‘Nonna. My father. They were the only two who knew. Papà saw the potential for me to eventually take the lead in the kitchen and transform what we do into something more refined, as you say. But Mamma never agreed with him. So, he helped me escape to London where I studied pasta making under Gattuso Giostro.’
‘The Gattuso Giostro? At his culinary school?’
‘Sì. È un genio, Alessio. And a truly wonderful person. I was so worried that when I met him I would be disappointed. You know, they say never meet your idols. But Gattuso and all the tutors were bravissimi.’
‘I guess the London connection accounts for that inflection in your accent.’
She giggled, now also reaching for her wine. ‘I know. I can’t shake it. And we have so many British tourists come through the town, it simply gets recharged.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, his eyes coming to rest on her lips. ‘Sort of . . .’
‘Non sono posh, eh!’
‘No, not posh. Just effortless. And educated.’
Francesca had never considered herself to be formally educated. And hearing this made her retreat a little behind her embarrassment.
‘Take the compliment,’ he said, offering a playful wink.
Francesca smiled into her wine and was thankful for the moment’s distraction. ‘Grazie. But London didn’t go to plan.’ She picked at a dollop of ‘not-pesto’ on the platter and brought it to her mouth. ‘I was there for eleven of the twelve planned months. Just as I was preparing for the final unit of study, a sort of culmination of the course, my father died unexpectedly.’
Alessio sat back, winded. ‘Francesca . . .’
‘Just over a year ago. Mamma found him in the garden by the herbs with his usual chef’s knife, trowel and empty jars by his side. He was picking the finocchio. The fennel.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘The doctor who assessed him said he had a heart attack. Died in seconds. No one could have saved him.’
Alessio shook his head. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. I came back as quickly as I could that day, and worked hard to fill his shoes in the kitchen. Since then I haven’t . . . I mean, I can’t, really leave. Nonna still assists with preparation. But Mamma and I take turns running the kitchen. If we spend too much time together we tend to come undone.’
‘Ooooft. That must be difficult.’
‘I think this is how it will always be for us.’ She scooped up a tomato chunk and popped it in her mouth, enjoying the acidic wash over her palate. ‘I’ve made my peace with it.’
His eyes narrowed and once again he leaned forward. ‘Have you, though? Really? You don’t seem very at peace with it.’
Francesca’s voice found its usual fire. ‘And what am I meant to do, eh? Nonna is ageing and getting weaker by the day. Mamma is still in shock and mourning and won’t seek help. She has moved out of the apartment she shared with Nonna after Papà’s death and now lives in her parents’ house, the one she grew up in. Those nonni died years ago. We have different visions for what to do with Trattoria dei Fiori. It was just too difficult for me to go anywhere. And with Papà gone, I can’t see any possible way for me to evolve and advance what we do in the kitchen. Because I will eventually also lose Nonna, and she’s my main support.’
‘What do you still need to do to finish that course?’ asked Alessio quietly.
‘Alessio . . .’ Her tone sharpened, warning him away from such thoughts.
‘Seriously, what do you need to do?’
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a final exam and a practicum. I could prepare for the written portion from here, but I need to complete the final practical test in person.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s so inconvenient.’
‘I know.’ Her hands caught her face and she moaned. ‘And Mamma still knows nothing about it.’
‘Are there set dates for this exam?’
‘Yes. It’s held over a week. From August thirty-first to the end of the first week of September. I’m still on the mailing list.’
Alessio’s eyes scoured the table, and it looked as if he were searching for something. ‘I wonder if you could—’
