Mediterranean Summer

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Mediterranean Summer Page 7

by David Shalleck


  Even though I was tense and eager to get to work, this guy was hard to dislike. Rick was an authentic French bon vivant. A passion for la dolce vita was clearly his motivation. Curious to know what went into making him the man he was, I encouraged him to tell me about his background. He didn’t need any arm-twisting.

  “I am a sailor by blood,” he explained. Born into a shipping family, he had grown up in Bordeaux and on the Atlantic coast. His father had skippered ferries from Calais across the English Channel to Dover. As soon as Rick was old enough, he went to sea, he said, to follow in his father’s footsteps as a sailor.

  “I worked on one of the French America’s Cup challengers,” he added with unmistakable pride, “and had a great time in Newport, Rhode Island, then in the maxi circuit.” If there is a hierarchy among sailors who serve on yachts, those who have raced competitively on large maxis—sixty-foot, high-performance, and technologically advanced racing boats—make up the top tier. Then, as if to concede that his life had not been all highs, he told me in a confidential tone, “After that I made a big mistake. I got married.” His short marriage to an American took him to Washington, D.C., where his new in-laws owned an upscale restaurant. He promptly went to work running the dining room and learning the finer points of elegant service. “The marriage was très mal, but I picked up good skills. And,” he continued, “the marriage has given me a son, so it was worth it.” No false sentiment here—the mere mention of his son seemed to cause Rick to stand a little prouder. He volunteered that his ex-wife and son still lived in America.

  “How did you get to Serenity?” I asked.

  “I know Patrick for a long time. We ran into each other a few months ago, and he told me he was looking for a steward. I was working on one of the boats down the quay from us. Life got a little too wild in the Caribbean and I had to get off.” He broke stride to greet a server in an open-air café, then caught up to me. “I know these people from the inside out,” he said, referring to the owners of the mega-yachts lined up alongside Serenity. “They work hard, and when they are not working, they want to be made happy, to be entertained. I can take care of this for them. Il Dottore and la Signora are no different from other people around here.”

  I pressed him on what he knew of our bosses. He filled me in, as much as he could, telling me that il Dottore had been born into moderate wealth, which he then multiplied many times over. Under his guidance, the family’s original textile business grew into one of Europe’s largest and most profitable privately held blue-chip companies. It was through his business dealings that he met la Signora. They had been married for many years.

  “I will buy nice wine for the owners,” Rick assured me. “That will make them happy. Don’t worry. It will be easy to please them. You’ll see.”

  I envied Rick’s confidence but didn’t share it. I had met the owners only once, during the job interview, and had definitely come away with the sense that they were not going to be easy to please.

  Now, walking through the old, narrow cobblestoned streets in the free commune of Safranier—a town within a town whose secessionist pride was expressed in the abundance of plants and flowers draping from overflowing window boxes—Rick and I arrived at a small but well-stocked kitchen supply store with the name Fournitures C. Quillier written across its awning. Inside, I carefully examined the copper and inox cookware and the large selection of professional kitchen tools they carried. How important was having the best kitchen equipment? There was no consensus among the chefs I had worked with. Bruno at Da Noi in Florence made magic using the humblest wares, while Larry at An American Place in New York never skimped on the quality of his equipment. It was Larry’s assertion that consistent results require a reliable batterie de cuisine.

  The inox pans were good because they were stainless steel both inside and out, making them easy to clean and resistant to corrosion from the salty air. I then found what I wanted most: a stainless set with clad layers of copper and aluminum sandwiched inside and stay-cool, ergonomically shaped handles. They would be up to the task of good heat retention and even distribution on my marine stove with low BTU’s. Because of the stainless steel interior, they would not cause food with high acidity like tomato sauce to have any off flavors. And their flanged rims around the whole circumference would make pouring sauces while under way in a rolling sea much easier.

