‘Alessio Ranieri. He’s just arrived. Perhaps thirty minutes ago. He can cook for us.’ Elena’s eyes snapped open again and her lips parted to interject, but Francesca raised a halting palm. ‘I don’t know much about him yet. But just give me a few days. He’s here for the summer. The entire summer. Please, Mamma, just let me talk to him about this. He might be willing . . . He told me he’s a—’
‘This is simply ridiculous. And a complete insult to our legacy. I’ve heard enough.’
‘—chef.’
Even though Elena had spoken over her daughter, she heard her final word. Despite the protective stubborn wall she’d thrown up, something altered in her expression.
Francesca added meekly, ‘It could be our ticket to victory.’
Elena’s hands returned to her hips, and there was a long silence as she appeared to consider this information. While she was still stony-faced, she eventually said grudgingly, ‘So what do you propose then, Cesca?’
Francesca saw her opportunity. ‘Mamma, let me get to know him. See what he’s about. I’ll explain the situation to him and see if he might be interested in competing on our behalf.’
‘And under what guise, exactly?’
Francesca’s mind scrambled. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. She’d just put his name to the paper, then dashed back inside. She bit her bottom lip while she thought on the spot. ‘How about a cousin? A second cousin?’ Her eyes darted between her mother and grandmother. ‘An Australian cousin with second- or third-degree ties to our family?’
‘Are you serious?’ Elena looked to her mother-in-law for agreement but found only a bright face full of optimism.
‘We can say he’s moved here for the summer to cook with us. To support us during our busiest period of the year. No one would question that. He’s got dark hair and brown eyes. How far do the genetic lines of Puglia stretch?’
Elena’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. ‘How do we know he can cook our way?’
‘I’ll teach him! Nonna too!’ Francesca turned and pulled Maria to standing. ‘Together we can do it.’
‘It’s beyond comprehension. This . . . man . . . may not even know how to boil water! He will drag our name into disrepute!’
Elena turned away, clearly intending to leave, and Francesca panicked. ‘Give me one week to convince Alessio to help us and participate in the festa. If he says no I will walk to the comune, sit Felice down and explain that we are withdrawing from the competition. And you, Mamma, have my word that from that day you won’t hear another complaint or challenge leave my lips.’
Elena paused and turned her head slightly towards her daughter. ‘Your word?’
They locked eyes.
‘You have my heart.’
Elena exhaled with obvious relief. ‘You have yourself a deal. Then, once we have concluded this ludicrous charade, we can get on with more pressing usual business.’ She checked the clock on the wall. ‘It’s after twelve-thirty. Are we opening for lunch service or not?’
That was it? She wasn’t going to put up more of a fight? Elena wrapped her apron around her waist and took off into the dining area to prepare for service. Francesca glanced at Maria. ‘What have I just done?’ she whispered, then threw her hands over her face and dropped into a deep squat on the floury tiles.
Maria cackled from behind, giving Francesca an encouraging tap on the bottom with the wooden spoon. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun!’
tre
Alessio had expected the piazza to be quiet in the dark hours after midnight, and it was, but Impastino’s quaint little square hadn’t lost any of its personality.
The townsfolk had long since tucked themselves into bed, and the businesses had closed their doors for the night, but there was a spirit that seemed to remain trapped there that Alessio couldn’t quite place. It was as if the TripAdvisor reviews had somehow been rendered incarnate; enchanting had imbued the whitewashed walls, cosy was caught in the quiet corners by the cacti, and typically southern Italian had dotted itself across the window dressings and flower boxes.
The moon gifted Alessio just enough light to read the black hands on the face of the town’s belltower clock, which rose up unassumingly from behind the restaurant called Lu Ientu.
One-thirty.
He pivoted on his heel, noticing for the first time that there was no menu on display on Trattoria dei Fiori’s front window. Instead, Menù del giorno was painted ornately in red across the glass pane. His knowledge of Italian was limited, bolstered only by the sprinkling of his family’s dialect and the culinary terminology he had absorbed during his kitchen career. But this he understood. Menu of the day.
Did that mean they cooked day to day with whatever was fresh and available? Did they offer a family-style sharing experience? All on the one table or counter – ‘All in! Help yourselves!’ He was intrigued by both prospects.
Alessio yawned and turned to face the piazza. Not another soul could be seen or heard as he crossed the square, stopping by the central fountain. Cupping some of its flowing water in his hands, he splashed it over his face in an attempt to rouse his senses. But it was futile. The fog of jet lag had caught him and wouldn’t let go.
The temperature had dropped enough since the sun had set to warrant wearing a sweater. The sticky summer nights would surely come, but for now Alessio enjoyed the relief of this cool interlude.
