Alessio gave a little nod but his expression returned to neutral; he was proud of his dish, but now came the real testing ground.
Hold your nerve. Smoke and mirrors. Don’t give anything away.
Felice and Giovanni pressed the air with settling hands, lulling the crowd to silence.
The four chefs were ushered into a line while Giovanni collected the dishes, displaying them on a central table. Elio’s creation featured a flash of green, Sebastiano’s an accent of yellow. Carlo’s simply muted into Alessio’s self-consciousness. None of it in focus. All a blur of worry and panic.
Assessing each of his competitors, Alessio felt uneasy. He had no benchmark to go by, no first-hand tangible evidence of the calibre of these men. Would his prowess and finesse outclass that of these chefs, or was it the other way around? Would he and Francesca laugh over his good fortune on the terrace later that night, sharing choruses of, What were we so afraid of? Or would he be made a fool of? Shown up. Outmatched. How would he cope with that?
Adjusting Giacomo’s scarf, he swallowed down his anxiety and focused on his breath.
With exuberance, Felice shouted, ‘Let the judging begin!’
ventitré
The dishes had been whisked away to the comune offices for a blind tasting by the panel of five judges: two of the town’s centenarians, a married couple of eighty years, Annarita and Roberto Di Vita; a food journalist from Foggia; and two of the sitting members of Impastino’s comune government.
After what felt like an eternity, the judging panel took to the stage, with an extra-gentle helping hand for Annarita and Roberto.
The journalist handed the official envelope containing the round’s results to Giovanni, who, once content it was sealed, passed it to Felice.
Standing by the microphone, the mayor adjusted his collar and cleared his throat. ‘Carissimi, siamo pronti?’ He looked to Alessio’s councillor translator, who nodded his confirmation. They were all ready.
This revived the crowd’s passion, and the thrum of anticipation soared to the sky.
‘Eccoci!’ Felice held the envelope aloft. ‘I will share the judges’ collective comments on all four dishes before we reveal who will be eliminated from this tappa.’
Alessio could feel the beating of his pulse in his neck. He stood as tall as his frame would permit, feeling the sun dry the remnants of the seawater from his hair.
Felice began to read. ‘Piatto numero uno. Prepared by Elio Martino, representing Da Martino.’
At the announcement of his name, the chorus of Martino hand drums started up, their beat echoing around the piazza. Alessio looked at Elio, who seemed to revel in this boisterous attention. A thin grin had stretched across his lips, his head cast high and proud. Alessio bit down on a scowl.
‘A surprising dish for its simplicity, yet complex treatment of flavours. An intelligent plating of oversized orecchiette, coloured with the algae of the sea . . .’
Ugh. That was smart. Fuck.
‘And piatto numero due, by Sebastiano Bellomo on behalf of Lu Ientu . . .’ Sebastiano took a step forward and waggled his joined fists above his head. Laughter swept through the crowd. ‘Cavatelli in a salsa of macerated lemon rind and pickled seaweed, described as a bright mouthful of the Impastino summer sun.’
Where did he get the seaweed? Did they have it in the kitchen already?
‘Piatto numero tre, by Alessio Ranieri of Trattoria dei Fiori. Noted as the most creatively presented . . .’
Alessio’s heart lurched, and his eyes met Francesca’s in the audience. She rocked back and forward on her heels, fingertips pressed to her lips. He didn’t dare break their eye contact. He needed to see how she would react to what was to come, if she hadn’t guessed already.
‘. . . Fazzoletti in a light vegetable broth, featuring whipped egg white, local peppercorns, and perhaps the most surprising ingredient of the day, finocchio di mare.’
Francesca broke into a grin as Maria leaned closer to Francesca’s side. The finocchio! She mouthed up to him, and he gave her a covert nod. The confirmation was all she needed. He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes as she clutched her hands together.
‘Is this why you took a sea bath? The finocchio marino?’ Felice asked in English, turning to face Alessio.
‘Sì. I did what had to be done.’
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Felice laughed to himself before continuing. ‘And piatto numero quattro, from Carlo Catalano and U Ssale, with his spaghetti infused with . . .’
But Alessio wasn’t listening. All he could see was Francesca, tears now rolling down her cheeks as she embraced Maria.
If he didn’t progress to the next round, something about seeing her so overcome with emotion at his very special inclusion of the sea fennel would be victory enough. He’d managed to bring Francesca and Giacomo into the competition, and he was proud of himself for doing so.