  Working from my lists, I sized the pots and sauté pans, selecting each with a capacity two sizes larger than needed. Yes, each pot would do less work than it was designed to do, but the over-sizing would help avoid spillovers when my gimbal-less stove pitched in rough seas. Rick helped by pulling from the shelves stainless bowls, strainers, and a selection of ceramic baking dishes. In addition to a food processor, I chose a nice-sized marble mortar and pestle. Given the marble fixtures in the guest heads on the boat, a little extra weight forward in the galley might even add ballast to the waterline of the boat.

  Rick, once again being a true charmer, engaged the shopkeepers in a conversation about food and the good life. When they found out I was the cook on board, they gave me a couple of classic coastal French recipes, insisting that I absolutely had to have them in my repertoire if I would be sailing and cooking along the Riviera—brandade de morue, a whipped salt cod and potato preparation, and rouille, the rust-colored mayonnaise-like condiment for Provençal fish soup and poached seafood.

  We retraced our steps to Serenity to drop off our purchases, a hundred pounds of nesting sauce pots, stacked sauté pans, and bags of kitchen tools. Rick came back to town with me, this time to the marché Provençal—Provençal market—that was set up under a long paned-glass roof supported by ornate wrought-iron columns in front of city hall in the old town. Once there I reminded him that we needed to work fast. “But first things first,” he corrected me as he filched a handful of strawberries from a stand. “You have to stay healthy,” he explained, pulling on his cigarette between bites. “It helps you party longer.”

  The crowded market teemed with color, and the claylike smell of freshly picked produce was heavy in the air. Vendors greeted prospective buyers and shouted sellers’ talk to one another. The items marked “fermier” and “de pays,” which meant they were from the area, like the strawberries Rick snatched, were available from the local farmers along the center aisle.

  All of a sudden I was back in the valley of the Vaucluse. Those initial Technicolor days when life in the south of France made its first impression. I’d shadow my host, Nathalie, on her daily open-air market expeditions, leaving early in the morning to go to a different market each day—Apt, L’Isle sur la Sorgue, Cavaillon, Saint-Rémy, Aix-en-Provence, Arles, and, once on a Sunday, Coustellet, where predominantly peasants and gypsies sold their goods from makeshift tables or from the backs of their little blue Piaggio Ape farm vehicles.

  Those markets shared similar characteristics with the endless rows of stalls winding through the streets. Butchers, fishmongers, bakers, produce vendors, cheese sellers, charcutiers, and florists sold from tables, crates, baskets, and modified delivery trucks with sides that opened to reveal wonderful displays of food in long glass cases. Selling and buying were both very cordial: greetings were exchanged, choices made, quantities weighed, items wrapped, and cash paid.

  Nathalie made a point to walk the market and survey the stalls before making any of her purchases. During this first pass she would start to plan her menus, based on what caught her eye in the various stalls. She also had a short list of vendors to whom she always gave business: the cheese maker who sold chèvre—goat cheese—in various stages of ripeness; the young fellow of Cambodian heritage who introduced himself as Louie and made endless varieties of saucisson— salami; the couple who sold perfumed herbs and seasonings, had a company called Provence Vie et Santé, and foraged the local hillsides for the aromatics that would compose their different blends of herbes de Provence.

  It was the same time of year as when I arrived in Antibes, and I remembered my first glimpse of loca
l agriculture. Perfectly handled, displayed, ripe, and scented produce—peak-season asparagus, artichokes, leeks, strawberries, cherries, and melons—were piled high in pyramids or prepackaged in small crates and wooden baskets. Shiny Mediterranean fish were lined up next to each other on ice tables under colorful makeshift canopies. Bakeries brought different kinds of breads displayed in large wicker baskets lined with traditional Provençal printed fabric, each crust looking crispier than the last. The saucisson vendors with their edifices of cured meats were never shy about offering a sample. And the cheese sellers in their customized trucks had so much variety it was hard to choose.

