The Body in the Piazza by Katherine Hall Page Page B

wondered—whisked the baking sheets away to the oven. Francesca explained that she had selected quick toppings, but that she would include others in the recipe packet.
    â€œOne of my favorites is a traditional spread we make from cooked chicken livers, sage, rosemary, a little cognac, sometimes a little anchovy, coarsely chopped and mixed together, but it takes an hour. There is also a fashion now in Italy for making Mexican crostini with a kind of Italian guacamole. You can put anything you like on top of the bread!”
    She looked over at Faith, and Faith knew Francesca was thinking of the first time she’d had the south-of-the-border avocado spread—at a restaurant in New York City when her boss had finally been able to get the young girl to reveal her real reason for coming to the States. So many years had gone by. It had been another century and another life.
    Faith was in a group with Olivia, Sally Culver, and Len Russo. They were going to be assembling crostini topped with thinly sliced fennel, olive oil, and salami that Gianni told them came from a nearby farm. Once they started, Len was taking so many “just a little tastes” of the meat that Faith was afraid they wouldn’t have enough, but it was soon clear that it didn’t matter. He was having a good time, as it seemed the rest of the room was, and she had to remind herself she wasn’t on a job. Although she added a bit of fennel frond to each crostini as a finishing touch.
    It soon become obvious that Olivia had worked in a restaurant, and perhaps attended some sort of culinary institute. She was all-business, which Faith had been expecting. What she hadn’t been expecting was the way Sally handled a knife. Someone in the bayou had taught the woman well, but when Faith asked how she’d learned, she flushed and said she watched a lot of cooking shows on cable. It seemed to Faith that she slowed down after that, 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