‘Veramente? You mean that?’
‘Yes. Truly.’ He reached across and helped himself to more from the platter. ‘The sweetness from the chickweed balances the aniseed kick of the fennel fronds. The hum of garlic there in the back, but all cut by the—’
‘Red wine vinegar.’
‘Very clever.’ In went another mouthful. ‘Fresh. Zingy. Intelligent.’
Francesca could feel the heat rise to her cheeks at his assessment and she smiled. ‘I like to pair flavours that grow well together. The herbs coexist in the garden beds and by the roads, so why not on the plate?’
Alessio nodded his agreement. ‘Where did you train?’
‘As in, study?’
‘Yes.’
It felt as though all the blood drained from her stomach into her legs, pinning her to the bench. Now she had to keep up her part of the deal he had wagered. She needed to tell him her story, in exchange for his. No one apart from her father, and eventually Maria, knew this part of her, and up until this point she had wanted to keep it that way. While the logical and rational part of her brain constantly reminded her that there was no shame in what she had done for herself, the emotional and anxious part begged to differ.
However, sitting here with this handsome, unexpected man, Francesca conceded that perhaps he could also be a safe space. She suspected – she hoped – that he too shared her love of food.
‘I am not professionally trained, really,’ she started, and her hands knotted themselves self-consciously around the linen napkin in her lap. ‘I learned all my foundational cooking from simply being here and watching it all happen. From my nonna and father, mostly. Some things from my mother, Elena. You will meet her today or tomorrow. But really I only have one true passion. And it is something that is deeply rooted in this town, but I beg and pray to the gods for it to become more than simply “a passion”.’ Her air quotes forced her to stop wringing the napkin.
‘And what’s that?’ Alessio leaned forward and took another sip of wine.
‘Pasta,’ she said simply.
Alessio sat back. ‘Pasta?’
‘Sì.’ Her hands met at her sternum. ‘Alessio, pasta is the reason I pull myself from bed each morning. It is the driving force behind all my creativity, my energy, my wild nonsensical daydreams.’ Noting how he mirrored her whimsical smile, she explained, ‘I’m a sfoglina. A pa—’
‘Pasta maker. Fresh pasta.’ He nodded his understanding.
‘Esatto! All my life, here in this place, in this town, it has always been pasta. The town is a pasta-making town. Here in Impastino, pasta is life. It’s religion. The name “Impastino” means Little Dough. It’s in our blood. All of us here. It’s my greatest love affair. My father was a sfoglino. A multi-award-winning sfoglino, and he taught me all that he could under the circumstances . . .’ She trailed off and Alessio’s eyes narrowed.
‘What circumstances?’ He reached for another helping of the caprese salad. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, no. You should know. My mother and I have a somewhat difficult relationship. But it wasn’t always this way. I told my parents when I was fourteen, halfway through liceo classico, that I wanted to leave school as soon as it was possible to study pasta making. I wanted to train, as you said, in this very specific field of the culinary arts. I could see what we were serving here at the restaurant, and while I appreciated it for its homely traditional beauty, it wasn’t . . .’
‘Refined enough?’
‘Esatto! I wanted to learn the haute cuisine approach to pasta making, no? Elegant. Elevated. Like the dishes I would study in my cookbook collection. But Mamma insisted for years that it wasn’t necessary. She thought I would learn everything I would ever need to know here at the trattoria. So, instead of following the path to Bologna, I remained in Impastino. I left school and worked full-time. To do the honourable thing.’ Francesca could feel the skin under her eyes tighten.
‘How old are you, Francesca?’
‘Thirty-three. You?’
‘Thirty-five. And even after all these years, she is still against you doing further study?’
Francesca sighed. ‘She is a southern Italian woman who has had to spend her life asserting herself in an antiquated community with patriarchal values. Defence is her default setting, and the . . . the . . . rancori? Sorry, I don’t know the English.’
Alessio quickly Googled while chewing. ‘Grudges?’
‘Ah, sì. Yes. The grudges remain. She is very stubborn. She forgets nothing.’
‘And you’ve been working here ever since leaving school?’
Francesca filled her lungs. ‘Not exactly. I left two years ago and moved to London to “perfect my English”.’ Again, she made air quotes with her fingers. ‘We told Mamma I was going to study a specialised tourism English course to help boost the business and to set myself up for when I would one day inherit the trattoria. But that was a lie.’
Alessio leaned forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the table. ‘A lie?’