  I’d follow Nathalie through the markets as she looked, sniffed, lightly pressed, and rejected, until she settled on the firmest green vegetables, evenly marbled meats, handcrafted local cheeses, and sun-ripened fruits that had to be consumed within a day or so. She gently handled all of the purchases, paying respect to the hard work of the farmers who nurtured such wonderful foodstuffs and proudly brought them to market for the enjoyment of people looking for quality.

  One day, I was immediately drawn to a table covered with piles of white asparagus and purple-tipped artichokes. When I picked up an artichoke, the woman behind the table said, “Tirez une feuille.” Nathalie explained that I was being invited to pull a leaf off to see how fresh they were. I obliged. It squeaked when it snapped off.

  “I have never seen anything so perfect in my life,” I said, and bought a dozen for us to eat that evening, so tender we ate them raw with Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

  “It starts with choice,” Nathalie said as we walked past a table laden with big ceramic crocks full of different varieties and blends of olives. “When the ingredients are optimum, the cooking can be simple.”

  It struck me that this same food had been feeding Provençal citizens for hundreds of years.

  In just two days, Serenity was going on a short trip to nearby Cannes and back before dark. This would be the first sea trial with the owners on board—a finish inspection, test of the systems, and check of the sailing apparatus to make sure the rig was set up properly. As we walked past the local produce vendors, I struggled to come up with a menu for that day’s lunch. A slightly heavyset farmer with bold features popping out of a round face topped with a captain’s hat was offering high-quality local produce, mostly different blends of mesclun salad greens, bunches of fresh herbs, and piles of red tomatoes.

  “Bonjour, chef!” he greeted me. Rick and I wore our gray Serenity polo shirts and dark blue cargo shorts, the working uniform when the owners were not on board that clearly identified us as yacht crew. To this day, I don’t know what made him think I was a chef, but I found myself inwardly pleased that one look at me and he immediately jumped to that assumption. Even if he was just blowing smoke at me in promoting me to chef, he at least saw me as a cook and chef wannabe. He owned a small farm in Biot, he told me, just off the coast behind Antibes. These were his homegrown vegetables. No wonder he displayed so much pride in his wares.

  “Look at these zucchini blossoms, perfect for delicious beignets!” he assured me. Crispy beignets. Might be a great idea, but I was not about to deep-fry anything on my first day at sea. Then the farmer directed my attention to a small table covered with tomatoes. “Take this one, go ahead, feel it. In one day, they’ll be perfect for salad.” It was late spring, and his vegetables were bursting in color. “Viene ici”—come here—“look at this beautiful early-season green garlic.”

  I was so locked onto thinking about what I would be preparing for that first lunch at sea that I was barely able to follow his stream of chatter. I reminded myself what a friend of mine, a chef in San Francisco, once said to me: “Whenever you find yourself in a can’t-fail situation, do what you know!”

  I thought of a grand aioli, a Provençal dish made with poached salt cod and periwinkles served with an assortment of cooked, usually boiled, vegetables and aioli—a heady garlic mayonnaise. It’s a pretty rustic dish, so I decided to do a slight variation. I’d make the aioli much more subtle by using the young green garlic before the bulb starts to form, thrice blanched, and local extra virgin olive oil. And by making it a day ahead would give the flavors a chance to fully bloom. In lieu of the cod and snails, I could poach some nice fish fillets like grondin, a popular rockfish found in the Mediterranean, along with some shrimp. Then I’d arrange small new potatoes, tender leeks, green beans, and a few hard-cooked eggs for tradition around a bowl of the aioli. I’d offer another platter with sliced tomatoes and a cluster of lightly dressed field greens. To finish, tart and juicy strawberries, crunchy deep red cherries, calisson—a Provençal confection made with almond paste—and maybe some madeleines, too. This should keep the folks in the cockpit happy on this first day under sail and give me a chance to get used to serving meals on platters.

