I love Alessio.
trentadue
While the stakes felt higher this time, Alessio felt far more prepared for what was to come today. Not simply because he now understood the mechanics of the contest, but because he had truly sussed out his competition.
Standing on the erected stage, arranged this time with three workstations instead of four, Alessio’s eyes came to land on his competitors.
Sebastiano. Skill level, high. Creativity, mediocre. Plays it safe. A follower.
Elio. Arsehole status, confirmed. Skill level, expert. Creativity, high. To be watched.
Then Alessio found Francesca in the front row, and she gave him a confident nod which read, You’ve got this!
Felice Lorusso and the trusty Giovanni took to the stage, both dabbing their glistening foreheads with a handkerchief despite being under the temporary PVC cover’s shade. Today, the blistering August sun showed no mercy to the assembled crowd, which was just as numerous as it had been for the first round, if not more so. But with the mercury nudging thirty-five degrees at midday, only a brave few stood in the direct sunlight.
‘Impastino, ci sei?’ Felice called out.
The reception he received was joyous and raucous. Banners and flags in colours matching the restaurant teams’ silk scarves were waved through the air, and each restaurant frontage was dressed with matching ribbons and balloons.
The thrum of life and energy in the piazza was intoxicating. As confetti flew through the air and streamers with dancing tails unfurled, Alessio caught himself smiling.
All this for the love of pasta . . .
Of course he knew that was a reductive way of looking at the festival. For Impastino, the festa was clearly about so much more than just celebrating pasta. But Alessio realised it now meant something to him, too. He felt invested. He wanted to do well. And not just for Francesca and her father’s legacy. He knew he could smash this out to sea for himself, as well.
Alessio felt all this and more. It was a delicious, effervescent energy, reminiscent of the fiery passion he had once known and thrived on in his kitchen at Wicker – before it had become toxic and burned him to the ground.
But something about the scene here in Impastino – the townsfolk, the atmosphere, the thrilling challenge ahead of him – provided the kindling for a new, healthier kind of fire. And Alessio was ready for the first sparks to catch.
‘Round two! La seconda tappa!’ Felice announced into the microphone, while Giovanni tried to quieten the crowd with futile flapping hands. The councillor returned to Alessio’s side to translate, and they shared a respectful handshake. Felice continued, ‘Today we have prepared a very special challenge for our expert sfoglini.’ He turned to grin at the three men standing a few feet behind him by their workstations. ‘Are you ready for the task?’
While Alessio and Elio nodded, Sebastiano cried, ‘More than ready to trample these two!’ He reached over and pulled Elio into a playful headlock, drawing an eruption of laughter from the crowd.
‘Ragazzi!’ Felice snapped, not appreciating Sebastiano’s joke.
Once he had righted himself, Elio muttered something in indecipherable Italian under his breath to Sebastiano. But Alessio read the tone loud and clear: Now’s not the time!
‘And so it is with the greatest pleasure that I officially open today’s challenge.’ The chatter and cheering of Impastino’s locals finally diminished to a low murmur. ‘Our town may be small, but what it lacks in size it more than makes up for in spirit, life and dolce vita . . .’
Alessio’s eyes found Francesca’s again, and they shared a look of confusion. Where was Felice going with this?
‘La dolce vita, no? Il dolce far niente. The sweet, slow life is what draws so many visitors to Italy each and every year, and many to our town. We have it all. The coast. The beach. The Adriatic. Our agricultural plains. Our wild, untameable hillside charm. And we get to enjoy it all year round. Our life in Impastino is a very sweet one.’ He emphasised that one loaded word.
Sweet. It’s a dessert pasta!
Alessio’s bloodstream flooded with adrenaline, the kick of which he felt immediately. A flurry of confused thoughts, nonsensical brainstorming, rushed at him, and he suddenly felt unsteady on his feet.
No, breathe. You don’t know the details yet. One step at a time. Just listen to the instructions.
Felice’s voice sharpened. ‘Your challenge today is un pasto dolce. A sweet dish.’
Sebastiano was unable to hide his disappointment. He threw his hands in the air, incredulous, his stance tense. Elio’s first reaction had been a sly sideways glance at Alessio, which Alessio registered but didn’t return.
None of what happened around him mattered. All he could focus on was Felice’s lips, which now seemed to move in slow motion as Alessio processed the task ahead.
‘. . . Sì! Our first ever pasto dolce challenge!’ Felice beamed at the crowd, now dotted with expressions of intrigue and curiosity. ‘You will have one hour only. Again, you will be chaperoned by the comune’s councillors to fetch what you need from your restaurants. Then, with whatever time remains, you will create a dish which responds to the following statement.’ He let a long pause linger, clearly enjoying having the townspeople hang on his every word. But Alessio wanted it out of him. ‘The sweetest thing in Impastino is . . .’ He checked his watch and started the timer Giovanni proffered. ‘You have one hour. Via!’
The sweetest thing?
