Mediterranean Summer (18 page)

“What are those?” I asked, trying to make nice, but I was genuinely curious.

“Filters for the water maker. We might need to use it sometime. Luckily, we’re in port so much that our tanks can always be topped off,” he said.

I’d never thought about the concept of literally making water. I was intrigued. Scott explained that the water maker was a desalinating system made up of pumps and filters to rid seawater of salt and other impurities, and then purify it.

“Is homemade water any good?” I asked.

“Some say it’s better than tap water,” he said.

“How neat would it be to make pasta in a pot of homemade water?” The irony was lost on me that by desalinating salt water to make freshwater, I would be adding salt back to the water to make the pasta.

“And how neat would it be to have a proper breakfast?” Scott answered with a left-field comment.

“Depends on what constitutes ‘proper,’” I countered. Scott had been hinting about eggs and bacon since we left Antibes.

“It’s a matter of upbringing,” he answered.

“Okay,” I surrendered, but wasn’t completely sure why. “I’ll make you a deal. Empty a tank, fill it with homemade water, and I’ll make your favorite breakfast, as long as you don’t mind pancetta instead of bacon.”

“Like a true Yank,” he said, smiling, “ending with a covenant.”

A spotty wind followed
us the next weekend as the owners filled the boat with three other couples. We raised sails on the first morning,
la Signora
watching with her friends, cheering us on as we heaved and hauled. “
Vai, vai”
—go, go—she bellowed with the enthusiasm of a coach exhorting her team. The other ladies followed with “
Che bella!”
—how beautiful—while looking up at the gigantic concave triangles of white sails as they took shape. Between
la Signora
’s cheerleading and Rick’s lowbrow commentary at the base of the mast, it was hard to concentrate. At the same time,
il Dottore
coaxed his friends to jump in, “Come on, guys, don’t just stand there!” His friends had the slightly embarrassed look of being upstaged by the crew. We got the sails up, then moved forward to let them have their boat back.

It didn’t take long for the wind to pick up once we headed out to sea, and the boat started to heel considerably. We probably carried too much sail, but
il Dottore
seemed excited playing tactician and wanted to push his boat a bit. I had gone below to prep lunch in what was fast becoming the greatest sail I’d never see. I could hear excitement on deck as the crew raced around, hauling and trimming, loads increasing in the lines and masts, winches grinding—sounds that reverberated through the deck planks above me. We heeled even more, and I positioned myself against the rake so I could stay perpendicular to the horizon. I called Kevin through the crew way to ask him how long we’d be on this point of sail and to ask that he give me fair warning if we were going to tack. Changing the point of sail, which in turn changed the side from which the wind hit us, would shift the angle of my work surface. It was like doing my tasks—chopping, dicing, and filleting—while standing on the lower side of a playground seesaw. But if I knew when the shifts were coming, I could reposition my prep station before everything went flying all over the galley.

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 suggestion 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.