Mediterranean Summer

by David Shalleck

  Good thing the sea was fairly calm and I was contending only with the wind and the heel. Bouncing in a short swell would likely have closed me down. As it was, I made sure to work only with small quantities, and I left very little if anything on the counter. I timed opening cabinets and the refrigerator so that the pitch didn’t spill or empty the contents all over me. And I improvised. The large sink became my most valuable holding pen.

  Cutting and chopping uphill was one thing—gravity kept the pieces out of the way while I worked. Cutting downhill became a whole other story, and gravity was my foe. Everything rolled, rested against, or got in the way of the knife blade when slicing anything round. Zucchini became my worst enemy.

  Then there was my ongoing nemesis, the marine stove with no gimbals. The custom rail system built to hold the cookware on the burners proved a bust because it had been designed without regard to pot sizes. With increasing heel, it was useless. Hot liquid spills were more than an inconvenience, especially since I cooked in shorts and didn’t wear shoes. In Italian, the word is un casino—a general term for anything chaotic. Under way like this, things instantaneously became un grande casino.

  Rick came into the pantry to grab another bottle of champagne.

  “This is beautiful” is all he said while tearing the foil off the bottle top before bolting back up to the aft deck, moving with a slight jolt against the heel of the boat.

  “We might tack in a couple of minutes,” Kevin reported a few seconds later through the open hatch above me.

  “Who’s driving?” I asked.

  “Il Dottore took the helm.”

  I could picture the boss, standing at the wheel in the cockpit, steering with one hand, a cocktail in the other.

  “Can you share with Patrick that I’m down here trying to make lunch?” I asked, knowing that the message might be conveyed to Patrick but that he would never forward it to il Dottore.

  I could see through the porthole that we were making our way back up the coast toward Forte dei Marmi. The beaches looked crowded with hordes of black dots at the shoreline backed by rows of colorful beach umbrellas and blue-roofed cabanas. One beach club lined up after another, with the white marble cascades and mountains framing the scene from behind. But this was no time to enjoy the view. I needed to have the crew meal on the mess table as soon as we stopped, then a half hour or so after that, right into lunch for the owners and guests.

  The boat started to level off, and I could hear the headsails above me luff. We were tacking! I didn’t hear the call, and no one gave me the heads-up. I was right in the middle of cutting fruits for a macedonia—a mix of precious stone fruits that I carefully carried back from the market so as not to bruise. I scrambled to get the fruits to the other side of the guarded counter edge so they didn’t roll on their own. Right then, Kevin stuck his head through the hatch.

  “We’re tacking,” he sheepishly declared, suspecting the damage had already been done.

  “I caught it on the luff.” I didn’t hold it against him. I knew he meant well. By then, I had gotten used to listening for things around the boat, especially on deck when we were under way. It was the same as training your ear to the sounds of cooking—different pitches of sizzles with changes in heat and the varying sounds of boils and simmers as the density of liquid changes.

  Rick came into the pantry to take a quick break. He made himself an espresso, correcting it with a shot of cognac.

  “Nice stuff,” he said, downing his pick-me-up in one swallow. “Don’t worry. I bet we’ll be off the wind soon. La Signora is getting a little queasy.”

  He looked through the leftover breakfast pastries in the pantry, fishing for a snack. “Too sweet,” he said, and then made himself a cheese sandwich.

  “What are you making for lunch?” he asked while chewing.

  “Ours or theirs?”

  “The owners’, of course.” His look suggested that I had asked a ridiculous question.

  It took me a while to catch on to why Rick had been so adamant since Portofino on a “second passing” for each course. It meant there would be enough left for him. I had the feeling that some of the other directives he laid down for me were also coming from him, rather than la Signora. But the couple of times I questioned him, he held his ground, repeating the order “La Signora insists.” Rick knew I was much too insecure around her to question it.

  For lunch that day, I had decided to create two Tuscan classics. The antipasto was one of my favorites—fresh shrimp with white beans, tomatoes, and basil. With the hot weather, I served it at room temperature, not warm as is the custom. The short list of ingredients lost nothing in taste appeal with the change in serving temperature. Dressed and seasoned with a great olive oil and large crystal sea salt, this layered combination was a true example of the “one dish, one flavor” mantra of my friend Franco, the proprietor of Albergo del Sole.

  My only concern was the word to use to describe the shrimp. While I was working in the States, I came to realize that on the East Coast, the correct word was always “shrimp” and on the West Coast it was “prawns.” However, in the Italian American restaurant close to my parents’ house, shrimp were listed on the menu as “shrimp scampi,” and I didn’t discover until living in Italy that “scampi” is not a reference to how shrimp are cooked. Scampi are a different crustacean altogether, resembling something in size between a crawfish and a very small lobster. The French call shrimp gambas and smaller ones crevettes. In Italian, I was first led to believe that shrimp are gamberi, small ones being gamberetti and large ones being gamberoni. But as I moved down the Italian coast, shrimp took on different names. In Tuscany, they were spannocchi. Yet in the fish shop in Viareggio, the vendor sold them as mazzancolle. Then there are the variations in these words that come about as a result of local dialects.

