Was he imagining the way her hold on his arm tightened? The way her right hand had reached across to pluck at his bicep? No he hadn’t. But the feeling of that purposeful touch sent a fresh rush of blood to his groin.
Seriously . . . at the pharmacy . . .
As they started down Via dei Pescatori Alessio relished the pockets of cooler shade that weren’t to be found in the open piazza. Once they had passed U Ssale, they met a small panificio, the yeasty baked headiness spilling out onto the street. Then there was a parrucchiere, with three washbasins by the right wall, and three cutting stations with circular mirrors on the wall opposite. The dated seventies red vinyl chairs had clearly never been replaced, and neither had the front window signage of a female silhouette brandishing a dramatic bouffant. Further along was a barbiere, marked by the red and white striped pole by the front door. Then there were a number of small giftshops and clothing stores, and a cartoleria, with calendars and stationery filling the front window display.
Then Francesca stopped to point out the pescivendolo. The ice-filled display troughs holding the morning’s catch left no room for misinterpretation, and Alessio sounded out the word. ‘Pesci. Ven. Dolo. From pesce.’
‘Bravissimo. But attenzione.’ She lowered her voice and pulled her lips close to his ear, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on the skin of his neck. ‘There are two pescivendoli in Impastino. This one,’ she gestured with a flick of her chin, ‘and another on the other side of the hill. But only ever come to this one.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s a rumour that the other pescivendolo was selling frozen fish under the guise of fresh.’
As much as Alessio wanted to laugh at the drama this must have caused in this tiny hilltop town, he kept his expression respectful. ‘Didn’t go down well?’
‘Oh, no no! Just the thought of this was enough to damage his reputation for good!’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Around thirty years ago.’
Alessio’s veil of nonchalance dropped away. ‘Thirty?! And the guy hasn’t been forgiven for a rumour?’
Francesca gripped him tighter. ‘In Impastino, food is untouchable. It is doctrine! Especially pasta! Don’t even think about messing with it. You will be exiled. And fish? Mah! This is a fishing town, centuries old. You mess with food, you mess with the very core of this town.’
‘What’s the poor bastard doing now?’
‘He sells some fish, but not a lot. He sells what he catches. No one will work with him. It’s just him and his wife. And during the tourist peak he sells English-style fish and chips to the British tourists.’ She waggled a finger disapprovingly. ‘This was almost as bad as the frozen fish rumour. The locals don’t go to him.’
‘For such a small town, the stakes are obviously high when it comes to food.’
‘We don’t know any other way to be.’
They walked on, past the next business: a pasticceria, illuminated from within by the golden lights of the glass display cabinets. Alessio couldn’t help but stop by the window with gold lettering and peer through. Mounds of deep-fried golden delights, crumbly bites and custard-filled deliciousness awaited within. A gentle waft of that sweet icing sugar–dusted world emanated out the door.
Vanilla. Bean, not extract.
Rose water. Turkish.
Pistachio.
Toasted pine nuts.
Chocolate ganache . . . at least 70 per cent cacao.
He salivated at the thought and his empty stomach churned with want.
‘You have all summer, eh?’ Francesca said, pulling him along. ‘They are always here.’
A low laugh escaped his lips and he patted his middle with his left hand. ‘A summer of that habit won’t do me any good.’
Francesca brought them to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, causing those walking behind to detour around them. ‘But why?’
‘A summer of eating those pastries will hit me here.’ He caressed his middle once again.
Genuinely shocked, she said, ‘Alessio, but food is a . . . a . . . it’s life’s greatest pleasure. If that’s what your body is asking for . . . if it’s what you crave . . . why must you consider it a sin?’
‘Not a sin, just a treat then?’
‘Why are you limiting yourself of pleasure? Do you not enjoy eating?’
‘Of course I do. I founded an entire career on it!’
