Mediterranean Summer (16 page)

Saturday offered a light-wind
morning. I awakened at six-fifteen, early enough for a quick workout before I headed to town to do any last-minute provisioning. The crew could take care of their own breakfast, and Rick would see to the owners’
colazione
—breakfast—nothing more than a simple “continental.” By nine, when I returned, most of the crew already polished the brass. There was plenty of brass to be polished, varnished wood to be dried from the morning dew, and a harem’s inventory of cushions and pillows to arrange in the cockpit. Rick, I could detect, was already attending to the owners’ and guests’ cabins. I went down below to stow the provisioning I’d brought back and to check out my new
ciappa.
Scott, who had been assigned deck watch for the day, came down to ask me if there were dishes to be washed, and that’s when I learned that from now on, whoever was on watch would also be responsible for helping with the washing up and cleaning the crew head. Patrick stuck his head in to say we’d be pulling up the lines by ten to go for a sail, and then head to Sestri Levante, a short distance down the coast, where we would anchor for lunch and take a siesta.

In the hour I still had left before we sailed, I was motivated to get some extra projects started. First, I decided to make a large quantity of marinara—mariner’s—sauce since it was going to be a staple in the
Serenity
repertoire. In lieu of peeling a lot of fresh tomatoes, I would make do with the canned whole peeled tomatoes I had on board since they were from San Marzano in southern Italy. I’d make a base sauce with a little onion, anchovy, dried oregano, and some hot red pepper flakes. This “mother” sauce would be used when making pasta for the crew, finishing pan sauces for baked fish, as a component in dressings for seafood, or to add a hearty layer of flavor to vegetable dishes like eggplant caponata and bell pepper
peperonata.

The trick, I learned, to making a sauce that could be used in many different ways was to balance the seasonings, anchovy being one of them, with the tomato to attain a harmonious result. By constantly tasting during the cookery, the end result could be achieved while the flavors became more concentrated. Subtle additions of seasonings or aromatics like dried oregano would build flavor. Too much of any one element and the sauce would taste one-dimensional. Therefore, any additions were made little by little, gently, or, as the Italians say,
piano piano.
But with a nice, even base, I could always take the sauce in a new direction by adding something like torn basil leaves just before serving to freshen it.

The sauce needed to simmer for at least an hour. I attached the rails of the pot-holding apparatus around the edges of the stove, and then affixed the guards to secure the saucepan. Even though the wind was light and we wouldn’t heel much, I wanted to test the system. Satisfied that the pot would hold, I went on deck to help take us out of port. I decided to stay up there after the sails were up to enjoy the day for a little while. It was good to get outside after the confinement of the galley.

The pungent smell of tomato sauce began to rise to the foredeck. The only noise I could hear was the calming swish of the bow wake as
Serenity
gently glided through the water. The smell of the sauce was making everyone hungry. I went below to stir it and taste for seasoning.

We were still an hour away from Sestri, where we would drop anchor and have lunch, so I went on deck again. I was surprised to see other boats come fairly close to us, often altering their speed to match ours. They showed their admiration by blowing their horns and waving. One fancy fifty-something-foot motor yacht, a Riva, made circles around us with the guests yelling, “
Bravissimo! Bravissimo! Che bella!
” It didn’t take long for the Riva’s wake to begin rocking us, slowly at first but then with increased regularity. This enrages sailors, and I could see our crew getting annoyed. In the light wind, the motorboat was making our sails luff, which in turn dumped what precious wind they were trimmed to catch. This slowed us down from the already gentle pace
Serenity
was making. I got so involved with what was happening to the sails that I forgot about the sauce. Eventually, the sweet smell of simmering tomatoes changed to a powerful scent of over-caramelized sauce approaching burn.

I bolted down the crew ladder to the galley, afraid of what I would find. A large pool of sauce was boiling on the surface of the stove, its burning edge the only thing keeping it from spreading. Because the whole stove was made out of thin metal, the top got pretty hot. There was sauce all over the side of the pot and the burner plate. Plus, not having been stirred, the tomato solids clustered on a hot spot right over the flame and burned on the bottom of the pot. The whole batch was ruined. And cleaning up would be a hassle.

