Mediterranean Summer (15 page)

Santa Margherita Ligure is
a nostalgic but manicured resort town, a small city by the sea not far down the coast from Portofino and only two hours due south of Milan. It is considered by many to be the crown jewel of the Italian Riviera. Long ago, some creative soul, no doubt in a cost-saving gesture, chose to paint the decorative architectural detailing onto its buildings rather than carve it out of stone or wood. Now it is the Italian Riviera’s signature feature, and only the most skilled of craftsmen continue the tradition that had such humble beginnings. Manicured palm trees, expertly cut shrubs, and clusters of flowers brighten the boulevards, traffic islands, and coastal walkways.

I arrived at Santa Margherita’s open-air food market just as the nine o’clock church bells rang. At this hour only the regulars were doing their shopping. By ten, they knew that throngs of visitors would descend on the market, taking up lots of room at the stalls, looking but not buying. I, too, wanted to complete my shopping before the tourists arrived. I also would have loved to follow up a morning of shopping with a leisurely lunch with wine, as I did in Provence, but today there would be no time for leisure. By late afternoon, the owners and their guests would be arriving.

I learned in the market that it was already too late in the season for any of the
primizie
—first of the season—tender vegetables and greens long awaited by the locals after the winter months. But an amazing bounty was still available—piles of artichokes, fava beans, peas, different varieties of zucchini, three colors of asparagus, leeks, and a veritable garden of greens and herbs. I could get Italian
salumi,
cheeses, and groceries in any number of shops nearby. This was also a good chance to find a few bottles of small-production Ligurian olive oil, preferable for its light and almost fruity flavor, and some of the area’s great black olive paste, which would make a nice addition to the pantry. The small but meaty local olives, with their subtle brininess, lend themselves well to mixing with mayonnaise as a condiment, or to blending with the juices left in the pan after baking fish to make a simple sauce.

The fish market was only a few minutes away, but it appeared that
la Signora
wasn’t the only one with a taste for the tiny
bianchetti.
By the time I arrived, only one vendor had any to sell, and even he had only a few pounds. I cleaned him out. If
la Signora
arrived with a full boat of guests, I would serve
bianchetti
as a dinner first course. Fewer guests, and they would be the lucky ones to have it as a luncheon main course.

At another vendor, I spotted a large bright red center-cut piece of tuna. The meat was glistening and showed a very thin fat line, that dark, useless part of the meat that runs along its spine. I had to get some. Long before I set sail, I read somewhere that in Liguria, a traditional method of cooking fish is to set it on a thick piece of hot slate called a
ciappa,
a method essentially the same as cooking on a griddle. I asked the fish vendor where I could find one. He pointed me in the direction of a housewares store in the harbor area just down from the fish market. I should try this, I thought. So I bought enough tuna for a full boat—eight guests and seven crew. It would be tuna steaks from the
ciappa,
smeared with that olive paste, topped with a cluster of
à la minute
chopped parsley, and served with roasted potatoes on the side.

Around eleven, I made my way back to the dock, catching the little coastal ferry that would bring me back to Portofino. During the short ride, it was my turn for stress. I could feel the tension rising in me. I knew it had to do with our being in Italy, essentially in
la Signora
’s backyard. She knew the difference between good versus very good and truly authentic Italian cooking, and I worried about my cooking passing the test of her highly refined palate.

Rick greeted me on my return, and then joined me down below.

“Make sure there is enough for a second passing,” he said as we rummaged through the silver closet looking for which platters would be best to use that night.

“Seconds?” I gasped. I had planned on a multicourse meal, but had calculated amounts based on one pass for each course.

“
C’est normal,
” he responded, as if I should have known this already. “Plus, you never know how much someone will take the first time, so it is proper to offer a second pass.”

I didn’t know this—in fact, I hadn’t even considered it. And I wasn’t sure what “seconds” actually meant to them. Is the second-round portion the same size as the first? Would it come off as wasteful if I sent full platters the second time, and there were no takers? I settled on a 50 percent solution. If I was cooking for eight, I would make enough for twelve, the second passing made up of smaller portions.

La Signora
had gone over with Rick how she wanted the meals served, and now it was Rick’s turn to explain this to me. He’d present the first platter for each course to
la Signora,
then move counterclockwise to each of the other women, but because of the banquette he couldn’t serve from the left, so he’d have to find a place to extend over the table to get to those on the other side. He’d finish the women with
la Signora,
then move on to the men in the same direction, ending at
il Dottore.
The platter would come back to the galley, never being left on the table. I would then rework and arrange a second platter for the next pass. Dessert, I suggested, should be plated, at least sometimes, because soft and creamy items like
panna cotta,
that delicate, custard-like Italian classic, needed to be portioned, as it would not fare well if served on a platter. Others, like cakes and tarts, could be offered as per our new, standard method of service. Unless otherwise directed, we seemed to have our system for the remainder of the season.

The owners arrived on
schedule, circling the area in their helicopter in what seemed like their signature greeting, then landing nearby at a private airport. It must have made them proud to see the boat from above, sitting in the middle of the quay, stretching farther than any other in the marina. Two other couples came on board with them.

Not long after, I could hear the owners and guests coming below, chatting with the clipped energy of holidaymakers.
Il Dottore
—relaxed in what appeared to be his weekday uniform, slacks and a button-down shirt with an open collar and rolled sleeves that had the sharp look of custom tailoring—stuck his head in the galley with a big smile and said, “
Ciao, Davide,
how are you?” while he looked around, taking in every detail of his yacht. Then Rick came into the pantry with a “here we go” look, suggesting to me that even he was a little nervous now that he had to be on full-time good behavior. All of a sudden, it became a whirling dervish of activity.

