‘Ten seconds!’
Her plating was simple – six of the ravioli entwined with the sauce, sprinkled with the last of the fresh green fennel fronds.
‘Five seconds!’
A drizzle of peppery olive oil and crack of black pepper.
‘Three . . .’
It was understated, yet immaculately put together.
‘Two . . .’
Just the right balance of chef-y and awareness of its humble roots.
‘One! FINITO!’ Felice called, and the crowd answered with a roar.
And she was done.
It was then, as she passed the low-lipped white bowl to Giovanni, that she finally looked for Alessio in the crowd. There he stood, his left arm wrapped around Maria, holding her tight, the other holding on to Elena’s arm cast. His bright eyes and sun-burnished cheeks seemed to convey all the admiration and hope he held for her in his heart.
She gave him an acknowledging nod and blew the trio a kiss.
Alessio mouthed over the top of those swarming around them, ‘Proud of you.’
She mimed catching the sentiment in her hand, before pressing it to her chest.
The sound of the brass bell drew their attention back to the stage.
Elio stepped forward and passed Giovanni his dish – a collection of rippled, curly-edged, inch-wide pasta, tinted black. Atop the pasta sat three rounds of seared bone, exposing the gooey yet crispy-topped marrow. Micro greens dotted the plate in just the right places, bringing a sense of harmony and balance to the otherwise darker shades of the dish. It had been glazed with some kind of reduction, a jus, which glistened in the sunlight.
Francesca looked at their dishes side by side and felt a pit of dread open up underneath her.
It’s . . . it’s . . . immaculate.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
Precise. Clever. Stunningly beautiful with the black, the caramelised bone marrow. It’s a truly professional plating.
Felice stepped forward and gestured to Elio’s dish. ‘Elio, representing Da Martino and in contention to retain last year’s title, please explain the pasta you have created. We shall call it piatto numero uno.’
Elio took the microphone while the ever-present drumbeat and cheering of his supporters echoed around the piazza. ‘I’m calling it “Martino cord with goat marrow”.’ Francesca looked again, noting how the lengths of pasta did indeed emulate the contorted twirls of wound cord. ‘Goat, on account of our early ties to the lower lands of the Impastino valley, where we still have grazing land. And the corda, because once you’re tied to the Impastino family, there’s nothing that can set you free. Once Impastino, always Impastino. There’s no greater place in the world, let alone in Puglia.’
His smile was sickly sweet but deeply disingenuous.
‘And the black, may I ask?’ Felice peered over the table to inspect the dish.
‘Representative of the town’s strength. Its boldness. The Adriatic Sea running through our veins.’
Francesca despised the way Elio nodded his head almost triumphantly. She didn’t miss the disdainful, dismissive glance he gave her own dish.
‘Grazie, Elio. Now, Francesca, tell us about the pasta you have created. We shall call it piatto numero due.’
Francesca too stepped forward, catching the microphone in her hand. Her gaze fell on Alessio in the crowd, and his radiant smile reset her focus. ‘Grazie, Sindaco. Today I give you my “Giacomini” . . .’ A twitter of acknowledging laughter flitted through her support camp. ‘Named in memory of my father, but representing the sunshine, life and joy of Impastino. Our town lives and breathes a humility in proportion with its beauty and wonder. Impastino is both simple, yet complex. We devour the sunshine that beams down upon us when we draw food from the land. Impastino knows how to silence you with its permanence, and make you howl with pride at its beauty. And this is my interpretation of that.’
Felice placed a kind hand on her shoulder. ‘And the shape?’
She looked to her dish. ‘I have made circular ravioli, representing the sun, filled with fennel-spiked ricotta. I’ve tinted the ricotta with saffron to capture the colour of the sun’s rays. Embedded within the pasta layers themselves are the fronds of the fennel growing in our garden. Fennel, which is both fresh and earthy. The sauce is a reduction of local salted butter and fresh fennel, kissed with rosemary.’
