Mediterranean Summer (27 page)

“Richard,”
il Dottore
said to Rick, “maybe we can make some tisane for the ladies?”

Scott was really good about keeping the batteries fully charged, so I decided we’d use the electric teapot rather than try to heat water on the stove. I placed it in the sink in the galley to deal with hot-water splashes following a violent pitch of the boat. We also used the crew’s deep coffee mugs so that we could fill them halfway.

By now the conditions had picked up again, and even the simplest movement, such as walking from the mess table to the sink, took extraordinary effort. You attempt to use your thigh muscles to counteract the pitch and yaw of the boat and keep your body vertical. But after a period of time struggling to process the flood of ever-changing messages it is getting, your inner ear goes on strike. You are no longer able to signal whether you are straight upright or leaning one way or another, and so moving around becomes difficult. It was maddening for both Rick and me, especially since we were in the forward section of the boat, where it rolls the most. At one point, he sneered upward at the unseen guests. “Let’s see if Dennis wants his American breakfast now.”

Through the long night, the heavy weather would intermittently abate, then intensify, and we would be called up on deck again. I lost all sense of the clock. My only measure of time was that the boat was still afloat and we were all still alive. We had a berth reservation in Porto Cervo on the northwest tip of the Emerald Coast for arrival at some point later that day, but Patrick notified us that he planned to head considerably farther south to tuck ourselves into the lee of the island, south of the port of Olbia, to escape the continuing wrath of the wind.

A few hours later it worked. There was no single moment when we all knew we had passed out of the storm, but as the winds died down, we exchanged simple smiles that communicated more than hoops and hollers could ever have conveyed. By late morning, we were cruising up the coast of Sardinia headed for Porto Cervo. After the storm, the distant sea and the sky were a mirrored crystalline blue. The air had that hyper-clean, post-squall smell. The calm waters beneath us were truly emerald green, and the residual swell of the sea was easier to take than the night of bouncing and pounding.

After midday, we finally anchored a few miles below our destination, late but safe. The original plan, from what seemed like a lifetime ago, called for the owners and their guests to retire early, to get an early start on their first day in Sardinia in one of those secluded bays or inlets the coast is known for. Instead, they had not retired until close to dawn, when they, too, knew the danger was over.
Il Dottore
was the first to come up on deck. He wanted to see for himself what damage the boat had sustained and to make sure none of his crew had been injured. Everyone was tired, soaked, even bruised. But we all assured him we were okay. He suggested we take a rest as well.

We rinsed off some of the saltwater residue that had found its way into our crew quarters and tidied up the fallen clutter. Rick and I did an inventory of service ware to see what, if anything, had been broken. Nothing had been. The custom cutout shelves in the cabinets for holding the china vertical and glassware rigid proved their worthiness. Then everyone took a round of naps.
Il Dottore
made clear we were in no rush to get anywhere, that resting in the anchorage was fine with him.

Throughout the afternoon, the guests were awakening. As they arrived on deck,
la Signora
convinced them that the best remedy for the remnants of seasickness was toast with soft but not melted mozzarella and an anchovy fillet on top. No oil, no seasoning. Good thing I had provisioned some of the iconic cheese before leaving the region of Campania. I made a platter, and all were satisfied.

In the early evening, we pulled up the hook and motored until the distinctive architecture of Porto Cervo came into sight. On what was once an uninhabited coastline, buildings and homes had been designed to blend with the natural landscape by virtue of shape, color, and materials used. The curved, organic forms of the roofs and walls blended modernism with a nod to Sardinia’s dramatic coastal geography. From a distance, many of the structures were hard to see. The low rise and forms of the edifices followed the contours of the rocky terrain. In addition, clever landscaping matched the natural growth of island plants and brush. It is a fascinating sight, like nothing anywhere else. The view of the sea from these hillside residences, terraces, and private gardens must have been magnificent.

We entered the harbor under the guidance of the showy marina attendants in their overpowered inflatable skiffs that served as tug-boats. The modern marina was ringed with restaurants and high-end designer boutiques. Everything was very clean and well maintained.

