I began to fillet Gianni’s fish and took note of the glistening of its firm white flesh. Once I had it broken down and the short list of ingredients prepped, I could feel it would come out well, one of those intangibles cooks can tell as soon as the process of cookery begins. I kept thinking about that day at Don Alfonso. And I remembered Faith told me this was an important dish to learn. Now I was making it on my own. The only foil was the amount of steam and spiraling humidity in the galley, making every pore in my body open up, adding more heat to the already sweltering work space. A total contrast in ambience to the relaxing and jovial banter I could hear from the mid-deck above me, all of the guests under the canopy at the table sipping champagne in anticipation of the dining event. Within such close range, hearing it made me want to be there.
Soon after I sent the fish up, I was summoned to the table. I quickly changed my shirt for a dry one before heading up on deck. Gianni looked at me with a long face and an even longer pause. Then he broke into a huge grin and said, “This is better than how my paesani make it. And from an American!” The table erupted with frivolity no doubt fueled by multiple bottles of champagne. Il Dottore offered a rare superlative beyond one of his hand signals to communicate exceptional taste: “This is mitico”—mythical.
“Bravo!” Dennis added, while to the chorus of praise his wife pronounced it “da morire”—to die for.
Gianni also basked in his glory. Having brought a treasure from the sea to the applause of guests and owners, he tried to stretch his moment of triumph by hanging with the crew on the foredeck until la Signora not so subtly hinted with a twirl of her finger that the time was ripe for him to don his fins and return to the water. He finally caught on, gave a quick wave, and dove over the side of the boat into the water.
I felt bad for Gianni, but the scene stayed with me because it reminded me of the other side of la Signora. When she wanted something, she expected it to happen, and our job was to make it so. Period. Maybe that was a good thing also. The fact that she set her standards high and that she expected the rest of us to reach up to those standards did make a lot of us stretch higher.
But still, whenever there seemed a chance that the two of us might intersect, I consciously avoided her. If I had to go aft, I passed on the other side of the deck. For the most part, she didn’t say much to me except to inquire about the menu. “Cosa c’e di buono a mangiare?”—What good things are there to eat? Although it was always phrased as an innocent question, something about her tone made me feel it was a cover for a statement that went something like: “It better be what I want, make me look good, and be delicious.”
I found it easier for me to communicate with her through the food.
On the eighth of August, we were scheduled to arrive in Ponza, the largest of the Pontine Islands, northwest of Ischia. By now, I was addicted to our trusty mariner’s pilot guide. Every island and every port had its own story of lost ships, daring rescues, and exiled monarchs. Ponza would not let me down.
The Romans, it seems, didn’t just banish from the court those who found themselves in disfavor or had recently lost power. When necessary, they exported them to the Pontine Islands, whose most famous exiles were the brothers and sisters of the emperor Caligula. When Rome fell, pirates were said to take over the island and with the aid of assorted other sociopaths became its effective rulers for more than a thousand years.
As soon as we approached the island, I was surprised. It didn’t look like the other islands we had visited, with chiseled mountains rising from rocky coastlines. Just the opposite, the rock formations were low and seemed to rise right out of the sea, as if the water table had once been lower and the island larger. The island, I would soon learn, is ringed with underwater rock formations. Apparently the others knew what I was just learning—that Ponza, and the other islands in the Pontine archipelago, are merely the highest points of a volcanic eruption that created a much larger landmass, most of it barely underwater and often visible to the naked eye.
Nigel and I stood by the starboard rail on approach, only to see Serenity skirt one of the volcanic daggers by what seemed like no more than inches. Neither of us said a word. As we pulled in closer, I saw young people riding inflatable skiffs dashing in and out of Ponza’s coves to bask on the smooth rock formations and small white sand beaches. There was something about the island that radiated youth.
Later that morning, as Rick and I were cleaning up after breakfast, la Signora came into the pantry.
