‘Do you prefer English?’ She slipped the pen and pad into her apron pocket.
Alessio exhaled his relief. ‘Please.’
The woman smiled and reached forward, taking both Alessio’s hands in hers. She squeezed them gently yet reassuringly. Alessio was taken aback by the intimacy of this gesture. Two hands didn’t feel like a handshake; it felt familiar, almost familial.
‘English, no problem.’ With one final squeeze, she let his hands go. ‘I am Francesca Fiore. One of the owners.’ A kiss of wind blew into the piazza, pulling a few of her locks behind her shoulder and revealing the defined lines of her collarbone. Alessio’s gaze was drawn to that sweet spot for a brief moment.
Clearing his throat, he said, ‘Alessio Ranieri.’
‘Welcome, Alessio. Is this your first visit to Impastino?’
Alessio couldn’t help but notice the British inflection to Francesca’s English, and was thankful for her fluency. ‘Yes. My first.’
His eyes traced the wall behind Francesca and landed again on that word. Trattoria. Little restaurant. He knew enough Italian to know what that meant, and it was enough to turn his stomach and set that ball of tension alight in his chest. The one he’d paid his acclaimed psychologist thousands of dollars to extinguish.
‘Come, let me show you inside.’ Her bright eyes settled on his suitcase and she extended her right hand, inviting Alessio to pass it to her.
‘No. It’s fine. I’ve got it.’
She nodded and smiled, then for a second, she looked beyond him to the piazza, then down at her watch. Alessio detected a small strained sigh. ‘Follow me, I’ll show you to your apartment,’ she said. As she turned, the skirt of her dress caught the breeze, filling momentarily before settling again. She smoothed the fabric down by her hips. ‘Impastino’s summer wind.’ Her smile returned. ‘It’s playful. You’ll learn soon enough.’
Her cheeks flushed a similar pinky-red to the signage, and as she walked ahead of him, Alessio noted a hint of something sweet trailing behind her.
Base notes of vanilla. Brown sugar . . .
The scents managed to break through the heady aromas of sautéing onion and wild herbs emanating from the trattoria’s interior.
It had always come naturally to Alessio to try to dissect and identify different aromas and tastes. It was this ability that so many had celebrated, that set his work apart from the rest; this nuanced filter that allowed him to discern the slightest pinch of one ingredient, the smallest drop of another.
Anally retentive.
Obsessive.
Fixated.
So damn critical . . .
Perfectionist.
Impossible to please . . .
He’d heard it all over the heat lamps time and time again, muttered under frustrated breaths and behind the walk-in fridge doors. He wore those comments as badges of honour. Rising to his status and skill level had taken all those qualities and more, but he acknowledged what it had taken to earn them. The thought of stepping back into that world – ever – drew the knot in his stomach even tighter.
‘Prego.’ Francesca pulled the beaded fly-screen aside, ushering Alessio and his luggage through as she pressed herself against the doorframe. Alessio’s outer forearm brushed past hers, and the warmth of her silken olive skin made the hairs under his shirt collar prickle.
Did she notice that?
He paused momentarily to catch the sensation and replay it. It had been a while. Alessio’s eyes met hers for the slightest of seconds.
Yes. Definitely noticed it.
‘This will be your home for the next three months,’ she said, gesturing across the intimate dining room behind them.
Alessio took in the inside of the trattoria.
Six small tables lined with red and white checked tablecloths were tightly packed into the narrow space. Mounted to the wall was a collection of some twenty-odd wooden rolling pins, each featuring a little indecipherable plaque. They were lined up vertically in two straight lines. To their right, the cream painted wall was dotted with black and white photos. Alessio immediately recognised many as iconic scenes from post-war Italian cinema. The patchwork of images worked seamlessly to transport diners to another time, another era.
It certainly felt as if the restaurant had been pulled from a deep nostalgic past. The fragrant air was reminiscent of a home kitchen, of particular dishes, just a handful, cooked at once. It didn’t have the amalgamated savouriness of a kitchen catering for a multi-option menu. Alessio intuited that whatever this kitchen produced was much simpler.