After the events of the past forty-eight hours I needed to take a quick walk onshore just to get off the boat. And it only took a few steps to experience what it felt like to have sea legs. It was kind of funny, walking on land with a slight, uncontrollable sway as if still in a rolling sea. Others onshore probably thought I was either drunk or a neophyte. Regardless, I knew this would be our final port of call with the owners on board, and I experienced a momentary lift.

Sardinia is Italy’s second-largest island, a rugged mountainous land that lies about as close to North Africa as to the mother country only 112 miles away. Because of its colorful history, the island can be described as part Italian and part none of your business. Its motto could be “Don’t bother us.” So if the
sardi
—Sardinians—are a bit xenophobic, it’s with good cause. The island has been held by just about every invading force in Mediterranean history. As the coast was vulnerable to numerous attacks, the mountainous interior hosted longer occupations.

First it was the Phoenicians who decided the island was a perfect base for western Mediterranean trading. The Carthaginians under Hannibal followed, giving way in a skirmish to the Romans, who in turn let the prior inhabitants move inland. After the Romans, the Vandals arrived, while the
sardi
staged a guerrilla war on the coastal occupiers until they grew weary, allowing the
sardi
to come back and reclaim their shoreline cities. But conquest didn’t end, as Byzantines, Saracens, Spaniards, Genovese, and Pisans all had a hand in Sardinia’s affairs, the latter two being called upon in an effort to keep the Moors out. The kingdom of Sardinia formed during the later occupations, and eventually, while under the rule of the house of Savoy, Sardinia was annexed to Piedmont. Finally, both regions joined what was to become a unified Italy in 1861. With such a pedigree, even though Sardinians speak Italian, they remain a distinct kind of Italian.

That is, until speculators and entrepreneurs armed with blueprints and cold cash did what the invading armies didn’t do—develop a section of the island’s northeastern coastline into an exclusive reserve for the very rich. A longtime yachtsman’s secret, one of the last undiscovered stretches of land in the Mediterranean offered small coves and bays, white sandy beaches, and some of the clearest water in the sea. Development began in 1961, led by Aga Khan IV—a prominent Middle Eastern philanthropist whose hereditary post required him to engage in social and community leadership—and a consortium of high-profile Italian architects. With strict building codes and high costs of entry, the result was the Costa Smeralda—the Emerald Coast—an aesthetically and environmentally pleasing luxury oasis.

If I harbored any hope of even a brief Sardinian vacation, it was dashed by a visit the next morning from
la Signora,
clearly past her
mal de mare.
“Davide,” she said, “we will be hosting a final end-of-
ferie
party at the end of the week.” She told me there would be somewhere in the “
vicino
”—neighborhood—of sixty guests. I made it a point to hit the
supermercato
as soon as we got back to port that day. It was the only food near the harbor, and I had to make sure I could provision the event. If I couldn’t find it all there, I’d have to figure something out fast.

But further bad news was awaiting me when I went up to the foredeck a short while later. Another boat was approaching us, a fairly large motor yacht.

“It’s the kids,” Rick said.

Sure enough, even from the distance, it looked like the yacht that was next to us in Monte Carlo.

“See that boat behind them,” Rick said, pointing to what looked like a maxi-class sailboat in tow. “That’s the kids’ day sailer. What a toy.”

The yacht was heading right for us. Rick then reported he had caught
la Signora
’s voice saying over the radio in the chart house, “
Vieni, vieni,
”—come, come—and I realized this was no random meeting but a prearranged rendezvous. I soon caught sight of the owners’ children, and then it hit me.

La Signora
was not going to welcome the children without serving them something. I went below, like a kid slumping way down in his seat to avoid being called on.
La Signora
followed me down to the galley. “There will be fourteen at the table, and I’d like to sit down in forty-five minutes.”

When she saw the lack of joy on my face, she reminded me, “Davide, an emergency menu,
per favore,
like we discussed.” She gave me approval to use pasta for the main course.

I had made plans to serve eight a lunch of shrimp and tomato salad with basil dressing, baked
ricciola
—an amberjack—with
peperonata,
and a parfait dessert of peaches and strawberries with whipped mascarpone. I wasn’t going to throw away my earlier prep. This is where the great extenders—bread, pasta, and cookies—came in.