“Richard and Davide, tomorrow we are going to a small cove where there are some natural fango”—mud baths—“nearby. I am taking the ladies onshore for the day. We’d like to leave no later than eleven, so, Richard, we will need the scafo”—the launch—“in the water and loaded with everything we’ll need. Davide, we’ll take lunch with us, so if you can prepare a simple menu, that would be great. We will serve ourselves. The men can fend for themselves.”
“No problem, signora,” Rick quickly replied.
“Hai capito, Davide?” she said, snapping me to full concentration.
“Sì, signora, I’ll take care of it.”
The good thing about working for the superrich is that you get to see how they live. That’s the bad part as well. Ponza’s romantic coves and the inflatable skiffs I saw buzzing in and out of them made me envious. I wanted to be in one of those little boats myself, just once, with a girlfriend of my own, spending a sultry afternoon exploring the island’s fascinating coastline—not assembling antipasti in a galley where the temperature easily topped a hundred degrees and was trapped nicely by Serenity’s steel hull.
I wasn’t well equipped to handle a picnic, but once I put some thought into it, I realized a beach menu wasn’t too difficult to compose: marinated chickpeas with arugula to be served with sliced prosciutto, the Tuscan bread salad panzanella, and grilled tuna panini inspired by pan bagnat from the French coast, replacing the canned tuna that is usually used with thin slices of grilled fillets. The ladies wouldn’t be cooking anything onshore, just finishing. I figured that with the heat, and without proper refrigeration, I should create a menu made with as much from the pantry as possible since many of those ingredients are already shelf stable. At the same time, I wanted the food to be light, refreshing, and easy to assemble.
One of the challenges I faced was how to keep the salads over a period of time so that they could be dressed and not wilted at the desired time of service. The trick was in the packing, keeping the dressing at the bottom of the container and then layering the salad ingredients, each in order starting from the wettest such as tomatoes on the bottom to the driest such as any herbs or greens. This way, everything on top of the wet ingredients stayed “dry” until lunchtime.
We didn’t have a cooler on board, so the bigger challenge was how to keep the food chilled, safe, and in good shape under the hot August sun. It wasn’t as if there were shops along a boardwalk like on the Jersey shore where I could get one. I told Rick I’d figure something out. But his look suggested that this was the least interesting thing he had heard all day. Then I scrambled and came up with a plan. Maybe at the fish shop in town I could get a couple of Styrofoam fish boxes and buy some ice. Once they were thoroughly washed, I could fill the boxes with a layer of ice, then sprinkle a thin layer of salt to solidify the ice to slow down the melting, place the food inside, add another layer of ice to cover, put the lid on, and wrap the boxes in aluminum foil and then garbage bags. If Rick placed them in the shade under some rocks nestled in cool, wet sand, they should be fine. One for food, the other for beverages.
“Don’t forget your corkscrew,” I needled a miserable-looking Rick as he started the launch’s small putt-putt motor and got it ready to pull around to the boarding ladder. It was the first time we put the restored original wood dinghy in the water, a different vessel from the inflatable tender that we normally used.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said with a grimace. But I noticed he was all smiles when he piloted the boat to the other side of the y
acht and offered a hand to each of the women as they boarded—all sporting large designer sunglasses and wide-brimmed sun hats.
It was a girl’s day out. “Adagio,” I heard la Signora say to Rick as they pulled away, using the classical music term for a movement that should be played slowly, no doubt a directive to dampen Rick’s reputation for speed.
The next morning il Dottore invited me to join him onshore as he grabbed Alex’s red leash and brought him with us. This was a first—il Dottore never spent any social time with me—and I liked the idea. Maybe the “crazy water” lunch with Gianni’s grouper finally inspired him to take a deeper look into my world. Nigel and Scott were already in the cockpit polishing the brass when we went to board the tender. Nigel looked like he was off to a slow start that day. Ian told me in the galley they had snuck off in the tender late the night before, rowing it a good distance from Serenity before starting the engine and heading to a beachfront discotheque, Frontone, not far down the coast.
