‘Not crazy. Fucking brilliant! Come on, let’s go!’ Alessio gathered his things, and the pair shot off in the direction of the path.
What he hadn’t counted on was crossing paths with Elio halfway up. Keeping his bowl close to his chest, Alessio knew there was no way his competitor could have seen the sea fennel tucked inside. But then again, they do say that to imitate someone is a form of flattery.
In this instance, Alessio wasn’t sure.
* * *
Time was flying by. Alessio knew he didn’t have a second to spare to engage with the shocked gasps and questioning hands pointed to the stage as the crowd wondered how and why his hair was wet and his clothing damp.
Back to work now.
Alessio rolled his pasta dough to the finest setting on his machine, then finished each fazzoletto sheet by hand using an intricately crimped, bronze-tipped cutting wheel. They cooked in a minute in the strained, simmering broth.
‘Cinque minuti!’ cried Felice over the top of the buzzing energy of the townsfolk. ‘Five minutes!’
Alessio reached for a spoon and tasted the broth.
Exceptional. Just the right hit of salt.
He siphoned a ladle of broth into the serving bowl, then slipped in five of the fazzoletti sheets. They did exactly what he wanted them to do, floating delicately over one another with each movement of the bowl. Just like the ebb and flow of the sea, rising and falling with the tides, slipping and dipping in unison. Their decorative edges emulated the bubbling ridges of the crests of waves.
Progress. Next move.
He set the bowl aside and tossed several of each of the peppercorn varieties – the white, black and pink – into the mortar, giving them a few sharp pounds with the end of the pestle.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
It was enough to shatter the heat-inducing gems, reducing them to speckled rubble. He swapped the pestle for a spoon, adding two heaped tablespoons of the freshly grated parmesan cheese into the mix. Alessio gave it a good stir, ensuring the elements were well combined. He dropped a pinch onto the end of his tongue and waited.
The cheese. The pepper . . . done.
Then he set it aside. Into his bowl he sprinkled the piercingly green fronds of the finocchio di mare, which collected in the pockets of broth between the pasta sheets. Upon hitting the hot broth the sea herb released its citrus-savoury aroma.
Perfect. Now, I just need my – ugh!
Having lost himself to the moment, Alessio was jolted back to the reality of the makeshift kitchen set-up. He wasn’t in his commercial kitchen, kitted out with all the tech and paraphernalia he was used to relying on.
. . . My whipping gun.
He would have to do this the longer manual way.
It was the worst possible time for Felice to call the dying moments of the round. ‘Un minuto!’
Alessio’s heart seized in his chest, but he couldn’t let it shake him. This pressure he knew. A packed floor. Staff humming with electricity. Anxiety. Their tics and tensions. Critics in the house. Little to no sleep. This was the kind of pressure he always worked best under.
Reaching for another egg, Alessio cracked it, separated the yolk from the white and tossed the sunny bauble into the scrap heap. He added a pinch of salt to the bowl holding the egg white and beat the mixture into a loose frothy foam. He knew just how far to take the beating before the white morphed from froth to suds. He stopped and gave the bowl a settling tap on the bench. Then, taking a spoonful of the parmesan pepper mix, he dropped it carefully against one side of the bowl, where the white ceramic lip met the edge of the broth. Most of it sat atop the broth, some dropped under the surface, melting into one savoury mass.
‘Dieci secondi!’ announced Felice.
Turning his focus to the egg froth, Alessio dotted it along the line between the cheese and the broth, perfectly representing the sea foam pushed to shore by the waves.
With a curated wipe of his tea towel around the bowl’s rim he took a step back, threw his head forward and exhaled. Only then did he allow himself a hidden, wry smile.
That felt good. Fucking good!
A brass bell clanged somewhere in his peripheral consciousness, but the first thing that entered Alessio’s mind was Francesca. He pivoted to face the crowd, scanning the elated faces in search of hers. It took a few moments, but there, tucked between a joyful-looking Maria and a stony-faced Elena, was Francesca. Her hands were pressed against her cheeks as she shook her head in disbelief.
She mouthed, Are you ok?
