‘I was losing control. It broke me. One loan repayment at a time.’ Swallowing a mouthful of wine, he said, ‘I’ve always been stubborn, and many would say controlling in the kitchen. But I worked hard to earn the right to be that way. As it was all crumbling, though, the people around me suffered. And I’m still coming to grips with that. I feel a lot of . . .’ His eyes rose to the cloud-studded summer sky. ‘A mix of shame and guilt, let’s say.’
‘It’s a good thing that you can recognise this, eh?’
‘I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy. Oh, and of course, in case it wasn’t clear, we closed in late 2024. Right before the pandemic I’d been approached about a cookbook deal, and the producers of one of the most popular cooking shows had stopped by a number of times, keen to arrange some kind of semi-permanent guest spot for me as a judge. Then, after the pandemic, everything fell apart. We lost our three Hats and the team was bruised. Just like my reputation and ego. What took years to build was quashed in a matter of months. Gone. Finished.’
Was she concerned, sitting across from him at the table? Her energy had stilled; her expression was melancholic. Or perhaps it was worry? Whatever it was had emptied her eyes of their buoyant joy.
‘What is your relationship with the kitchen now?’ she asked quietly.
‘I never want to set foot in a commercial kitchen again, as long as I live.’ He balled a fist and tapped it theatrically on the tabletop.
Francesca’s eyes closed and her forehead furrowed. ‘But what if an opportun—’
‘Never. I can’t. For the past eighteen months I’ve been working with a cousin of mine from Mum’s side of the family. He runs an international import business, buying groceries and smallgoods from overseas and selling them wholesale in Melbourne. I couldn’t even work with Mum and Dad at the café. It just triggers me.’
Francesca looked wounded, and Alessio was touched by her sympathy. She nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’
Alessio watched as she rose from the table to finish preparing the next course; simple hand-cut tagliatelle with a light cherry tomato and garlic sauce.
Francesca insisted that Alessio sit and enjoy the sunshine while she tossed the pasta into the salted water to cook for its three minutes. All the while the shift in her energy plagued him.
I shouldn’t have told her. Why did I tell her?
He berated himself over and over again, feigning nonchalance while wondering how to repair the rift he seemed to have created.
This is what you do best, Alessio. You go in too hard and push people away. You always fuck it up. You’ve scared her.
Squashing a generous handful of tomatoes with the back of a fork in the saucepan over the hob, Francesca asked, ‘So, why have you come here to Impastino? An escape?’
Alessio reached across the table and filled their glass tumblers with sparkling water, then took a sip from his own. ‘In short, yes. I need a reset. My cousin has found other more appropriate help for his business, and Mum and Dad are happy for me to stay away for now. They know I need this time to . . .’
‘To?’ Into the pan went a glug of oil and a pinch of sea salt. She picked a solitary garlic clove from the little woven basket by the herb jars and smashed it with one powerful slap of her palm against the tiled benchtop. It too went into the pan.
‘Well, get a change of scenery. And I thought I would take the time to learn about my nonna on my dad’s side.’
‘She was from Impastino?’
‘Yes. She was born here but emigrated after the war. I spent a lot of time with her growing up. When I wasn’t at the café with Mum and Dad, that is. Nonno died young, so it was just her.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Immacolata Mazzotta. She became a Ranieri through marriage.’ He sighed. ‘She died a few months ago.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Practically ancient. She thought she was ninety-nine.’ He raised a brow. ‘But really, who knows? No one kept proper records back then. She didn’t have many official documents with her at the end of her life. We think she was born in 1925 and emigrated to Australia in late 1946.’
‘That was that generation. Bureaucracy wasn’t a priority. Putting food on the table was.’ Francesca checked the pasta, scooping one length of tagliatelle from the water with a fork. She blew on it then chewed it, her satisfaction at its bite marked by a confident nod to herself. Francesca took a mug from a cupboard under the bench, filled it with boiling pasta water and set it aside. She killed the gas and pulled the pot from the stove, emptying its contents into the vintage cream-coloured enamel colander in the sink. ‘What was she like?’
‘Nonna? Tough as old boots. Stubborn and self-righteous. Showed very little emotion beyond discontent and melancholy.’
Francesca emptied the colander of steaming pasta back into the saucepan, gave it a toss into the air, then loosened it with a generous slosh of the reserved pasta water. Over her shoulder, she asked, ‘Was she always like that? Even before you lost your nonno?’
‘Dad says always. As far back as he can remember.’ Something twinged in his stomach; despite how difficult she had always been, Nonna Immacolata had been an incredible woman. Difficult, yes. But loyal and proud of her family, and desperately protective of her only grandchild, Alessio. ‘I guess I’m here to get to know her better, in a way. To see what I might learn about her that we don’t already know. I feel like I owe it to her. Something is telling me she was very misunderstood.’
‘Alessio,’ Francesca started, now making her way to the table with the sizzling-hot saucepan of pasta. She set it down on a folded tea towel and took her seat once again. ‘If your nonna left traces of herself, of her life here in the town, we will find them.’
‘We?’
