Turning to the crowd, the first person his gaze found was Francesca, her hands in a white-knuckled steeple, looking scared and confused.
All he could communicate was a smile and a nod, but she understood, and a look of relief came over her features.
Now, it was all up to him. He ran.
Bursting into Trattoria dei Fiori, Alessio bolted for the kitchen, grabbed a large, deep baking tray, and began collecting the ingredients and equipment. ‘00’ flour. A whisk. A yellow-skinned onion. Coarse sea salt. The three jars of peppercorns by the fresh herbs – the white, black and pink varieties. He grabbed the marble mortar and pestle and passed them to the councillor, who flinched under their weight. Onto the tray went a large bottle of distilled water and a round plastic container of parmesan cheese. Then, a handful of cutters and pasta stamps. The last item Alessio plucked from the kitchen was the chipped blue and white Fiore tazza della pasta, which prompted a quizzical raised eyebrow from the councillor. Alessio stopped for a beat, holding the teacup carefully in his flattened palm, noting how it trembled from the echo of his adrenaline buzz. He realised this little cup just had to come with him.
Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, Alessio locked eyes on the framed black and white print of San Francesco Caracciolo.
‘I keep him close, because if anyone can help protect our little kitchen, it can only be Francesco.’
The memory of Francesca’s voice made the decision an easy one.
‘You’re in too, mate, come on!’ Alessio said to the emaciated face of the saint, and he pulled the frame carefully from the wall. Passing it to the councillor he said, ‘Anything happens to this guy, I’ll hold you morally accountable.’ His joke was lost in translation as the bemused councillor fumbled to right the mortar, the pestle, the cup, and the Patron Saint of Italian cooks.
Then, with a chef’s knife in hand, Alessio headed out the back to the garden, the councillor and San Francesco in tow. Two spindly carrots, a crisp stalk of celery and a handful of fresh parsley joined the collection, then the pair made their way back to the piazza and alighted the stage.
Francesca’s face ignited with hope at seeing Alessio set down his things on the bench, and Alessio knew this was the moment for levity. He held up a finger to get her attention, then raised the print of San Francesco for her to see. She doubled over with laughter, then blew him a series of thankful kisses and he winked.
‘Alright, you,’ he said to the saint, leaning the frame against the edge of the workstation. ‘I’ve got work to do. And so do you. Hmm?’
With that he pressed down his chef whites and took a deep breath.
Do this for you. Do this for her. Let’s go.
Alessio triaged the tasks ahead of him. Noting there were fifty minutes remaining on the clock, he felt a familiar tingle in his fingers.
It’s just the adrenaline. Relax . . .
First, the broth. His station had two small gas burners so he turned both on and popped two saucepans from under the workbench onto the heat. Into one went half the bottle of distilled water.
That’s for the pasta.
Chopping board. Knife. He washed the vegetables in the trough of water on the bench, dried them, then made light work of slicing their knobbly, irregular, homegrown shapes. A glug of olive oil hit the bottom of the second pan and he kicked up the gas before tipping the sliced vegetables off the chopping board and into the warm oil. Then he reached for the parsley, sloshed it through the water trough and wrapped it in a tea towel, wringing out the excess moisture. Tearing off the leaves he tossed them in the saucepan, too, reserving the stems. These he placed on the chopping board and, finding a rolling pin, gave them a bruising with the bulbous wooden end. Their earthy vibrance rose to his nostrils.
Homegrown. Makes all the difference.
He plucked the stalks from the board and tossed them into the saucepan as well, giving it all a good stir with a wooden spoon and making sure nothing caught on the bottom. In went a few black peppercorns and a pinch of sea salt. Once he could smell all the layers, he filled the small saucepan with the remaining water and put the lid on.
Next job. The fazzoletti pasta.
Enough for one. He collected a solitary egg from the shared ingredient table, assessing it for cracks and chips. The auburn brown beauty was smooth to the touch and he gave it a gentle bounce in his hand to assess its weight. Perfect.
At his workstation he checked to make sure Francesca was watching from the crowd before plucking the tazza della pasta from his tray and holding it aloft so it caught a ray of sunlight. He didn’t look at her; he didn’t need to. All he had to do was focus on getting that measurement right, her way.
He scooped a cup of flour from the container and gave it a gentle tap on the bench to settle and condense it. Alessio added a little more, then shaved off the excess with the sharp edge of his knife. Millimetre precision.
Francesca wanted a cup, and exactly one cup she would get.
He emptied it onto the pasta board to his right and made a well in the centre. Alessio then cracked the egg into that hollowed circular space and poked his finger through the golden yolk. He swizzled it for a moment, bringing that lustrous lusciousness to bind with the viscous clear white of the egg. Once happy with it, he began to catch pinches of the flour as his finger rotated around the well, slowly bringing more and more into the mixture. Once it had combined he pushed and rolled the dough up and over itself, over and over again. He pressed and pushed, satisfied that no strands of egg could be seen. It had all blended well.
It took a few moments, but the initial floury skin of the dough gave way to the developing gluten which bound the elements in harmony. It was becoming smooth and uniform to the touch.
‘Once it no longer feels angry, and the egg accepts the flour, you step away. They need time to become one.’
He heeded Francesca’s advice, bundling the dough into a ball and covering it with a clean tea towel before setting it aside out of the sunlight.
For the first time since he’d started work, Alessio took stock of the other competitors. Carlo was slicing a nondescript green vegetable. Sebastiano was cranking a length of pasta sheet through the machine affixed to his bench. Elio was head down, meticulously hand-carving something with a paring knife.
