Newly installed carpet was a steely blue that made a nice match with the matte-finished wood paneling of the walls and off-white painting of the boat’s metal superstructure that supported the deck. Not masking the rivets, bolts, and beams gave the interior a true nautical feel, and the polished brass hardware of the portholes looked smart. The upholstered furniture and the bedcovers were in sumptuous fabrics of coordinated beiges, golds, and whites to go with the rest of the interior, except for a few pieces like the banquette at the dining table, which was covered in fitted, dark navy blue leather. All the guest heads had marble bathtubs and sinks with newly cast brass fixtures based on the original style. It was very elegant, a completely different ambience from the crew quarters in the fo’c’sle.
Once the tour was complete, and Scott was off somewhere else, I sat at the mess table, trying to think through all that had to be done. This was going to be tough. When I was here for the interview, I didn’t even think to come down to have a look at where I’d be working, what equipment I’d have available as I set about putting together the series of culinary miracles la Signora had made part of the job description. And I had to pull this off in a galley that served as home for seven crew members trying to coexist for the summer in tight quarters. Small bunks with a minimum of storage space. One head for all of us. A mess table that could not seat everyone at once. And most important in terms of my job, a galley that was far from the ultimate in convenience.
I wasn’t yet sure about the maximum number of guests the owners might be entertaining at any given time. In this problematic work space I could cook for up to eight guests staying on board and the crew. More than eight guests and I’d be in trouble. At my interview, la Signora had made a reference to my being prepared for any emergency. What if she decided to have an afternoon party of fifteen or even twenty? Somehow I would have to manage.
Serenity’s galley may have been small, poorly equipped, and ready to confound me in the first rough seas we hit, but it was the first chance I had to run my own kitchen and do it right, gimbals or no gimbals. I had learned from more than one hard experience how important it is to get on top of everything right off, how quickly high hopes can go sour when a chef doesn’t control his kitchen. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
La Signora had made it clear during my interview that she wanted an all-Italian menu, a challenge I embraced. I’d have to create one great meal after another, all from scratch, which meant planning every menu around the fresh ingredients I could find at each port of call. I’d also need all the right seasonings, aromatics, and condiments. So a well-organized list of staples was crucial. Once under way, there would be less opportunity to run out and pick up a needed item to finish a dish I was preparing.
Many ingredients and styles of cooking along the Côte d’Azur, especially cuisine niçoise, go back to when the area was Italian, not French, so I expected I’d be able to get most of the basics I needed close by. The flavors of this region are so close to those of Liguria just over the border that except for certain dishes like the ubiquitous salade niçoise, the pizzalike flat bread called pissaladière, and the chickpea-based crêpe-like snack called socca, the Italians left a grand impression when the border was created. So it is no wonder culinary heritage shows in what’s available in the markets and shops. And if I couldn’t find something in Antibes, I could sign out one of the leased crew cars and drive across the Italian border to Ventimiglia or San Remo.
I carefully went through my notes and the few cookbooks I brought on board to help me find all the pantry ingredients I would need for the season. At the top of the list were a variety of olive oils, a few vinegars, and the essential seasonings of the Italian repertoire: anchovies, capers, hot red pepper flakes, and dried porcini mushrooms to use for a delicious porcini mayonnaise on baked or poached fish. The spice rack consisted of a selection totaling no more than ten, and a visit to the international grocery store in town gave me access to the condiments I needed, including Worcestershire and, for one recipe in particular, soy sauce. Then there were the shelf-stable items like canned tuna, rice, dried pasta and beans, olives, and the ingredients needed for simple baking. Dairy was kept to the basics, including a short list of cheeses, and I could pick up the aromi—the fresh aromatics—in ports along the way, confident they would not be hard to find. Once procured, these items would give me the base I needed to prepare la cucina italiana and, more specifically, the summer repertoire along the coast. I taped a copy of the list in my journal to commence the recording of the season’s menus.
Serenity Pantry List
Base Ingredients, Seasonings, and Condiments
Pure olive oil
Extra virgin olive oil
Sunflower seed oil
Red wine vinegar
Balsamic vinegar
Champagne vinegar
Anchovies in salt
Capers in salt
Hot red pepper flakes or peperoncini
Dried porcini
Dried oregano
Bay leaves
Herbes de Provence
Saffron
Fennel seeds
Whole nutmeg
Vanilla
Fine sea salt
Coarse sea salt
Black peppercorns
Dry mustard
Dijon mustard
Worcestershire sauce
Ketchup
Soy sauce
Harissa
Cornichons
Pitted Niçoise olives
Picholine olives
Concentrated tomato paste
Whole peeled tomatoes (canned)
Spanish piquillo peppers (canned)
Chickpeas (canned)
Tuna in oil (canned)
Arborio rice
Dried pastas
Cannellini beans
Borlotti beans
Dried bread crumbs
Pine nuts
Almonds
Golden raisins
Unsweetened chocolate
Flour, semolina
Sugar
Powdered sugar
Honey
Dry yeast
Savoyard cookies
Amaretti cookies
Dry white wine
Dairy and Cheese
Milk
Heavy cream
Unsalted butter
Eggs
Parmigiano-Reggiano
Aged pecorino
Mascarpone
Ricotta
Ricotta salata
Fresh Aromatics
Pancetta
Yellow onions
Red onions
Garlic
Shallots
Celery
Carrots
Italian parsley
Lemons
Oranges
Potatoes (always on board)
Of course, I couldn’t forget the crew. Food is the great comforter under way, so I’d have to do my part to hold up morale. The food would be Italian in style but adjusted to the hearty, carb-needy appetites of my co-workers. I planned on creating crew menus from what I was preparing for the owners by extending things like sauces and side dishes and replacing the obscure ingredients like rare and expensive seafood with more substantial fare, like meats and pasta dishes. They’d also want different cereals, cookies and biscuits, jams, chocolate, snacks, soft drinks, spring water, and, of course, plenty of beer.
