He scanned the square. He couldn’t help himself; the presence of the town’s other three restaurants had piqued his interest.
Don’t worry about them. Find the ocean . . . Look for the wat—
But his heart challenged that little voice and his fingers couldn’t help but fidget by his sides. He was curious to know what was served in this little hilltop pugliese town; to pick through the fritto misto, to flick through the menus. Antipasti. Primi. Secondi. Contorni. Dolci . . .
That glimmer of inquisitiveness extended to the wine list, the drinks, the aperitifs . . .
Alessio salivated.
No. Turn it off.
He turned determinedly towards the sea – mare, indicated by the blue waves and red arrow pointing down a path beside the Da Martino restaurant – but his heart drew him to the first of the other restaurants, sitting perpendicular to Trattoria dei Fiori.
Alessio walked over to the front window and read the painted cursive on the glass. Lu Ientu. He repeated the name aloud a number of times, trying to get his tongue around the ien. ‘Lu Ientu.’ It was familiar; he could hear his Nonna Immacolata’s voice pad out the syllables in his childhood memories. Her fussing about the garden while the chickens pecked at her feet. Cursing the change of weather, pulling clothes from the washing line. ‘Lu ientu.’ He was almost sure but had to check, so he got out his phone and Googled it. After a few taps he knew for certain: ‘Lu ientu. Il vento. The wind. Pugliese dialect.’ He couldn’t help but grin. Perhaps the language barrier wouldn’t be as difficult as he had imagined.
Something about that moment bolstered Alessio. He suddenly felt he might be able to connect with this little town and its people as he searched for answers about his nonna’s past.
He stepped forward and leaned his forearm against the glass of the window beside the menu which had been taped flat on the inside. Assisted by the light from his phone, his eyes scanned . . .
Antipasti of local olives, grilled vegetables, fried cheeses . . .
Then, a list of four or five primi. First courses.
His eyes narrowed in on the fine text. All pasta dishes, made in-house. A few secondi, main courses, with desserts, dolci, listed as, Check the day’s menu.
While Alessio was a fan of a concise, well-structured menu, the fact that this restaurant only served variations of pasta as a first course seemed odd.
He walked across to Da Martino, which was situated opposite Trattoria dei Fiori. Again, he scanned the menu. Here, too, there was a preference for pasta as a first course. There was something more to the choices offered here, though. Da Martino’s menu boasted ‘la pasta superiore del paese’. He could deduce what that meant. Superiore. That was a big call. Plus, the pasta dishes were named after men.
Orecchiette di Elio.
Troccoli di Tommaso.
Sagne ‘ncannulate di Giovanni . . .
Alessio cupped his hands to the sides of his face and pressed his nose to the glass, trying to see inside the restaurant. A light left on in the open-plan kitchen illuminated some of the interior décor. To the right, pinned high on the wall, were a collection of six weightlifting belts and a few pairs of tangled boxing gloves. Beside them a tall glass case displayed several trophies. The wall to the left was bare and led to a corridor, while the reception area was dominated by a wooden pedestal, upon which sat a large reservations book.
Then Alessio noticed something a little odd. A rolling pin, enclosed in a glass box, sat atop a bench which separated the reception space from the kitchen. There was something written on it, but given the distance and low light, Alessio couldn’t make out what it said.
Why would anyone put a rolling pin in a display case?
Then, the vast collection of rolling pins mounted on Trattoria dei Fiori’s wall returned to his mind. Twenty or thirty of them. But this restaurant had just the one.
His focus was broken by a noise which resembled wooden chair legs shifting on tiles. Alessio cast a cursory look over both shoulders but couldn’t see another soul. He did just hear that, right? Or was it simply the wind playing with an untethered window shutter? Suddenly self-conscious, Alessio backed away and crossed the piazza, making his way to the final restaurant, U Ssale. This, too, he could understand. ‘The Salt’. And again, in dialect.
With its sky-blue striped awnings still pulled out across the outdoor seating, U Ssale had a maritime feel. A disused buoy emblazoned with the restaurant’s name had been affixed next to the double-fronted doors. By the stoop sat a little water bowl for dogs, featuring a skull and crossbones decal, and Alessio chuckled.
A wooden box screwed into the render just beneath the buoy held a series of laminated menus, and Alessio helped himself to one, holding it up in the direction of the moonlight.
Starfish, coral and seashells decorated the menu’s borders. Finding the primi, Alessio saw that yet again only pasta dishes were on offer. But in the case of U Ssale, these were only of the seafood variety.
Alessio replaced the menu and made his way back across the piazza to the path that led to the beach. From here he could see the Adriatic Sea, rippling in flowing waves that lapped at the pebbled shore below. A stone-lined path marked the way down to the water, but the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to ensure a secure walk down to the beach, so Alessio decided against it.
He leaned instead against the wooden railing, allowing the breeze to flow past him and tousle his chestnut-brown hair. It felt reviving. Energising. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet brininess, feeling the fatigue, his anxiety and his many concerns about being in Impastino dissipate. Maybe coming here had been a good idea after all.
Blinking his heavy eyelids open, he suddenly felt ready for sleep again. Alessio had travelled enough to know it would take a few days to find that new circadian rhythm, and he would take all the sleep he could get. Making his way back to Trattoria dei Fiori, he unlocked the front door and let himself inside.
quattro