Finally, after I mopped up the sauce, I went back up to help drop and stow the sails, and after finding a good hold on the anchor, the crew broke to have lunch. I stayed on deck and saw that we weren’t far offshore and alone in the anchorage. Sestri made a beautiful backdrop, and the coastal terrain of the Italian Riviera cascading in the distance would flank the guests while they dined under a large canopy rigged over the table on deck.
Il Dottore
and his buddies had gone for a swim. I had to go below and get ready to serve them.

What a great way to entertain, I thought. Arrive in Portofino on a private helicopter. Cruise on a classic sailing yacht. Swim in a quiet anchorage with gorgeous surroundings. Enjoy a graciously served lunch of crispy fried
bianchetti,
augmented with seasonal market vegetables, fresh fruits, and white burgundy. Finish with a nap or idle chat with friends on deck. It didn’t get any better than this.

By three in the afternoon, sails went up again, and I went back down to the galley to start dinner prep. In order to be available for maneuvers, I constantly listened to the activity on deck so I could time my tasks to those needs. From time to time, I went up top to take a look, ask Kevin what was happening with the sail, and catch some fresh air. We were back at the marina by six, and now my work was cut out for me: cocktails and canapés
subito
—immediately—for the owners and guests, crew dinner at seven, owner dinner at nine, clean up by eleven-thirty. I figured I would be lucky to
hit the rack
—go to bed—by midnight. Life in the galley, I started to see, would become a constant juggle of diligence, productivity, organization, and cleanliness.

I had built the dinner menu around the
ciappa
since it was such a unique method of cooking that I thought would be interesting for the guests. It didn’t come with any instructions for use, so I took a guess at how to prepare it for its debut in the
Serenity
galley. I gave it a wash with only a little dish soap and warm water, and then attempted to season it with a thin coat of oil. I heated it on a burner of the stove, which created a lot of smoke and in turn set off a screeching alarm. Scott dashed into the galley and was relieved to find nothing serious had happened, only a false alarm from what I considered a standard kitchen procedure. I could see Patrick, Kevin, and
il Dottore
through the hatch above me, and I explained through the window that there was no reason for concern. Harmless, yes, but I was a little embarrassed nonetheless.

I must have missed something along the way preparing the stone because the end result for the tuna steaks was only satisfactory at best. I couldn’t get the sear and browning on the outside of the fish that I wanted. It was probably a result of not having the stone hot enough. I figured the stove burners were not powerful enough to do it justice, even at full. My solution the next time would be to keep it in the oven at 500°F and use it like a pizza stone. With the heat hitting it on all sides, the
ciappa,
I hoped, would yield better results. Or maybe it just needed more use in order to get it properly seasoned. Regardless of my ultimate disappointment in the searing, the finished platter looked nice, with thick steaks of tuna cooked to medium-rare, each topped with a small mound of oily olive paste and a cluster of roughly chopped parsley then garnished with soigné trimmed and seedless lemon wedges.

Rick came into the galley with an empty dessert platter. “Your dinner was a big hit,” he said.
“La Signora
wants to see you in the salon.”

I walked into the salon, not sure what to expect. “Davide,”
la Signora
said, “tell everyone what you cooked the tuna on. I have never seen that!” Even though I was less than pleased with the result, I launched into a discourse on how I came to use the
ciappa. La Signora
looked very pleased—a good way to end, I thought—and then, changing gears, she pointed to her dessert plate. An empty disk of china that had shadows of chocolate near the rim.
La Signora
said to me, “And this,
stupenda.
”

The almost flourless chocolate cake with espresso
crema di mascarpone
was the finish to the meal. I had cut it into ten portions, and since there were only six at the table, I figured some had seconds. I could only imagine what it must have tasted like because I had never paired those recipes before—two different textures and a mocha-like flavor that was flavorful but not heavy and overpowering. Thankfully, mascarpone has pretty good shelf life, so I would keep it on hand from now on. It was nice to get some positive feedback, and it inspired me to prepare the next meal.

