‘I shall wait.’ Alessio pounded and twisted the cool black pestle until the herbs and other ingredients had formed a loose paste, just as he thought it should look. He wanted to test it, dip the tip of a finger in and collect some to try, but decided to wait.
And by decided to, he forced himself to.
‘I can sense you want to try it,’ she said, with that uncanny intuition of hers.
‘No I don’t.’
‘Just try it. You will love it.’
His eyes flicked back to the caprese salad of tomatoes and mozzarella on the platter. ‘No basil?’
‘I’m sure. Trust me.’ She folded her arms, exuding a smug confidence. ‘If you won’t try it, then just dollop it over the salad and you can put it on the table.’
Alessio fought all his natural urges to track down a handful of spongy fragrant basil leaves and tear them from their stems. Insalata caprese demanded basil. The iconic trio of green, white and red warranted a serenade from Luciano Pavarotti himself. Alessio wanted to watch the basil leaves mingle with the pooling tomato juices, drawn from the fruit by that briny sharp sea salt.
Set in his ways.
Stubborn fucking control freak.
With him? It’s HIS way or . . .
He swallowed the pride that made his fingertips tingle and laid the platter on the table. He reminded himself that the fact that he could see and acknowledge this resistance and desire to just take over was a good thing. He had worked through this phase with Patrick. This was growth.
Focus on the positives. You can see it now.
‘Vino?’ Francesca asked, already pouring him a glass of profoundly red wine.
‘I haven’t had breakfast yet, apart from an espresso, but what the hell.’ He accepted the proffered glass and clinked it against hers.
‘Alla nostra estate pugliese!’ she chimed, taking a sip. ‘Here’s to our summer in Puglia!’
Just as his lips dipped to catch the glass rim, one word looped in his mind.
Our . . .
cinque
Francesca watched the moment play out from across the table, as if in slow motion.
Alessio collected a wodge of torn mozzarella and slice of sun-ripened tomato on his fork. He locked eyes with her and proceeded to dunk the stacked combination in a dollop of Francesca’s ‘not-pesto’.
He brought the mouthful to his lips and took the bite she hoped would convince him that she was a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen. Someone he could trust. A partner with whom to hopefully take this next step. His eyes closed and Francesca watched as he bit through those milky acidic layers of tricolore paradise.
Alessio’s brow furrowed.
Was it confusion? Was he trying to place those nuanced hints of the land which surrounded them? Of the flavour, she had no doubt. She knew her ratios. She knew how to balance all the elements on the palate. But his neutral expression worried her.
Francesca wasn’t a professionally trained chef in the traditional sense. She had learned everything from watching and copying Maria, her father, and despite their challenges, even Elena, in their humble trattoria kitchen. Her process was to watch and observe, try, sample, poke and prod at dishes at various stages of cooking. And when the time was right, at the moment when decisions needed to be made – final touches of seasonings, a turn, flip or addition of a glaze – she had to pay even closer attention. This had to happen before she attempted something herself.
Perfectionism, to the core.
But when she cooked for herself, by herself, up there on that sun-drenched terrazzo overlooking Impastino’s beating heart, none of that seemed to matter. All bets were off. She could burn, blister and undercook to her heart’s content, with only the clouds or stars as her witnesses.
Alessio broke her from her musing. ‘What were the herbs again?’
‘Finocchio selvatico e centocchio. Wild fennel and chickweed. They grow in the garden. Also beside many of Impastino’s lower roads which lead to the farming land.’
He placed his fork down with considered confidence. ‘That was phenomenal.’