Il Dottore and I went into the small commercial port and walked along the stone quay. I was in my Serenity uniform while il Dottore was in his casual summer attire complete with designer Italian driving shoes. Alex walked ahead of us. At first, we didn’t say much aside from small comments about the beauty of Ponza and the tranquillity of the morning. Then I told him I used my early-morning walks to unwind—that they were as much a part of my physical regimen as my sit-ups.
“I see,” he said. “Very smart of you.” And we ambled a bit farther down the quay. Then he popped a request that coiled me up again.
“Davide, do you think it’s possible we could have some meat for dinner one of these nights?” At that moment, even Alex perked up and stared at both of us.
My first sinking thought was la Signora’s insistence about eating only fish and seafood. Il Dottore, during my interview, sat right next to her when she said that. He knew her rules. Unsure how I would clear this with la Signora, I coughed up, “I’ll get some on board.” At least this would buy me time until I figured out what to do.
Then the inevitable happened. Alex’s leash tugged. He circled around one of the bollards next to a pile of fishnets, furrowed his brow, assumed a squatting position, and relieved himself. Il Dottore and I looked at each other. Since Alex wasn’t mine, I just stood there, not feeling that it was my job to clean up after his dog. Plus, I was about to embark on procuring the day’s food. Il Dottore had the “I don’t take care of this type of thing” expression on his face. Alone, he no doubt would have just kept walking. Now there was a witness. We found ourselves at a crucial impasse. We looked at each other again, looked back at Alex, who didn’t care one way or the other, shrugged our shoulders, and walked on. I now felt a little closer to il Dottore since I was privy to yet another of his quiet conspiracies. First the pasta fix, then the meat request, now this. I vowed to get him some meat.
After a few days at Ponza and another small island nearby, Palmarola, we weighed anchor for our next destination. I had never felt lower on departure. I loved Ponza. One can claim those little beaches nestled under the cliffs for a day. Even its name is cool.
But there was nothing wrong with Capri. Then again, I had to remind myself, I was seeing these islands, even during high season, from an offshore base. No crowds at sea. And early-morning forays onshore before the world took to the streets continually offered the chance to get a taste of a day in the life from the places we were in, and this was a great one.
I walked up a fairly steep and narrow road to the town of Capri, a route I remembered from a previous visit. The wildflowers in full bloom were as colorful as I remembered them. Along an old stone wall at the side of the road, a massive growth of purplish blue morning glories were basking in the sun. I was struck by the hand-painted ceramic tiles posted or inserted in the walls in front of the homes with the residents’ names or house numbers adorned with caricatures of fish or sea creatures swimming around them. And the view of the sea, with Serenity at anchor below, gently bobbing in the shimmering water, was glorious.
A quick cappuccino in one of the caffès in the piazzetta at the town center was apropos before starting my quest. The key was being in the caffè, since at the bar a cappuccino would be a couple of bucks. Had I taken a seat outside, it could easily be ten or even twelve. It’s one of those fairly consistent things throughout the land, but in high-brow places like Capri, especially in summer, prices were a little higher. Plus, a little harmless eavesdropping on the locals was a great pastime. Women spoke about social gatherings, men about soccer.
As had become the norm, I let the markets and shops drive my menu planning. I went to the forno to get in on the first bake, and asked if they could hold my purchase until I returned. This way there would be less bulk in transit through the very narrow and bustling pedestrian-only streets in town. Then I passed one of the latterie, and the feature for that day’s lunch jumped out. The delivery must have been dropped off minutes before I arrived because what was in front of me was incredible. Three cheeses from the same vat of milk: caciotta, the first cheese pulled from the curds that are then formed in small wicker baskets, was still draining whey in the tub it was delivered in; jumbo egg-shaped balls of fior di latte mozzarella, made from those same curds and so fresh they were still tepid, were floating in a milky brine to season them; puffy snow-white ricotta—curds from the reboiled whey—in little plastic conical baskets had a little steam rising from their milk-fatty tops as the cheese settled into the molds. The only other way to get cheese fresher than this would be to have a cow on the boat! I took a kilo of each on sight alone. They’d be in perfect shape by the time they were served at lunch with thick slices of tomato, a healthy drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, and crystals of coarse sea salt. A slight departure from the ubiquitous insalata caprese, this version with a trio of fresh cheeses was true to form.
