‘This is not ok.’
‘I know. But I can’t do anything. She is grieving. She had a terrible shock finding Papà.’ She pointed over her shoulder to the patch filled with flowering fennel. ‘Just over there. And I wasn’t here to help her. I was in London, lying about my plans. The guilt . . .’ She sighed.
‘That may be so, but you deserve better than this.’ Alessio watched as her gaze dropped to her fingers. She was picking anxiously at her nails. ‘And Nonna?’
‘She tries her best to keep the peace, but it was Nonna who suggested Mamma leave the apartment. That’s why she lives in the home she inherited from her parents. Not far. It wasn’t working, us all here together.’
‘I can see why.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘Now, tell me what the hell is going on with this festival.’
Francesca rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her cheeks between her palms. ‘It’s a pasta festival. Our annual Festa della Pasta. The town will gather for three rounds. July fifth. August second. And the final, August twenty-third. One representative from each of the four restaurants of Impastino will compete, with one being eliminated after each round.’
Alessio nodded. ‘Right. And these are all men?’
‘Yes. Only men are allowed. The male head chefs of the family.’
‘Which is why I’m now your “second cousin”.’ She didn’t see his air quotes as her face was buried in her hands. ‘And what do I need to cook?’
‘We don’t know until the moment when the challenge is announced on the day. All that is certain is that the base of the dish will be pasta.’ She looked up and turned to face him. ‘I don’t doubt for a second your brilliance as a chef. But . . . how is your pasta?’
‘I know pasta.’
‘I know you know pasta. But how well do you know pasta?’ There was a desperation in her eyes. ‘Really truly know pasta?’
‘I know pasta.’
Seemingly unconvinced, she rose from her perch and dusted off the back of her dress. ‘Do you know the optimal atmospheric conditions to release the gluten in the dough? Do you know the perfect undisputed ratios of semola rimacinata and tipo “00” flours to water and egg? Do you understand the complexities of the more than three hundred pasta shapes? The regional variations? How to use the many implements and tools? The ideal drying time? The sauces and dressings that are accepted as standard pairings, and why? Do you understand the seasonal variations in the weights of the pasta shapes, and their cultural signifiers? Links to festivals, religion, art, historical events, sagre, icons of culture? Can you colour, tint and tone pasta? Can you freehand as well as machine-cut? Can you pattern, line, knit and plait it? Can you intuitively read the success of a dough by its bounce-back? Do you know—’
‘Ok, ok.’ He stood to join her, hands raised in respectful surrender. ‘I get the point. Can we be real? Egos aside?’
‘Please. I’m tired of always being on the defensive in the kitchen around here.’
‘Right.’ Catching her eye, he said, ‘My pasta is great. Excellent. I can colour and flavour, cut and shape, all good. Machine. By hand. Whatever. Do I know the nuanced local takes on pasta? No. Do I approach pasta making with an intuitive perspective? Absolutely not. In a commercial kitchen precision is king. Everything is measured to the gram, to the millilitre. Because it comes down to plating, costing and stock management. Each plating of a dish, when it leaves the kitchen, must be identical to the thirty that came before it. Aesthetically. By taste. Size. Weight. Don’t think me rude for saying this, but my take on pasta is going to be very different from yours. I’m not trying to be reductive or simplify what you do here, I’m just being honest about the commercial realities.’
Francesca exhaled slowly. ‘I’m relieved to hear you say this. Our approach here is more organic. Fluid. Emotional. Responsive to the moment. Born from tradition. Our history.’
‘I never had that luxury in my kitchen.’
‘Luxury?’
‘The rich history. Decades of traditions.’
‘Decades? No, no! Centuries.’
‘See, I’d say that’s a kitchen luxury. Having a cultural legacy to live up to, rather than critics and reviews.’ He paused a moment. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Per favore!’
‘While the mere thought of doing that again stresses me no end,’ he gestured behind them towards the trattoria, ‘I do miss things.’
‘What things?’
‘Cooking just for me. For pleasure.’ He exhaled. ‘What even is that? Playing and having fun with food. It’s been a very long time since anything in the kitchen has given me any joy.’
Her eyes, bright and renewed, met his. ‘If you are truly open to this experience, Alessio, please let me teach you how to approach pasta my way. The Impastino way. It would be an honour to share our cultural legacy with you. You might even enjoy it. Reignite that joyful passione.’
It had been a long time since Alessio’s skills had been tested. Even through all his challenges in his own kitchen, it had never been about the food. Instinctively he wanted to dismiss her offer with a confident, I’ve got this, I don’t need teaching! But there was another element to this ridiculous opportunity. Perhaps, by participating in this festival, Alessio might just get closer to his own nonna’s past. By embracing the town’s traditions and history, might he unveil some truth or connection to her story?
As if Francesca could see into his mind, and hear his nonna humming to herself as she kneaded dough on a Sunday morning in preparation for lunch, she said, ‘You want to know these lands, the lands of your nonna? Her story? Well, it is written all over this town, across our fields, and it gathers on our tables. Alessio, this is what you’ve been looking for.’
