‘I am. That is, of course, if I’m allowed.’ He looked to Elena. ‘What do you say?’
Elena took a deep breath and said, ‘That’s fine, on one condition. Francesca’s Head Chef of the kitchen.’
Chef. Did she actually just call me chef?
‘That was never in question,’ he said wryly. He turned to Francesca and wrapped an arm around her waist. ‘Chef, any requests?’
‘Three. We must always have fun.’
Alessio mimed annotating a list. ‘Check.’
‘The tazza della pasta reigns supreme.’
‘Check.’
‘And you need to get one other person’s permission first.’
‘Whose? Nonna Maria’s? I don’t think she’ll mind.’
‘No. San Francesco Caracciolo’s.’
Alessio threw his head back and laughed, and it shattered whatever remained of the previous frigid tension. He held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t worry. Frankie and I are like this.’
trenta
Under the watchful eyes of Jesus Christ, Sophia Loren, Padre Pio and San Francesco Caracciolo, Francesca and Alessio commandeered the kitchen of Trattoria dei Fiori.
But the kitchen they had so openly shared by night was a very different place by day. For one thing, Elena was there with her two restrictive casts, instructing and supporting as best she could. And for another there was Nonna Maria, whose mischievous energy kept them all buoyed through the busiest periods.
For two weeks, mornings were spent picking through the vegetable garden, prepping produce, and laughing with Maria at her quips and stories. Service time was always busy, but for the most part they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Francesca and Alessio made a point of working in tandem, communicating their needs, expressing themselves as genuinely as possible. The clean-up afterwards was a balancing act of getting the job done while trying to keep their hands off one another.
But old habits die hard, and Francesca watched as Alessio experienced difficult moments, too. His frustration at the late delivery of meat from the macellaio, which resulted in a gentle reminder that ‘Impastino runs at a different speed’. His clenched fists when they realised that the doors for lunch service would have to open ten minutes late because they hadn’t yet set the tables. His negative self-talk while plating his orecchiette with broccoli, which he wasn’t completely satisfied with. The way he berated himself when the pasta machine crank didn’t catch properly and he spun it off the side of the bench. And the moment they both reached for the handle of a pan of melting butter, only to cause it to flip and burn the back of Francesca’s hand. He apologised profusely, of course, but his energy dropped under a thick blanket of shame and tainted the rest of service.
With kind words and reassuring touches, Francesca did her best to guide him through those two weeks. And while she found this new situation difficult at times, she knew that no other solution would have worked so well and met so many of their needs.
So, while San Francesco Caracciolo watched on, they learned to cook together, and Trattoria dei Fiori remained the busy, bustling eatery it had always been.
The same energy carried through to Francesca’s little apartment. The pair slipped seamlessly into a new flow, enjoying the privacy afforded by their own four walls. They talked long into the night and drank their morning coffee together, just enjoying each other’s company. Their late-night shifts in the trattoria were made bearable by the knowledge that tenderness and intimacy awaited them in bed.
Despite the cramped conditions, they made space for each other, together.
And it felt almost as if it had always been this way.
* * *
On the morning before the second round of the Festa della Pasta, Francesca and Alessio set off towards Simona’s gastronomia, bags and baskets in hand.
Both donning the mandatory plastic gloves, Francesca stopped to smell the red-skinned peaches on display at the fruttivendolo, refusing to leave without half a dozen, and Alessio picked through the black plums, already ripe. He bagged a dozen. Francesca paid for their purchases, which also included a handful of glossy purple grapes, and while they were standing at the cashier’s counter, Alessio saw an event flyer pinned there. It advertised a special film screening in town, that much he could decipher.
Dropping her change into her wallet, Francesca stepped forward and caught sight of the flyer too. A wistful sigh escaped her lips but she turned to leave.
‘What was that for?’ he asked, catching her arm as they left the shop.
‘What?’
‘The sigh?’
‘I sighed?’