  “Hey, David,” Rick asked from the pantry when he came to grab another bottle of wine, “how much in dollars is twenty-five miliardi”— billion—“of lire?”

  “I’d say fifteen or sixteen million,” I replied, based on the exchange I had been getting. “Why?”

  “Because whatever they’re talking about, that’s what it costs.”

  It wasn’t our business to know what transpired across their dinner table, but it would have been interesting to know what cost fifteen million bucks.

  The secondo—the entrée—was cacciucco livornese, the great dish from the commercial port of Livorno (spelled “Leghorn” on most English-language maps) that is Tuscany’s contribution to the repertoire of Italian fish stews. The dish requires five varieties of fish, one for each c in the word cacciucco, and preparing it correctly is an exercise in orchestrating the different cooking times for each one.

  The best way to describe making cacciucco would be a stove-top braise. The liquid for the “moist heat” method of cookery needed to have enough seasoning to augment but not overpower the flavor of the fish. This base sauce would be kept at a steady simmer as I added the succession of fish that I used—in this case, clams, monkfish, swordfish, sea bass, and a wonderful flaky Mediterranean fish called scorfano in Italian, scorpion fish in English. As they cooked in the simmering base, each added to what would become a very flavorful sauce. The smell of coastal Italian cooking coming out of the galley was sure to raise the guests’ anticipation of the meal.

  I could have used Serenity’s marinara sauce as a base, but instead, because of the season, chose a light and simple fresh tomato sauce made with very ripe tomatoes, a small amount of onion, salt, pepper, and sugar, in a manner chefs like to call “clean.” This would let the flavors of the different fish speak for themselves. Some hot red pepper flakes to spice it up, according to the owners’ preference, and grilled bread on the side made this a wonderful dish for pranzo— lunch. It is also a good item for entertaining, as it holds well. If the fish is cooked halfway the first time, it can finish with a gentle reheat.

  Earlier, when I was talking to the cooks in Romano’s kitchen, one offered his suggest
ion for making cacciucco, saying I should use “bellies and jowls.” No doubt this would make for a soulful concoction preferred by many a local, but with my top-shelf owners, I didn’t use the fishmonger’s reserve. Using fillets cut into nice chunks proved to be the right move.

  When an Italian wants to show satisfaction after a dining event, he’ll lightly press a pointed index finger into his cheek and turn it once or twice without saying a word. Both index fingers to both cheeks and it was even better. After lunch il Dottore came down to the galley and gave me the official hand signal for when something is really good, maybe the best thing one could have in one’s life—buonissimo—by rolling his hands and fingers over both cheeks as if turning doorknobs.

  Back in port, I went to see Romano to thank him for helping me. He was gracious and even gave me a bottle of his own olive oil from the family groves north of Lucca. I greedily decided to keep it for myself so I could drizzle it on a piece of grilled bread with a swipe of garlic—the Tuscan snack known as fettunta. The oil was so concentrated and distinct it left an impression of place through flavor. I almost felt as if I were eating a part of Tuscany.

  I had hit a home run with my cacciucco, and it felt good to get some positive feedback.

  Rick said to me after the meal, “Hey, David, we should do a whole fish so I can do some table-side service in the salon. They’d love it.”

  “It would certainly be different.” My thoughts leaned toward the practical. We didn’t have a side table or cart.

  “This is not a restaurant but one big house party. I need to give them some flair!” he proclaimed.

  “It would make you look good in front of the boss,” I said, teasing him.

  “C’est normal,” he insisted. Whenever Rick wanted something, he’d cloak it in a shroud of normalcy, as if that alone entitled him to whatever it was he wanted at the moment.

  I thought that afternoon about Rick’s definition of the job. He spoke the truth—this job did have the feel of a house party, and a rather exclusive one at that. Serenity, one of three boats in the owners’ stable, was earmarked as their floating summer home. What a great way to live. Two or three days each week sailing offshore and dipping into little coves and marinas must have been a great release from their workweek. Or did they really work? It was hard to tell. I had the feeling la Signora stayed pretty active, and I knew il Dottore ran a major conglomerate. But I still found it hard to imagine them in high-stress situations.

  I became increasingly curious about the rest of their lives as well. Each week they arrived on the family helicopter or jet, had a car service bring them to the boat, happily walked up the passerelle, came on board for the weekend, then reversed the sequence for the return trip. No public transit for them. I wondered who did all of the coordination, arranged the private air travel, scheduled the different car services, pinpointed the location of the boat. Michele told me back in Antibes that the owners maintained dedicated staff for their nine homes, three yachts, two jets, helicopters, and numerous cars. I made a rough count and figured it ran somewhere in the neighborhood of forty or fifty personal service staff. And that didn’t include the battery of employees who worked in the gardens and on the ranches. I was just a small part of their world, but they exhibited a quality found in so many powerful and successful people: when they spoke to me, I felt as if I were the only person in their employ. I also knew being a good cook satisfied only one requirement of my job. We need not become friends, but the owners had to like me.

  In that regard, I did understand my job was ultimately the same as Rick’s job. Both were about keeping the owners happy. Cooking for them in a private setting was very different from having them as customers in a restaurant, where other customers would be competing for the attention of the kitchen and dining room staff. In the situation I was in, the owners’ needs, their schedule, their whims, became my own.