I began with assorted crostini—thinly sliced pieces of toasted bread served with a variety of toppings. For the first, I gently baked the amberjack, flaked it, carefully mixed it with some julienned pieces of green olive, lemon zest, lots of minced parsley, and light-style extra virgin olive oil. For number two, reworked canned chickpeas became a spread to be topped by the cooked shrimp, which I sliced in half lengthwise, thereby doubling the yield. I finished these with a drizzle of olive oil and a few turns of black pepper. I diced the tomatoes, added a little garlic and more seasonings, mixed in the basil dressing, and used that as the third topping.

For the second course, I chopped the
peperonata
and blended it with some marinara—another great extender—that I had made previously for the crew lunch. Some crushed chiles to make it
pepitoso,
the way they liked it, and
ecco!,
instant pasta sauce.
La Signora
preferred penne since it was easier to eat at a crowded table. I finished the dish by grating over the pasta Sardinian pecorino—a dry and pungent sheep’s milk cheese that I had picked up earlier at the supermarket.

Once the guests began eating, I turned to dessert. My original idea of layering the fruits and mascarpone in individual glasses like a parfait had to be shelved. As if a lightbulb suddenly flashed in my mind, I recalled a syrup method I had seen the great chef Jacques Pépin make on television years ago. I grabbed some apricot preserves from the pantry and blended them with a nice splash of cognac, thinned the mixture to light-syrup consistency with a little tepid water, and strained out the pieces of fruit. I brushed
savoiardi
—ladyfinger cookies—in the syrup, the same way as when making tiramisu. The cookies were arranged on the platter as a base, topped by a layer of sliced peaches, then a layer of halved strawberries. I spooned the remaining syrup over the fruits and stirred freshly grated nutmeg into the cream that was to be served on the side. A slightly grandiose presentation on a platter offered a bit of that
abbondanza
thing
la Signora
liked at dining events. Kevin, curious as to how I was going to handle the last-minute crisis, watched from the mess table, offering a hand if needed, and was impressed with how I spun the menu. As he left the galley, knowing how much time and effort were put into a meal that went through a last-minute makeover, he offered a roundabout compliment: “Better you than me.”

To be truthful, even though I might complain about not having been given sufficient warning, I knew I could handle this type of situation. It took just a little bit of flexibility and ingenuity to extend a meal. But the lack of an open-air market in our part of Sardinia gave me a little anxiety about dinner and the upcoming party. Long before Sardinia, I had worried about running out of ideas and how to keep the menus fresh and exciting. And I had conditioned the owners to assume that regardless of our location, I would surpass their expectations with freshly minted, authentic regional cuisine. Now I was in a quandary.

I tried to explain my problem to Patrick, but his answer was: “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, you’re the chef.” Rick at least offered sympathy, but for once he, too, had no quick answer.

If I couldn’t find decent fresh ingredients, what could I do? With nowhere else to turn, I decided it was time to go on a treasure hunt below—in the stores of the galley.

As a safety net, I routinely kept a large inventory of pantry ingredients on board, but prior to Sardinia the open-air markets and shops had been so rich with choices that I used pantry items only as addons. Now it was time to rifle through my stockpile, not just to augment my daily buy, but to create dishes anew. Before this European sojourn, it was easy to view a pantry as nothing more than a home for collected staples—a small bottle of some type of sauce or condiment here, used-once spices there—not a valuable cache of conserved foodstuffs. Now I would have to do what Italian cooks did in times of war and occupation—use what I had.

It’s not as if I didn’t have experience varying a single basic ingredient in my pantry to make a dish a little more special each time. And by using these ingredients in different proportions and combinations, I had almost endless variety. I had been doing just that in creating flavored mayonnaises as well as
la Signora
’s new favorite canapé with
spuma di tonno
—spreadable tuna mousse—adapted from a recipe given to me by the chef at Albergo del Sole, one of my
stages.
At first it stood alone very well with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a few hot red pepper flakes, but while in Sardinia I shaved a little heady
bottarga di muggine
—cured and dried gray mullet roe—over the top. Thus, an ingredient of modest beginnings, fish roe, became a delicacy, and I was using a preserved foodstuff indigenous to an area. The same went for many of the crew pasta sauces, and items on the dessert menu such as
panna cotta,
the chocolate cake, and the
crema di mascarpone
. It had become time to turn some of my most everyday pantry items into true “hero” ingredients, which in turn lessened what I needed to find onshore.