and let everything else blur into the background. There was Alessio. That’s all that mattered.
‘“. . . yes, flatter. But far more intelligent.”’
Alessio’s brows rose as his eyes widened. He gave her a reassuring nod, and she broke from their connection to face Felice.
‘“While not as bold and boastful as its competitor, piatto numero due was expertly realised with subtlety and deft consideration of the land . . .”’
Francesca stood deathly still, paralysed with dread, and yet at these words she felt a flicker of hope. She took in another breath.
‘“. . . layered with consistency in its flavours. The numerous appearances of the fennel in different forms. The ricotta and the butter sauce, a delightful creaminess against the aniseed of the fennel.”’
Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe.
‘“We appreciated the care and attention paid to the flavours. The nuanced details in the plating best represented the love and dedication placed in this dish. It was an elevated, more refined version of homely comforting cooking.”’
She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax.
‘“However . . .”’
Uh-oh! Another dressed-up ‘but’ . . .
‘“Despite the well-versed play of flavours, and the Impastino story so clearly built into the fennel narrative, this dish lacked the show value of piatto numero uno.”’
What about the scoring?
Francesca felt light-headed with nerves. She gripped the sides of her face, her fingertips shaking against her temples. She saw Alessio looking at her calmly, and remembered to breathe.
‘The scores. Awarded for flavour, five points!’
Francesca closed her eyes.
‘For plating and presentation . . . four points!’
Her eyes opened, scanning the sky for distraction.
‘And before we announce the winner, I must thank you both.’ Felice turned to Francesca and Elio, smiling broadly.
‘Grazie mille. Your participation, and the participation of your establishments in this long-standing tradition of ours, form part of the backbone of our beautiful town. And we should also thank and acknowledge your competitors, Carlo Catalano and Sebastiano Bellomo.’
A short, sharp applause broke out in the piazza, but was quickly absorbed back into the audience’s silent impatience. Francesca joined in the clapping, noting the clamminess of her palms.
‘E allora . . . the winner . . .’
Just smile, no matter what happens.
‘. . . of this year’s Festa della Pasta . . .’
You did your best. That alone is worthy of something. Papà would be proud of you.
‘. . . with a dish the judges say moved them with its attention to detail . . .’
And for that alone, you have already won.
‘Francesca Fiore, with five points awarded for theme!’
Francesca’s vision blurred as the townsfolk erupted into an almighty roar, and she felt the stage tremble under her feet.
‘Wh-what?’ She turned and Felice caught her hands between his, thrusting the wooden rolling pin into her grasp.
In spite of the noise, in spite of the chaos and mayhem, he tucked himself close to her ear and whispered, ‘Bravissima! You beat him by one.’
There was no restraining Alessio.
He pushed his way through the crowd and hoisted himself up onto the stage, making a beeline for Francesca.
Still dazed, she was only just turning away from Felice, so when Alessio charged towards her and lifted her up into the air with all his might, he could feel the breath leave her lungs as she melted into him.
‘You did it! You did it!’ He squeezed her tighter, and she wound her legs securely around his waist. Together they bounced and jumped on the spot, the rolling pin dropping to the stage floor behind them.
‘You fucking did it! I knew you could!’ Alessio nuzzled into her neck, catching all her warmth and the familiarity of her sweet scent at once.
Having succumbed to tears, she could only nod back into his chest. ‘I am so proud of you. So proud! You have no idea how proud!’
After a moment Francesca pulled back from his grasp, legs still wound around his hips. She pressed her forehead against his, searching for balance. Her voice broke as she said, ‘Grazie, Ale . . .’
‘For what? This was you. All you. It always was!’
‘You . . . you gave me the opportunity when no one else would.’
His eyes traced her sun-kissed face, and all he found there was beauty, illuminated by that bright spark of passion present in everything she did.
The invisible inner beauty which permeated all she laid her hands on.
The outer beauty, which tugged at his soul beyond all reason and comprehension.
The kind of beauty he had never before experienced in the flesh, but now depended on like a drug.
Those magnetic engulfing eyes. Her luscious curves that moulded to his naked form, wrapping him in comfort and security.
The familiar feel of her delicate fingers tracing territorial lines over his bare skin, marking what was now hers.
How could any woman have conquered him so deftly, so quickly, so that all he could focus on was her?
Now that there was no reason to keep up their charade, Alessio could no longer subdue the most primal need he felt for her. There, in front of the entire town, her family and friends, and the ghosts and shadows of their ancestors, Alessio dipped Francesca in his arms and kissed her.
