‘This was not how it was meant to happen . . .’ Elio growled, softly enough so that only those on the stage could hear.
Felice turned away from the microphone and looked him square in the eye. ‘People will go to great lengths to try to get their way. Some break the rules, while others simply break in.’
Francesca squeezed Alessio’s hand once more as Elio opened his mouth to protest, but Felice got in first.
‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ Felice turned and signalled to Giovanni, who rang the brass bell. ‘Let the third and final tappa begin!’
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.