  Because Serenity was their weekend residence, the feedback was different. The restaurant chef, influenced and informed, is the decisive palate behind the menu. A dissatisfied customer simply won’t come back. In private, it is the owners’ desires that mandate the cooking. And here, communication was up close and personal. As I learned, the owners were not shy about letting me know when something wasn’t right. Even though we were two months into the season, I had not worked for them long enough to be entirely sure if my cooking had yet made the grade. But I did start to get a sense, the more I prepared meals for them, watched their patterns, and took feedback, that I knew how to approach the food when the cooking began. Something as simple as knowing their preference for spiciness paid off with il Dottore’s two-handed doorknobs.

  I arranged the canapés in concentric circles on the silver tray we always used for cocktail service. I wanted the small, handmade savory pastries to suggest the artisanal effort by virtue of a neat, symmetrical presentation. Aesthetically, it worked beautifully and fortified my edict that making the first selection visually pleasing also made it more desirable to eat.

  La Signora came into the pantry while winding her watch, dressed up in a casual elegance I had not seen before—dark blue slacks and a crisp white blouse, her open collar giving way to a large pearl necklace. She seemed to be wearing a little more makeup than usual, that is, if she ever wore any. A gold lamé headband kept her long dark hair behind her ears so the matching pearl earrings could show.

  “We are going to dine onshore tonight, so no need to cook,” she said as she put her watch on.

  “Very good,” I responded, trying not to show surprise or disappointment. But when she left, I threw my hand towel into the sink with a frustrated snap.

  Why couldn’t I have been told sooner? She knew I worked all afternoon getting their dinner prepped and ready. Not even a mention of how good it smelled in the galley or an acknowledgment of seeing the components of the main course—my mise en place—out and ready for service.

  Now what do I do with all of the food? Obviously, my time in planning, shopping, and prepping and the cost of goods didn’t matter. I could hold some for the next day, like the calamaretti farciti—tiny calamari stuffed with Romano’s wonderful shrimp-and-vegetable filling, a signature of his restaurant. But I really looked forward to serving the incredibly plump rombo—turbot—just caught, gently baked with zucchini and a splash of wine. The rest would go into the crew menu, but I already had that meal ready, too. I made enough of the filling for the calamaretti to stuff pasta for baked cannelloni. Oh well, I thought, it’s their boat, their life, their money.

  “As soon as I serve the ladies their tisane before they go to bed,” Rick told me upon hearing the news, “I’m outta here.” La Signora had provided us with her custom tisane mix of dried herbs, flower petals, and roots blended at her local erborista, a concoction prepared like tea that apparently made for better, restful sleep and was a cure for all that ails you.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Back up to Forte dei Marmi! The harbormaster gave me the names of some clubs to hit. Time to play with the Florentine girls!”

  “By the way,” I asked him, “what were you doing at the harbor office?” “Making a telephone call. I can’t stand calling long-distance with phone cards,” he said with a flip of his hand. Rick’s use of stock French gestures always made me laugh.

  “You just go in and ask to use the phone?” I said incredulously.

  “I have it charged back to the boat,” he explained. “I’ll pay the boat back if Patrick asks. Just don’t tell the rest of the crew.”

  Monday morning, the owners were gone, and we threw ourselves into a massive group effort to get the boat washed down and clean. Scott, as if programmed, opened the engine room door first thing and kept it that way for the better part of the next few days. Rick got the laundry out and brought the flowers, at least those still in good shape, to the harbormaster’s office, knowing what he had to do to keep those phone lines open. He left Serenity more than slightly hungover, complaining in French, “C’est con,” w
hich in Rick’s vernacular roughly translated into: “These stupid tasks are a complete bummer and are taking away from my leisure time.” It was amazing how many large, stuffed laundry bags came out of the aft part of the boat. Much more than the crew. Patrick disappeared, only to return in time for lunch. Interesting, since I’d been on board, I had never seen him clean, paint, or varnish a thing.

  To some degree, we all wanted our lives back. Ian set up the folding table that fit over the anchor windlass while Nigel rigged the canopy above. Instantly, the foredeck again became our version of a summer porch. It was actually a better place to hang around than the cockpit. The perk of being parked stern-to put our bow a hundred-plus feet from the quay. So not only did we have a jury-rigged summer porch; we had a private one as well.

  The weather channel on the ship-to-shore radio, canale 68, crackled from the cockpit and reported clear skies and fair wind for the next few days as a high-pressure zone steadied itself over the central Mediterranean. Hearing this, Patrick said we should go for afternoon practice sails. “Glitches in maneuver speed” was how he put it. I had gotten used to these practice runs and never minded the fresh air. But others didn’t see it that way.

  By Tuesday evening, Kevin’s building frustrations that had started in Lerici could be detected in his eyes and his manner. I asked what the problem was, and he admitted it was over Patrick, who seemed to show a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality. Onshore, sharing a drink with us in the bars, Patrick was one of the guys, relaxed and friendly. But back on board, he became short-tempered, demanding, and inflexible.