I had to take one of the little convertible taxis, unique to the island, back down the hill. These modified Fiats from the 1950s are to Capri what yellow cabs are to Manhattan. And the drivers were funny guys. The taxi I chose was bright blue, others were red, and I saw a couple that were pink and yellow. Most of them had a decoration attached to the front grille, like a bouquet of plastic flowers or some kind of stuffed animal.
But back on board, the long days and incessant heat were beginning to take their toll down below. Scott, our regulator of power distribution, refrained from turning on the air conditioner in the fo’c’sle. With the owners and guests on board and our constant nights at anchor, most of the available juice went to the aft areas of the boat. We had to be satisfied with the occasional slight breeze that came through our small portholes.
“Get used to it” was all he said in answer to our pleas for cool air.
It was also in Capri that la Signora first began to venture into the galley. She walked in one day with a bagful of hard-to-find tartufi di mare—sea truffles—small clams whose shells resemble truffles. Apparently, she hit the fish shop at just the right moment. “They don’t show up every day and are gone quickly when they do come in,” she explained to me, adding, “Delicacies like this are valued by those who have an eye for them.
“Per favore,” she asked me, “could we have them on the half shell, nice and cold, with a little lemon on the side? That can be our first course at lunch.”
She was keen on having them, like the sea urchins, crudo—raw.
It wasn’t long before il Dottore made his way to the galley to see his companion’s catch.
“How did she ask you to prepare them?” he asked.
“Raw with just a little lemon,” I replied, following directions.
“I want them steamed,” he shot back.
I didn’t know what to say or what to do.
“It’s unhealthy how she wants them. Who knows what kind of water they were in,” he said.
He excused himself and went up on deck. Moments later, la Signora called for me to come to the deck, and I found myself dead center in a debate over a sack of
clams.
“Raw is the right way—it is summer—this is how you eat them,” she lobbied.
“You don’t know what the water is like,” he answered.
“Amore, look at the blue—there is nothing wrong with this water.”
“I just want you to be healthy. Steaming them will make sure you don’t get sick.”
“Do you think I would eat something to make me or any of my guests sick?”
“Why take the chance? What’s wrong with steaming them?” Il Dottore looked to the guests, trying to sway support to his side. No one blinked an eye, fearing it might be taken as support one way or the other.
“Scusi, if I may,” I said, realizing that an intervention was in order. “How about if I make them half one way and half the other?”
They both looked at me. It was quiet for a few seconds, and then they both said, “Va bene.”
A day later, news came down to me through Rick that I was about to have another chef in the kitchen. Rick, ever the crew conduit for owner gossip, reported that la Signora had announced to her guests that she would be preparing her signature dish, spaghetti con astice— spaghetti with lobster—the next afternoon.
Rick continued that the guests, led by Dennis of course, lustily clapped and cheered at this announcement.
La Signora came down to the galley the next day, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a scarf that gently fell over her chocolate brown one-piece bathing suit. A large white towel was wrapped around her middle. This was the first time we had ever been alone, for the rest of the crew somehow disappeared on deck.
She prodded and inspected the ingredients I had prepared in advance. She had requested lobsters with claws—astice—not the local spiny lobsters—aragosta—that didn’t have claws. “More meat and more flavor,” she told me. I was curious about this preference since astice are not indigenous to the Mediterranean. By the time she arrived in the galley, I had broken them down into pieces—claws, knuckles, the tails cut into three, and the bodies—according to her instructions. I also provided two kinds of oil, extra virgin and sunflower; a couple of onions; garlic cloves; fresh, ripe, peeled and halved San Marzano tomatoes; whole peperoncini; parsley; and of course spaghetti. She gave a quiet “perfetto” as she touched each ingredient.
Mediterranean Summer Page 21
