As she turned to look for the fennel seeds, she caught a glimpse of the picture of San Francesco. She noted how his right hand was pressed humbly and mercifully across his chest.
Humble. Merciful . . . simple . . . like Papà.
The buffoon across from her had none of the integrity and spirit of the man who had raised her in the kitchen. Giacomo’s kind, guiding hands and encouraging words, the gentle way he showed her what to do, that was her father. And that was the continuing spirit of Impastino.
She forced Elio from the periphery of her consciousness, blocking out his cruel words and taunting tricks.
To the dish . . .
Francesca pulverised a few dried fennel seeds to powder with the mortar and pestle. She made sure each pound of the pestle against the well of the mortar echoed the hammering of Elio’s meat cleaver.
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.
