‘Mah! Don’t be ridiculous! I left over a year ago!’ Her curls bounced as she threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I learned what I needed to. That’s it. Finito!’
‘But don’t you want that paper with your name on it?’
Francesca’s eyes fixed on her wineglass. ‘I can write my name on a paper napkin and it will have the same meaning, Alessio.’
‘Never say never,’ he offered, and took another bite of food to signal the end of the subject.
Grateful for this, she flipped the focus. ‘And you?’ Her open, welcoming palm rose over her plate. ‘How have you come to be here for three months?’
She watched as Alessio pressed his lips tightly together. A loaded pause settled between them before he said, ‘Because I lost all that I worked hard for.’
Francesca’s face dropped. ‘Scusami?’
sei
Alessio propped his elbows on the table’s edge and ran his hands over his face. ‘Ok. Here goes. I grew up in Melbourne, in an inner-city suburb called Brunswick. Both sets of nonni settled there after emigrating and marrying in the post-war period. My parents met when they were young – close family friends – and went into hospitality together. My dad has the business brain and stamina, my mum the creative vision and the ability to talk the leg off a chair. Together they opened a small café, which over my lifetime has evolved and expanded to twice the original size, and remains today one of Brunswick’s most loved eateries. Good coffee. Excellent vibe.’ He managed a proud smile. ‘I grew up working there, like you did here. Before and after school, all my school holidays, I was there. But my parents pushed me to do something else in the future. Beyond school, I mean. They know how hard hospitality life is, particularly when you’re an owner–operator. They wanted something else for me.’
‘That didn’t happen, though?’
‘No. I went to a good school. All boys. I enjoyed it, did well, was liked. I think.’ This drew the faintest of smirks, and Francesca laughed. ‘Mum and Dad wanted me to pursue any other career. To be the first in the family to go to university. But all I wanted to do was cook.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I followed my heart.’
‘To food?’
‘To a kitchen.’
Alessio watched as Francesca’s body language mirrored his across the table; the bent arms, the symbolic leaning reach of interest. Her investment in the conversation was clear. So, he opened up. All the way up.
‘I’ll cut a long and convoluted story short. Apprenticeship. Diploma. Sous chef at an up-and-coming restaurant in the city. Bought in on the restaurant. But then the executive and head chefs both walked within six months of me starting. I’m boosted to executive, and with a loan and Mum and Dad’s help, I buy out the rest of the business and rebrand it. I named it Wicker. That was the first year. And the name was a nod to Brunswick and the European migrants who settled there: –wick. Wicker. Serving modern Australian food with a European twist.’
Francesca’s eyes scrunched tight then blinked open. ‘Oddio! That’s a year!’
‘Four amazing years followed. Booked solid. Impeccable kitchen team. We won all kinds of prestigious awards. Recognitions. Awarded three Hats, which is an award system in Australia. You can’t get more than three. And very few do.’
‘Alessio, that’s incredible. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you. But I had no life. I practically slept at the restaurant overnight. Astronomical stress levels. Anxiety. Panic attacks. And most of my team suffered, too.’ He shook his head. ‘They say everything happens for a reason.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Well, the COVID pandemic came through and shut it all down. We went from a million to zero. I remember hearing somewhere that Melbourne was the most locked-down city in the world during the pandemic. For nearly two years we were shut. We reopened in 2022, and for the following two years we tried to recover, but the damage was done.’
Her head tilted to the side. ‘Damage?’
‘Mostly financial. Two years of loan repayments and staff wages with little to no income.’
‘How could you stretch it that long?’
‘I was in denial. I can see that now. I’ve had to work hard to accept it.’
Francesca nodded. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault, eh? I bet there were many other restaur—’
‘I know. And thank you.’ He huffed a little defeated breath. Did he want to reveal the next part? The ‘reaction’ part of the story? The subplot that revealed the true colours of his character? Those deeply magnetic brown eyes of hers, full of empathy, had him pinned. Would she think less of him when she knew? Did it matter? It was too late anyway. He had to finish the story. ‘I became very difficult to work with during that last phase.’ Alessio’s throat constricted around his next swallow. ‘Very.’
Francesca’s hands shifted back down to her lap where he could see them twist and pull at the linen napkin. ‘How very difficult?’