He felt her hands cling to him, initially from the shock, then claw at him with want. It was electrifying, casting all care and what-ifs to the universe and feeling her answer the rhythm of his passion and match his thrum of desire.
Hot. Prickles. Tingles and flames.
Alessio felt her lips smile against his as the raucous applause of the crowd brought them back to the moment.
‘Can’t I just keep you here?’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘Just a moment longer?’
He felt her flinch in his hold, then she looked squarely into his eyes and drew him closer. ‘Keep me forever . . .’
Her eyes trapped his long enough to tell him that this moment was different. She seemed to look past what had come before and was staring deep into something new. But just as she pulled him down another inch to catch his mouth once more, Alessio felt her coming free from his grip.
The stage had flooded with Impastino locals who prised Francesca from him. She was hoisted onto shoulders and paraded around the piazza, wrapped in the trattoria’s red and white striped banners and ribbons. Alessio’s eyes never left her.
His insides buzzed for her, for them, and for the day’s outcome. He wasn’t lying when he’d said he was proud. It was beyond anything he had known: a redemptive pride that he extended to his own return to the kitchen.
Watching her bounce through the rippling waves of hands and shoulders ready to catch her, his heart swelled.
He turned to his left, assuming Elio would still be there on the stage. But there was no sign of him or his supporters; nothing to show for his participation in the final tappa save his messy kitchen station and a few black and blue banners strewn underfoot.
Alessio let out a sigh of relief. Now was the time to celebrate and forget about the petty Martino bullsh—
Celebrate . . .
A delicious thought germinated in his mind’s eye as he watched Francesca over by the tabaccheria, still perched on someone’s shoulders.
Celebrate?
Just as Felice passed by him on the stage, Alessio reached out to grab him and called for the translating councillor to join them. ‘Felice! Erm . . . Sindaco!’
‘Sì?’ Felice stopped short as his shirt was pulled, then turned and, seeing who it was, he grinned.
‘Sorry!’ Alessio said, flattening down the front of Felice’s shirt. ‘Can I – I mean, we – please have the piazza tonight?’
Perhaps Felice could read the twinkle in Alessio’s eyes and the heightened colour in his already deeply olive skin. ‘What are you thinking?’ His crooked smile read: playful plotting ahead.
‘I want to host a dinner for Francesca tonight. Here in the piazza. Anyone can come along. Bring your own table, chairs and dysfunctional families.’
Giovanni’s head popped over the top of Felice’s shoulder. ‘A permit will be requi—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Felice snorted. ‘History has been made here in Impastino today. Please go ahead. And no, no permits required.’
‘Amazing. Grazie mille. I’ll whip around town this afternoon and gather what I can. I’m happy for all restaurants to cook for and support this. Even them.’ His chin flicked in the direction of Da Martino. ‘Or people can bring their own food . . .’
‘Fantastico! Ottimo! We can leave the stage here! I’ll ask the concerto band and the choir to play. And there’s the Mazzucchelli boy . . .’ He turned to Giovanni. ‘The one who was once a DJ in Foggia in the eighties . . .’ Giovanni nodded, taking notes.
‘On one condition, Alessio.’ Felice’s expression became serious.
‘What’s that?’
‘Giovanni and I get to sit at the head table.’
Alessio broke into laughter. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’
Felice reached for the microphone and cut through the noise.
‘Impastino, join us here in the piazza for dinner tonight to close the festa! Bring your chairs and tables! Bring something to share! Come one, come all! Just come hungry!’ Another cheer soared skyward from the crowd.
‘We have much to celebrate in Francesca’s honour! ’
They shook hands and Felice, Giovanni and the councillor continued on their way.
Yes! This was what success felt like. It had been so long since Alessio had been able to revel in victory. It felt buoyant and joyous and positive.
And there was Francesca, now walking back across the piazza with a crowd in tow, in the direction of the stage. The applause continued to follow her and, even at a distance, she seemed to glow.
Now twenty metres or so away, she stopped and called out, ‘Alessio Ranieri!’
‘Sì, Francesca Fiore?’
‘I think we have a kiss to finish!’
He jumped from the stage and the crowd roared.
With each step he took, his mind conjured up vignettes from the past almost three months.
Sophia the Fiat 500. The Secret Life of Pasta nights.
The knuckle--whitening tension. The smell of her hair.
The tazza della pasta politics. Her hips.
Her thighs. The fusillo tattoo on her breast. That photo tag on Instagram with the watermelon smile . . .
Just as she caught him with passionate open arms, James’s WhatsApp response – Jesus Christ, mate. You’re in trouble – chimed in his memory.
I’m not in trouble. I’m right where I need to be.