Getting the base ingredients on board was only the half of it. Michele, Serenity’s land-based money manager, gave me an open ticket to go into town and buy whatever kitchen supplies the galley required: pots, saucepans, casseroles, and sauté pans (the high sides are great when cooking while under way). I measured my new “marine oven” to make sure the roasting pans, sheet trays with grills, and ceramic baking dishes that I bought would fit inside. Molds for tarts, canapés, and panna cotta; a rolling pin, pastry brushes, mixing bowls, and a two-kilo scale (the easiest thing to use when cooking in metric); knives, ladles, kitchen spoons
, whisks, and strainers. I wished for spring-loaded tongs that all cooks swear by in American kitchens, but I had never seen them in any of the Italian restaurants where I worked. If I couldn’t find them, so be it. Out of necessity I had developed the dexterity to use a large fork and spoon like tongs, and discovered how versatile the technique can be. Then I went through my journals again, marking the pages where I thought certain dishes or recipes would work for the season’s repertoire and making a mental note of what kinds of kitchenwares they would require. I didn’t rush completing my lists. La Signora, who had come off in my interview as a woman with scant tolerance for incompetence, had made it clear that she expected me to be ready for any eventuality within reason. I had little doubt that if something I prepared failed to meet her standards, she would not be interested in why.
Kevin came down to take a break and reintroduce himself while getting a drink from the reefer. He took a place at the mess table, looked around the galley, inquired about my lists, and made some comments about the challenges I faced. He agreed that the dishwasher would be better used as a storage space. Then he asked if I would be cooking Italian food this season.
“Not only do I want to, but according to la Signora I have to,” I said, and then added, “I’d like to pull this into crew menu, too.”
“Great. I like pasta. Especially a nice carbonara,” he responded, and then left.
His preference was noted, but a little tweak in seasonal eating would be in order, something I preferred to furnish in practice rather than by explanation. A rich carbonara sauce based on pork fat and egg yolks was perfect in winter but would give way to a lighter summer alternative based on olive oil and tomatoes and no less shy in flavor.
With all of the activity of the refit going on, mechanics, electricians, and other installers passed continually through the galley. Eventually, I met our two deckhands, who were both in their twenties. Nigel was a burly New Zealander who stopped in Antibes for the season while on a world tour, and Ian was a happy-go-lucky Australian day worker turned crew member. Ian came off like a seasoned pro who had worked on boats his entire life. A few days later, I was surprised to learn that this would be his first job at sea.
I spent most of my first two days in the galley writing equipment lists and preparing menus, taking an occasional break from what had come to feel like school homework to go up on deck, get some sun and fresh air, check out what was going on, and get to know the crewmates with whom I’d be spending the season. I picked up that among the crew, everyone pours the coffee, so I made sure to help out wherever I could. Also, from my past experiences in restaurant kitchens, I knew that everyone’s eye was always on the new kid, to see if he thought too much of himself. A good way to show that I didn’t see myself as better than the rest was to pitch in with the grunt work where needed.
Patrick, the captain, ducked into the galley to welcome me on board. An American, he called the Côte d’Azur home and made his living as a full-time sailor. His clean-cut features and stocky military build gave him an aura of authority, like someone who was thorough and did things by the book. Having skippered some beautifully maintained classic yachts in both the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, he had originally signed on to manage the refit. That day, he brought my work attire, which would constitute my daily wardrobe for the rest of the summer: shorts, pants, polo shirts and T-shirts, a couple of sweaters, a high-tech Italian Windbreaker, two pairs of boat shoes, and foul-weather gear. Everything had the Serenity name and logo printed or embroidered on it and was navy blue, gray, or white. He mentioned that before the first weekend with the owners, we would also have our formal uniforms that would be worn when they were on board.
“They’ll be cotton, right?” was my immediate question to Patrick. I couldn’t imagine wearing polyester in what I sensed was going to be a hot summer in the galley.
“No, poly,” he said.
“The heat down here is going to be rough,” I emphasized.
He tried to allay my concern by saying, “Let me see what I can do.”
At the end of the second day, even after everyone else had packed it in and headed to the bars, pubs, or their apartments in town, I stayed on board. It took a while to plan where to put things. There wasn’t a lot of storage space, and I wanted to be familiar with the space I had before the provisioning began. Satisfied that I had done my best with this stage of my prep, I decided to get some sleep so I’d be able to get an early jump on my pantry shopping in the morning.
