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?
trentatré
Alessio should have been concentrating on the culminating moments of the day’s competition. But all he could think was that his well-intentioned actions had inadvertently upset Francesca and potentially cost him a place in the final round.
He wanted to jump from the stage and run to her, but that would pull apart the carefully curated layers of their narrative, and at this point he couldn’t risk it.
So, he held the remainder of his nerve and focused on his breathing, trying to tune in to what Felice was saying.
‘Grazie,’ Felice began, lulling the crowd back to silence. His voice rattled into the microphone, raspy from overuse. ‘Elio Martino, on behalf of Da Martino, has submitted the following dish: orecchiette with cacao and honey.’ This was met with wolf-whistles and the deep beating of the Martino drums. ‘Sebastiano Bellomo, on behalf of Lu Ientu, has submitted a dish of tagliatelle with cinnamon and honey . . .’ Perhaps on account of his mishap, Sebastiano received a raucous applause.
Both honey-based, and both not particularly creative, Alessio told himself hopefully.
‘And Alessio Ranieri, on behalf of Trattoria dei Fiori, has submitted his raviolo with cherry, mascarpone and vin santo.’ A ripple of oohs flitted across the crowd, and Alessio took that as a good sign.