A few minutes later
la Signora
came into the galley to say hello and get an overview of the weekend’s menu. Her colorful printed blouses seemed to be a trademark. I had mentioned that to Rick when we were in Monte Carlo. “Haute couture is what she’s about,” he said.

“
Ciao, Davide.
What good things are there to eat this weekend?” she asked with a slight edge in her voice. I told her how good the food shopping had been that morning and that I had found the
bianchetti
she requested. She appeared happy to hear this. Then I briefly explained some of the items I planned on serving and how they would be prepared. I couldn’t help but feel as if she were testing me, making sure I stuck to her dictates and wasn’t going to surprise her or her guests with anything other than the food she wanted. I told myself that perhaps she just wanted to know—and she did seem genuinely interested in food—but I could not shake the feeling of having to toe the line rather than use my own judgment.

While
la Signora
was grilling me, I could hear Rick in the pantry, no doubt preparing the cocktails. Hoping to impress
la Signora
with something I had done on my own initiative, I happily reported that I had saved 10 percent on the food shopping. I wanted to show her, a little too eagerly maybe, that she could be confident I was spending her money wisely.

“Davide. After eight
miliardi”
—about five million dollars—“to buy this boat and another three for the first refit, do you think we are concerned about saving 10 percent on the grocery bill?” she said with a smirk, as if holding back a laugh. She looked at Rick, and I followed her look to him. It was clear that even though he couldn’t understand Italian, he, too, had caught her point and was holding back a laugh. Then she continued, “It’s okay, Davide, you can take the summer off. You don’t have to concern yourself with trimming the budget.”

A few minutes later I decided to go topside for a breath of air. Patrick, Kevin, and Ian were helping
il Dottore
raise two proud new additions to
Serenity
—the European Union flag and the Italian tricolor. It was official.
Serenity
was now registered as an Italian sailing vessel, governed by Italian maritime law, after decades of cruising under British registry. The guests cheered as
il Dottore
looked up at this symbol of his heritage with unmistakable pride in his eyes.

I returned to the galley to begin Friday night dinner, determined to get an early start to make sure I had enough time to cook. I looked at the pile of fresh artichokes I had bought earlier in the day. They looked fabulous. I decided to make them the way I was taught when I worked in Milan at the magnificent specialty and prepared-food store Gastronomia Peck. During the cookery I had to work fast since one of the tricks was to not let them oxidize too much while I trimmed their tough outer leaves. Once I got to the hearts with the lighter-colored tender leaves still intact, I coated each with a little fresh lemon juice. And because of their smallish size, the fibrous flower inside the artichoke was a nonissue. Putting them in acidulated water—water mixed with lemon juice—was forbidden in the Peck kitchen since it would result in their flavor becoming just that, acidulated water, and their texture would get mealy. Also, any water on them when added to hot oil would flare up, creating spitting oil, burned edges, and a resulting gaseous flavor.

Once the artichokes were ready for the final step before cooking, I heated a large fry pan with a few lightly crushed cloves of garlic in some olive oil. While the garlic began to sizzle and release its essential oils, I halved, then thinly sliced, each choke lengthwise. When the oil was perfumed and the cloves were light brown, the artichokes went in the pan and I sautéed them over high heat. In the process, I added a little lemon juice to keep the artichokes green, or “to keep color,” as they say, and also to add a little acidity to their flavor along with a seasoning of salt and pepper. Fresh herbs could go in at this point like a touch of fresh oregano in spring-summer or thyme in autumn-winter. When they were just beginning to become tender, I removed them to a side platter. Prepared in this way,
carciofi saltati
—sautéed artichokes—offered versatility in the many ways they could be served: with pastas, in risotto, baked fish, seafood, roasted meats, and poultry. That night, they went perfectly with baked fillets of
branzino
—the long, slender, and esteemed Mediterranean sea bass—the only adornment being a touch of chopped oregano and a drizzle of local extra virgin olive oil to finish.

The entrée rolled off my hands as if well rehearsed, and rightfully so since I remembered well the Peck kitchen during artichoke season, working at the large table with the owners and chef, taking jabs all afternoon as to when I’d finally be able to clean an artichoke correctly and quickly, case after case, to their level of satisfaction. I guessed the training worked since Rick said that dinner went well. With a start of asparagus
tricolore
—three colors—under shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano and
panna cotta
covered with crushed strawberries for dessert, I felt pretty good about the menu.

Peck had made its mark, and getting in that kitchen was a coup. It started with a great referral, took much convincing during the interview, and required a lot of permit gathering. Foreigners in their kitchen were few and far between. But once in, I knew every day would leave a lasting impression, and it turned out to be one of the most inspiring places I ever worked. A few weeks after starting, I wrote in my journal, “An intense situation. A hard work ethic and discipline maintained. A tough chef. Sixty cooks. Volume, consistency, perfection. Everyone is bravo. The Peck system works very well.”

The four brothers who owned the operation—Angelo, Mario, Remo, and Lino Stoppani—held fast to one credo that worked its way throughout the ranks of chefs, cooks, pot washers, counter personnel, and me, the lone intern: if you start every day with a dedication to being the best, then greatness will be achieved and maintained over time. That dedication to perfection was relentless and they constantly reminded me where I was working. When I was there, Peck was already a century old and had grown throughout the neighborhood with a
gastronomia, rosticceria,
cheese store, pork store, one-star restaurant, high-end cafeteria, and wine bar.