Sunday found us slowly
cruising along the northern end of the Cinque Terre, a rugged high-terrain region that stretches along eighteen miles of the coast where five quaint seaside villages stand, hence the name, Five Lands. I remembered that there was a local train and boat services that stop at each, as well as the famous hiking path that connects all of them called La Via dell’Amore—Love Street. From sea level, the sense of scale next to the steep and fertile coastline behind them was a magnificent vista, a hazy silhouette as it continued to the distant south. Rows of vineyards tracked in parallel lines along the high coastline like a topographic map. It amazed me that people could grow and harvest grapes and make wine on this rugged terrain with funny names like Pigato and Sciacchetrà. I thought about the increasing migration to the larger cities by the children of the
contadini
that worked the land, looking for more action, and wondered how this humble and isolated lifestyle would survive successive generations.

In the market the prior morning, I had seen avocados for the first time in my years in Italy, revealing a supply line of Israeli agricultural exports from the eastern Mediterranean to the west. I thought it would be interesting for the owners to have something unique, so I had brought some back to the boat. My idea was to serve them as an antipasto with sliced Prosciutto di Parma
dolce. Dolce
refers to a style of curing the ham that uses less salt, rendering a moister texture and “sweeter” flavor than other methods of curing. The combination made sense to me.

When the first course was served, I had to go to the chart house to talk to Patrick. I noticed that the owners and their guests were eating with surprisingly little talk at the table amidships. This was unusual. Lunch was usually boisterous, before the afternoon heat and Chablis slowed down everyone’s pace. As I passed the table,
il Dottore
stopped eating and looked up at me.

“Davide, what are these green things on the platter?” he asked.

“Avocados,” I answered. I decided to explain myself. “I had never seen them in Italy before. They were in the market the other day, so I couldn’t resist,” I politely responded. Then everyone else stopped eating to hear the conversation.

“Why did you serve them?” he pressed.

“I thought they would be great with the prosciutto.”

“I don’t like these. They’re too strange,” he said as he uncharacteristically pulled up his lip in a look of disgust.

“Amore,
it’s okay,”
la Signora
said from the other side of the table. “It’s typical cuisine from California. They also grow them in the Mediterranean. Try something new.”

Il Dottore
cut her off and started to argue with her: “But they’re not
cucina italiana.”
The guests were caught in the crossfire, but judging from their plates, everyone was doing just fine. He carried on about traditional food versus experimental food and how on a classic yacht there was nothing new or experimental about the way the boat was being sailed.

I realized that I still had to fine-tune my understanding of the owners’ likes, dislikes, and preferences and how far I could experiment. I took responsibility for my choice, politely saying as the Italians do,
“Colpo mio”
—it’s like saying “my bad”—an honorable admission.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,”
il Dottore
said and closed it with a look on his face like “get my drift?”

I would never have thought an avocado could stir up such controversy. It’s true the Italians are passionate about what they eat, and this confirmed for me that I should not stray from the familiar. It also confirmed that although
la Signora
drove the service agenda,
il Dottore
had a major say in how the boat would be run, both at the helm and in the galley.

That evening, upon our return to Portofino, we were greeted by a very large and elegant motor yacht called
Debutante
that sat at anchor near the mouth of the harbor. Kevin had worked on her the previous summer and viewed her like a long-lost friend. A few of the crew appeared on
Debutante
’s foredeck as we slowly passed across her bow.

“Congratulations! She looks great,”
Debutante
’s captain said from the rail.

“
Che bella barca”
—what a beautiful boat—
la Signora
politely said while admiring the sleek white yacht.

“Hey, Patrick, you guys got our spot!” the captain said half joking, but acknowledged the first-come, first-served rule of getting into Portofino. “The harbormaster said you’d be coming back in tonight.”