‘Why the rosemary?’
She paused. ‘. . . Because rosemary is the herb of remembrance.’
Felice’s face broke into a genuine smile. He thanked Francesca for her entry and then signalled for the dishes to be taken away for judging in the comune offices, away from the crowd.
Francesca knotted her trembling hands in a ball in her apron, remembering the wow factor of Elio’s plating. It certainly looked the part, but did it have the heart?
All she could do now was wait. She closed her eyes and cast her face to the sky, where the sun’s restoring glow washed over her.
trentanove
Felice accepted the sealed envelope from Giovanni and Francesca felt her lungs tighten, as if pulled together by a drawstring.
Then, aided by Francesca’s councillor, the judging panel stepped up on the stage.
Of the five, three gasped upon seeing Francesca there by Elio. The other two exchanged puzzled looks.
‘I will explain everything later. Over a large glass of wine,’ Felice explained, away from the microphone.
‘Perhaps a bottle. Or two?’ Giovanni added, and those closest to the stage laughed.
Now facing the townsfolk, Felice beamed and held the envelope high in the air. ‘Let’s read the individual feedback on both dishes before we announce the winner and award this year’s Mattarello d’Onore.’ From under the lectern he withdrew an ornately carved wooden rolling pin, and Francesca’s eyes fixed themselves to the prize, stealing all her focus and nerve.
You’re not getting a second one of these, Elio. This one is for me, Papà and Alessio.
The crowd roared and banners and ribbons danced through the breeze.
Felice withdrew two sheets of paper and began reading from the first. ‘“Piatto numero uno. We, the judging panel, were impressed by the precision and execution of this dish. It is striking and bold, confident and self-assured . . .”’
Seeing Elio glow through this ego rub, Francesca tried to tune out. She looked to Alessio in the mass of Impastino’s locals, and he mouthed again, ‘Proud of you.’ She forced a smile through her nerves.
‘“While the flavours were balanced and the plating was creative . . .”’
Francesca’s adrenaline peaked.
While . . . while? While is just another way of saying ‘but’ . . .
‘“. . . there was something missing from this dish. It was very rich and heavy on the palate . . .”’
The smugness of Elio’s earlier demeanour flickered for a moment and he clasped his hands tightly behind his back.
Oh my God . . .
‘“It lacked a freshness. A liveliness. While delicious and presented with expert precision, we think this to be an area for improvement. Understanding how Impastino inspired this dish was difficult to place without specific context. Despite this, overall, this dish was an excellent entry by a master chef.” Now, the points: four for flavour. Five for plating and presentation. Four for its handling of the theme. Thirteen points!’ While cheering broke out across the piazza, Francesca steeled herself with a deep breath.
Felice moved on. ‘“Piatto numero due. This dish seemed flatter . . .”’
Francesca’s heart seized and her eyes locked with Alessio’s. All she could do was focus on the words and let everything else blur into the background. There was Alessio. That’s all that mattered.
‘“. . . yes, flatter. But far more intelligent.”’
Alessio’s brows rose as his eyes widened. He gave her a reassuring nod, and she broke from their connection to face Felice.
‘“While not as bold and boastful as its competitor, piatto numero due was expertly realised with subtlety and deft consideration of the land . . .”’
Francesca stood deathly still, paralysed with dread, and yet at these words she felt a flicker of hope. She took in another breath.
‘“. . . layered with consistency in its flavours. The numerous appearances of the fennel in different forms. The ricotta and the butter sauce, a delightful creaminess against the aniseed of the fennel.”’
