Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe.
‘“We appreciated the care and attention paid to the flavours. The nuanced details in the plating best represented the love and dedication placed in this dish. It was an elevated, more refined version of homely comforting cooking.”’
She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax.
‘“However . . .”’
Uh-oh! Another dressed-up ‘but’ . . .
‘“Despite the well-versed play of flavours, and the Impastino story so clearly built into the fennel narrative, this dish lacked the show value of piatto numero uno.”’
What about the scoring?
Francesca felt light-headed with nerves. She gripped the sides of her face, her fingertips shaking against her temples. She saw Alessio looking at her calmly, and remembered to breathe.
‘The scores. Awarded for flavour, five points!’
Francesca closed her eyes.
‘For plating and presentation . . . four points!’
Her eyes opened, scanning the sky for distraction.
‘And before we announce the winner, I must thank you both.’ Felice turned to Francesca and Elio, smiling broadly. ‘Grazie mille. Your participation, and the participation of your establishments in this long-standing tradition of ours, form part of the backbone of our beautiful town. And we should also thank and acknowledge your competitors, Carlo Catalano and Sebastiano Bellomo.’
A short, sharp applause broke out in the piazza, but was quickly absorbed back into the audience’s silent impatience. Francesca joined in the clapping, noting the clamminess of her palms.
‘E allora . . . the winner . . .’
Just smile, no matter what happens.
‘. . . of this year’s Festa della Pasta . . .’
You did your best. That alone is worthy of something. Papà would be proud of you.
‘. . . with a dish the judges say moved them with its attention to detail . . .’
And for that alone, you have already won.
‘Francesca Fiore, with five points awarded for theme!’
Francesca’s vision blurred as the townsfolk erupted into an almighty roar, and she felt the stage tremble under her feet.
‘Wh-what?’ She turned and Felice caught her hands between his, thrusting the wooden rolling pin into her grasp.
In spite of the noise, in spite of the chaos and mayhem, he tucked himself close to her ear and whispered, ‘Bravissima! You beat him by one.’
* * *
There was no restraining Alessio.
He pushed his way through the crowd and hoisted himself up onto the stage, making a beeline for Francesca.
Still dazed, she was only just turning away from Felice, so when Alessio charged towards her and lifted her up into the air with all his might, he could feel the breath leave her lungs as she melted into him.
‘You did it! You did it!’ He squeezed her tighter, and she wound her legs securely around his waist. Together they bounced and jumped on the spot, the rolling pin dropping to the stage floor behind them. ‘You fucking did it! I knew you could!’ Alessio nuzzled into her neck, catching all her warmth and the familiarity of her sweet scent at once. Having succumbed to tears, she could only nod back into his chest. ‘I am so proud of you. So proud! You have no idea how proud!’
After a moment Francesca pulled back from his grasp, legs still wound around his hips. She pressed her forehead against his, searching for balance. Her voice broke as she said, ‘Grazie, Ale . . .’
