He turned to examine the vast collection of cookbooks in Francesca’s collection.
Marcella Hazan.
Nigella Lawson.
Julia Child.
Yotam Ottolenghi.
Samin Nosrat.
Marco Pierre White.
Irma Rombauer . . .
Her collection was divided by cuisine type and specific cooking genre, with pasta the focus of the largest set in the collection. Naturally.
He withdrew a few books, which featured sticky notes peeping from the pages. Most were scribbled with indecipherable Italian. As he reached for Massimo Bottura’s Never Trust a Skinny Italian Chef, Alessio’s eyes latched on to a folder, the spine of which was labelled Giostro Cooking School.
He withdrew it and set it down on the small circular dining table, fanning open the binding. The contents comprised copious notes, recipe cards, a journal, assessment reports and even a photo of Francesca with her father, pasta machine cranks in hand.
This suddenly felt a little too much. This was her private world.
And yet, he couldn’t help but continue to pry. Up to this point they had been so open and honest about this shared side of their lives, he felt he owed it to his curiosity to look a little deeper.
He pulled the assessment reports from their plastic pocket and began to read.
The words used – expert . . . deftly prepared . . . confident . . . to perfection – didn’t come as a surprise. He had seen all this, and tasted it for himself. He searched further until he came to her journal. It was a perfectly organised collection of her thoughts and experiences. And, perhaps because her studies had been in London, they were all in English.
The glaze did not thicken as Chef’s did. So I continued to emulsify off the heat . . .
He turned the page.
The chocolate just didn’t set. I thought I’d taken it to 45 degrees. But clearly not. It simply didn’t temper to a crack. I tried again, until I had wasted two kilos.
Another page.
. . . as the rum caught, I was sure I had set my chef apron alight. No, just my tea towel. Flambé failure.
He continued to flick and peruse, noting how none of her difficult challenges were pasta-related. He felt proud of her for this. It showed that she knew where her strengths were.
Grabbing his phone, Alessio made a list in Notes that reflected all that he found: Flambé; tempering chocolate; en papillote; boning a chicken . . .
In exchange for your pasta knowledge, Francesca, let me help you with a few tricky things.
diciotto
‘Lace? Are you one hundred per cent sure you don’t have another one?’ Alessio’s eyes settled uncomfortably on the apron Francesca offered him.
‘What? And men can’t wear lace? It’s Italian lace.’
‘Not my style. I’ll just wear the flour straight from the bench.’
‘Va bene.’ He watched as she tied the apron around her own waist, giving the silken red ties a proper tug behind her. ‘And . . . are you ok being in the kitchen?’ Francesca’s lips pursed. ‘You feel comfortable here with me?’
Alessio gave a little sigh. ‘Unbelievable, but yes. Thanks for checking.’ He leaned against the aluminium workbench and pivoted to take in Trattoria dei Fiori’s poky kitchen. It was far from commercial grade, but had all the elements needed to churn out the incredible food they served. The four burners. The two 900-millimetre ovens. The extended workbench. The large fridge and separate chest freezer. The open-style shelving holding all their pots, pans and serving ware. And the spice trolley on wheels, which sat tucked beside Maria’s chair at the end of the bench.
‘Guarda, it’s not what you’re used to cooking in, I’m sure. But it does the job.’
