Page 41 of A Place in the Sun
And I can’t stop smiling back.
18
Later that day after all the plaster heaps have been removed, with the help of Alessandro and Enrico, I mop the work surfaces and the floors again. And then, with dust in our throats and sore eyes, we all walk up to La Tavola carrying the three lasagnes, Bello dancing at Giovanni’s side.
‘So, Teresa, Lucia and Rosa, why did they all fall out?’ I ask Giovanni, as we prepare salad and make a dressing in the cool of La Tavola’s kitchen.
Giuseppe is there, happy that his goats are content, and Francesco, who thinks it’s Sunday and is enjoying the atmosphere. Caterina is in the garden, showing Luca and Pietro the vegetables she’s growing.
‘It was the lasagne,’ says Giovanni, ‘from what I’ve heard.’
I put down the knife and look up at him. ‘It can’t just be the lasagne,’ I say. ‘How long ago was that?’
‘Oh, quite a while,’ he says, dipping his head to breathe in the aroma of one of the dishes. ‘This one is Lucia’s, made to her mother’s recipe. She married the brother of Teresa and Rosa. There was huge upset when he preferred Lucia’s lasagne to his own mother’s. It was seen as complete treachery. His confession came out after he’d had too much wine at the wedding. They barely spoke after that.’
I smile at his light-hearted account. Here in the kitchen I feel more relaxed and at home than I have in ages. Aimee and Caterina’s daughter are playing with Bello, and Mr Fluffy has been left on the long table in the dining room.
‘This one is good. It’s Teresa’s.’ He takes a deep sniff and I do the same. ‘She’s worked hard to recreate her mother’s recipe, but eventually learnt her mother-in-law’s version. This one is Rosa’s, her mother’s recipe. Her Tuscan lasagne.’
‘Why don’t they cook the same recipe?’
Giovanni sighs. ‘That’s where the story gets complicated. Teresa and Rosa’s mother shared her recipe only with Rosa, to woo the young man she wanted to marry. But when Teresa wasn’t given it, she decided to go about things differently. She wooed the same young man’s mother, got her recipe and made it for him. Theymarried shortly after. Rosa married eventually, but the two women didn’t speak and their mother’s recipe was never handed on to Teresa or Lucia. It was a sign of Teresa and Rosa’s mother’s disapproval and favouritism, that she shared the recipe only with her elder daughter.’
‘And now they’re all widowed, but still don’t speak?’
‘Only to sling insults and argue over the washing lines,’ says Giovanni.
We pick up the lasagnes and take them through to the big table, with large bowls of dressed salad, glistening with olive oil and lemon juice. I stare at the salad, lost in my own thoughts, still wondering about the young woman I met, Stella, and how she knew Marco. I wish I could stop thinking about her, and her words ‘I’m a friend of Marco’, but trying to block them out is getting harder.
‘Tutti a tavola!’ calls Giovanni, jolting me from my thoughts and everyone moves towards the table, laid with knives and forks, red and white napkins fresh from drying on the line in the sun after Sunday lunch, jugs of water, stubby glasses and a couple of small carafes of red wine that have been poured from a big box in the storeroom. Alessandro’s much older brother, Enrico, has washed the dust from his face and hands and slides onto the bench next to Caterina.
‘Let’s eat!’ says Giovanni, and Giuseppe guides Francesco to the table. Aimee and Caterina’s daughter fill water glasses. Alessandro helps to cut up thelasagne while Luca and Pietro hand around the plates. I offer the salad up and down the table, and Giovanni pours wine for those who want it.
I look at Luca and Pietro helping themselves to salad, then passing it to Francesco.
‘Buon appetito,’ says Giovanni, and Alessandro raises his water glass as we all join in: ‘Buon appetito.’
I look along the table at people’s faces and enjoy this moment. It was what I loved most in the restaurant: the sound of people’s anticipation, good humour and delight in the food and company, as if they were sitting down to watch a film, a show, read a book. Mealtimes like this are special. To me, it’s what makes Christmas special, the sound of happiness being shared. It nourishes the soul and the body. I wonder what Christmas will be like this year. I wonder where we’ll be.
I take a mouthful of lasagne, chew and swallow. ‘That issooogood,’ I say, taking another mouthful.
‘But can you tell whose it is?’
‘Lucia’s. Her mother’s recipe.’
He nods.
‘I could tell by the dish,’ I tell him, ‘just so you don’t think I’ve got amazing tastebuds.’
‘Ah! So you had an advantage. When you have eaten enough of them you will notice subtle differences. Teresa uses more meat, and Lucia cheese.’
‘And Rosa? What’s her secret?’
He has another forkful of meatyragù, layers of softpasta and creamy béchamel sauce. His lips glisten with dressing from the crunchy green salad Caterina has collected from the garden.
‘She won’t say … None of them will. They all have their own way of working, how they cut the garlic or which dish they bake it in.’ He waves his fork in a little circle.
‘How many years has it been since they fell out over how to make lasagne?’