  Not knowing exactly how many guests would be on board worried me, and I found myself thinking back to a small piece of culinary lore that Jacques, the proprietor of the inn in Provence where Nathalie arranged for us to cook, used to recite to me: “However many people you must feed, always add a portion for the berger”—the shepherd—“who may pass by.” While we weren’t going to be running into any shepherds on the Mediterranean Sea, prudence told me that in my first chance to flash my skills to the owners, I couldn’t risk not having enough food. With three confirmed guests and a possible fourth, I took Jacques’s advice and doubled it, meaning that I would prepare enough for six.

  For the crew, meat-filled ravioli tossed with great French butter, Parmesan, and a few turns of black pepper. A small variety of sliced meats from the charcuterie, some cheeses, baguettes for sandwiches, and, for local flavor, a celery root salad made with a creamy dressing using some of the aioli. This would add some heft to the meal and provide the deckhands with needed carbohydrates. Fresh fruits would be an easy finish, and Kevin, Scott, Ian, and Nigel—the commonwealth contingent—had already told me they wanted tea and English Hob Nob biscuits to finish their meals, especially at lunch.

  I worked through the crowd, selected the items I wanted, waited to have them weighed, pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket, did the transaction, and moved on. It was going to be a pleasure having this market minutes from my galley. Rick was sitting on a vegetable crate watching the world go by, at least the female half, and for a brief moment I thought about telling him how relieved I was to have gotten so much done. But I held back, knowing that any sign of showing I was ahead of schedule might invite another hard-sell pitch to hit the Cap.

  Rick and I turned down a pedestrian-only side street lined with traiteurs, prepared-food shops; boucheries, butchers; a fromagerie, cheese shop; an épicerie, spice shop; a rotisserie; and one shop I expected I would need often. Called La Boîte à Pâtes—the Box of Pasta—it was an Italian-inspired food shop run by a young and enterprising French couple. I could get the ravioli here, and this would become my resource for many Italian ingredients when in Antibes.

  I had to admit I was off to a good start. Although the overall provisioning would take a couple of weeks, I had enough on hand to make my galley a working kitchen. Once back at the boat, I lounged on the foredeck with Rick for a few minutes before going below to set up the galley. I looked around at the boxes and bags of pots, pans, small wares, and food spread out around the crew way and began to figure out where to put everything. I wanted to get started with my prep work before sea trial day. Rick joked at my meticulousness but knew he would soon have to be working just as diligently. Well, almost as diligently. He took one look at the rest of the crew working on the rigging and decided he didn’t want to be spotted and pressed into service. Making himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, he sneaked aft along the scuppers, down the passerelle, and onto the quay, no doubt off to the beach.

  Saturday morning came, and Michele arrived early. He called a quick meeting with the crew at the mess table. His tone was all business.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “The boat looks beaut
iful, and everyone has done a great job. The owners are very proud and are looking forward to a grand inaugural season. As you know, we have a strong presence in Europe. It is very important that you understand how to act since you are their representatives onshore. There is a code of ethics that you must follow so that we can enjoy what working on Serenity is all about.” He proceeded to list his rules and made clear there was no room for discussion or debate:

  Always remember as crew, we represent the owners.

  When onshore, do not mention the owners’ names publicly.

  Any display of the boat’s name in public is to be respected as an extension of the boat.

  Be aware of how to act onshore whether on boat time or personal time.

  Be aware of personal hygiene; that is, stay clean and shaved.

  Respect your fellow crew members and those on other boats.

  Anyone that is discovered to have taken any kind of payment for information about the owners or the boat will be fired immediately.

  “Does everyone understand?” he asked rhetorically. Everyone nodded. “Thank you and have a great season.”

  At precisely nine o’clock, as scheduled, the owners’ helicopter arrived, circling a couple of times at low altitude before landing on the roof of the yacht club, not far from our berth. The entrance was exhilarating, and they made the door-to -passerelle transit look easy. Even though this was an “informal” visit, everyone seemed a little stressed and guarded. Patrick received the owners when they came up the passerelle as if he were the captain of the Queen Mary. It felt like we had dignitaries on board. Only Rick seemed perfectly calm.

 

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