Six bunks lined both sides of the crew quarters. When Patrick suggested I pick a bunk in the small but separate captain’s quarters, my first thought was that the owners had told him that I should be treated as someone of rank. Such hopes were quickly deflated when a more likely explanation occurred to me: that maybe he knew something about the owners I didn’t and might be showing compassion for a condemned man.
I climbed up into my top bunk, turned on my side, and looked out of the cabin at the dimly lit crew quarters. Over a hundred yards of heavy anchor chains would run through steel tubes in the middle of the fo’c’sle and into lockers under the floor. I imagined how much space would be left after everyone brought their gear on board. The open hatch on deck let in the evening chill and the briny smell of seawater. It reminded me that one thing high and low alike would be forced to share on our voyage was the pervasive dampness that goes with living at sea.
As I lay there waiting for sleep, I focused on keeping my elbow clear of a thick iron deck beam that ran two feet above my chest. With the boat all to myself, I hoped I would get the uninterrupted night of rest I desperately needed. I knew this luxury wasn’t going to last.
Three
The One Without the Tan
Cap d’Antibes and the Estérel Coast
It was six-thirty in the morning, and I was on the foredeck trying to get through my daily routine of stretches and exercises. The night spent in the damp fo’c’sle had left my joints more than a little stiff, and my elbow ached from being banged against the overhead beam every time I rolled over in my bunk. Resting between sets of push-ups, my right cheek flat against the cold, dew-covered deck, I heard a greeting delivered in French-accented English.
“Welcome to zee pleasure dome!”
I craned my neck to identify the source of the greeting. A frazzled guy with a must-have-been-a-late-night look was standing next to me, a lit cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, the smoke getting into his eyes. He extended a hand and introduced himself. “I am Richard Corsaire, the steward,” he announced, “but you can call me Rick.” Having lived in the States, he later told me, he found it easier for Americans to handle this short nickname than to attempt a proper pronunciation of his French name. He took a final drag from his cigarette and, while flicking the butt into the water, acknowledged my exercise routine: “Push-ups at this hour, that’s good.”
Had he intended the comment sarcastically? I couldn’t tell. So I presumed the best of intentions on his part. “It’s the only time that seems to make sense,” I said as I got on my feet. “Good to meet you. Patrick told me you’d be around today. It looks like we have our hands full to get set up.”
“I will help you, but don’t worry,” he assured me. “It won’t be all work.” He had obviously misread my concern. “I can show you the Côte d’Azur you’ve never seen!”
The idea was intriguing. It would be a few weeks before the real cruising began that would take us out of France for the rest of the summer. I had heard a great deal about the sheer opulence of this coast and its famous cities—Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, Saint-Tropez. I had been to parts of the Riviera over the course of my years in Europe, and the glint in Rick’s eye suggested he knew of special sensory delights lurking off the beaten path. But I had a galley to equip, I told him, and that would have to come first.
“As you wish,” he said and went below.
A couple of hours later he invited himself to go to town with me to get my kitchenwares and check out the open-air mar
ket. As we walked toward the old town along the wide quay of the yacht club, Rick could take only so much work talk before changing the topic. “Listen, let’s get this done so we can go to the beach clubs on the Cap d’Antibes.” The exclusive beach areas on the coast are like the VIP rooms at trendy nightclubs, and Rick was eager to demonstrate his easy intimacy with such places. I’m usually not one to turn down an opportunity to go to the beach, but I held my focus on why I was there. “Maybe we can go after I’m set up,” I said.
Rick wasn’t buying. “David, look where we are!” His arm swept in a wide arc. “On the French Riviera, Europe’s summer playground! The eggs can wait.”
“Don’t you have stuff to do below to get ready?” I asked him. As steward, he had the owner and guest cabins to set up and common areas to help organize and maintain. When the owners were on board, he would be server, butler, valet, and house cleaner. Beverages, floral arrangements, and laundry were also in his domain.
“Why so fast? You are too nervous,” he said as he cleaned the lenses of his sunglasses with his shirt. “The owners are not fools. They wouldn’t have hired you if you couldn’t handle the job.”
“Maybe, but I’m not taking any chances.”
Finally convinced that I intended to work at outfitting the galley today, with or without his help, he shrugged and said, “Okay, I will not desert you. The French shopkeepers will see the American coming and pick clean his pockets.” He wanted it understood that it was only for me that he was giving up on the idea of spending the day at Plage Keller, his favorite beach club. His body language suggested that as a Frenchman he had made a generous sacrifice for his new friend.
As we walked, Rick started to sing a jingle celebrating life in the south of France: “The women are so hot, hot, hot ’cause they make you feel good, good, good!” And he lived what he sang. Each woman we passed got a sultry “Bonjour, madame” or “Bonjour, mademoiselle” from him. I was surprised at how often he got a smile and a pleasant “Bonjour” in return. Or at least a saucy flip of their hair.
Mediterranean Summer Page 6
