even fumbling twice. On purpose?
When they were done, the crostini looked beautiful arranged on the colorful platters. Cameras and phones came out of pockets and photos were snapped. Sally Culver had been documenting the entire process, checking out the other groups, too. Her camera was very professional, a cut above Faith’s own, which was perfect for the trip, but when she imagined the quality of the food photos Sally’s would achieve, she felt a little jealous.
Besides Faith’s group’s salami/fennel effort, there were a fig and prosciutto topping; smoked salmon, mascarpone, and capers; fresh tomato and ricotta; as well as some prepared by Francesca—melt-in-your-mouth slices of lardo; and Asiago cheese and smoked ham with a drizzle of fennel honey. Fennel was the new something, Faith noted to herself. Fennel pollen, fennel honey, just plain fennel. Maybe the new smoked paprika? Or was that dating herself ?
While the “chefs” were finishing up, Gianni and Luke had prepared the wine tasting in a room off the living room that the Rossis called their library. French doors led outside and, besides a wall of bookcases, there was an entertainment system hidden in a beautifully carved tall chest should anyone have a craving for Italian or satellite TV. Faith pictured herself instead curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs reading cookbooks, one of her favorite things to do—even if she never cooked any of the recipes. She’d spied some on the shelves along with an assortment of fiction in several languages.
Soon they were sampling the delicious crostini and tasting two reds: a 2008 Rosso di Montalcino and a 2009 Chianti Classico, as well as two whites: a 2009 Moscato di Terracina—this was Faith’s favorite, the Muscat grape went perfectly with the hearty flavors of the various crostini, especially the salmon—and a 2010 Collio Pinot Grigio. As the antipasti disappeared, she slipped back to the kitchen to see if she could help Francesca get dinner on the table and learned that Gianni’s sister was named Gianna. Had to have been major childhood confusion there when calling out the back door.
The Rossis on both sides were pitching in to make Cucina della Rossi successful. Francesca’s parents had the children for the week at their house, close enough so she or Gianni could run over to see them, but enough out of the way so their parents could concentrate on the cooking school. Gianna was prepared to stay until they could find a replacement for Alberto. The kitchen was filled with fantastic smells, and as they cooked, Francesca and her sister-in-law chatted away. Faith found it very relaxing not to have to follow a conversation and busied herself with the pasta course—pappardelle, a broad fettuccine, made that afternoon, tossed in a light porcini mushroom cream sauce, finished off with a little butter. They could hear the others entering the adjacent dining room. It was time to plate, and Francesca asked Faith to shave some pecorino over each portion.
And they heard something else. A knock on the kitchen door.
A very loud knock.
Francesca and Gianna opened the door together quickly. A young man stood without. In less than a moment all three were engaged in rapid conversation.
“Do you speak English?” Francesca said loudly, taking a step back and motioning Faith over.
“Sì, yes,” he said and added another “yes,” firmly.
“Say something to us.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest.
He appeared to consider several options and then with a smile, recited, “Mary had a little lamb that was white. Like snow. And everywhere the lamb go. Even the school. I know one about a boy, Jack, and a pie, too.”
After she stopped laughing, Francesca told him to wash his hands and serve the pasta Faith had prepared.
“And you only speak English to that lady and the rest of the students. Capisce?”
He nodded and said to Faith, “I want to learn better. Tell me when I make a mistake. I am Mario.”
Francesca said something to him in Italian that Faith figured was “get going,” since he scurried over to the sink.
“Go, eat, Faith. Join the others. You are not here to work,” Francesca said.
“I gather Alberto has been replaced?”
“It’s a miracle. Or maybe not. I shouldn’t be surprised. When you live where I do word travels fast. Mario heard we were looking for someone at the caffè on the square. He had stopped to eat on his way back from visiting some family near Chiusi. He lives in Rome and just left a job at a restaurant there. He would be