Mediterranean Summer (30 page)

I sat stunned. “Think about my offer,” she said, and then excused herself to go down below.

The next morning was
the rubber match. The crowds were even bigger, this being the last race of the week and the most important.

The start was brilliant. Patrick must have waited for this opportunity his entire sailing career. We were a little over a boat length ahead of
Carina
to her right side on port tack as we approached the line. Patrick told Rick to spread the word for everyone to stay calm and not move too much on deck. With thirty seconds to go we were in perfect trim and boat speed to make the start. Seconds later Patrick yelled, “TACKING!” while he started to turn the boat through the wind, changing which side the wind would come across our deck. This maneuver caught everyone on
Carina
by surprise. He slam-dunked ’em! They couldn’t turn off the wind to avoid or pass us astern because
Beguine
was close behind and she started to tack as well.
Carina
was forced to immediately tack, and because of their position near the start, they had to duck under the far buoy of the line, denying them any chance to exercise their right-of-way. By missing the start, they had to come back around again behind the other yachts passing en route for their start. This gave us a comfortable lead from the outset. The view from the press helicopters hovering above must have been spectacular. Patrick’s strategy was sure to be a topic in the bars that night.

And then it happened. Out of nowhere, on the second upwind leg,
Carina
came alongside us, and then pulled ahead, the distance between us increasing with every passing minute. We watched her transom in shock as it got smaller and smaller. At the speed she was going, even with corrected time and our handicap, there was no way we could beat her. Ironically, it was Patrick who pulled us out of our daze. “Great job, everyone; really great.” In that moment, the Riviera yachting season came to an end.

After the awards ceremony
the next day, we gathered on the aft deck for our final parting-line ceremony. Patrick directed me to take the last position—the honor position.
Il Dottore
passed through first and gave me a firm handshake with a powerful “
Bravo.
” “We’ll see you soon,” he said. I wondered if he knew something I didn’t.

Then
la Signora
came to me. She put her hand out, and I shook it.

“I hope everything was to your liking,” I said.

The handshake stopped. Her eyes bored into mine.

“You hope?” She paused for a moment with a growing fire in her eyes. “You are kidding, aren’t you?” This was all said in Italian. Loud, clear, assertive Italian. Only
il Dottore
and I knew what she was saying. I could see the crew out of the corner of my eye. They couldn’t understand what she was getting excited about, but they knew it wasn’t just a pleasant “thanks for everything” conversation. They began to fidget, feeling badly for me. I could feel their angst.

“HOW CAN YOU HOPE EVERYTHING WAS TO MY LIKING?” she flashed. “Look at where you are! Look at where you work! Look at what you’ve done!”

At that point
il Dottore
cut in to say, “Let’s go,
amore,
” to which she snapped back, “No, dear, this is important.”

She continued, “You need to be proud of what you have done. We’ve been your biggest fans. Hope has nothing to do with it. You have worked hard all summer and earned our respect. Your food is always a pleasure to eat, you wear the cuisine better than most Italians, and your crew members feel lucky to have you on board. That’s not the result of hope. Make me feel your confidence. It’s deserved. You’ve already proved what you can do.”

She stuck out her hand again and repeated what
il Dottore
had said in a much more relaxed tone, “We’ll see you soon.”

The owners left and I just stood still, looking past my crew members, across the rail, past the other yachts across the harbor, and into the cyan Riviera sky. The guys asked me what happened, was I okay? I turned and said to Rick, “
Tutto bene”
—All is well.

Twelve

Ciao, Italia

L
ike taking down ornaments from a Christmas tree, preparing
Serenity
for the off-season gave everyone a feeling that the holidays were over. The interior furnishings, drapes, slipcovers, service ware, and kitchenwares were removed and put into storage. On deck, all of the sails and most of the rig would be dismantled and stored in a rented shipping container. Day by day, the yacht was getting barer and barer to the point of being stark and lifeless, unlike her magnificent presence while cruising on the Mediterranean.
Il Dottore
and
la Signora
would probably never see her in this state. The crew would be reduced to two, Patrick and Scott, with ongoing upgrades and mechanical maintenance keeping them busy through the winter. Ian was hired to cross the Atlantic for the winter in the Caribbean, Nigel was heading to Greece, Kevin landed a job on a new yacht that was getting finished in Viareggio, and Rick had his life onshore in Antibes.

I was going to miss these guys. Professional sailors are an interesting group, and I wished I had spent more time on deck learning about their world. We may not have been destined to be lifelong best friends, but we quickly adapted to coexist in small quarters, tried to accept each other’s ways, and, as a result, possibly discovered new thresholds within ourselves. At the same time, the waste-not, want-not lifestyle on board enabled us to get by with less. And in respect to the elements, we were efficient with our limited resources and didn’t leave a trail behind us. Even though it had its challenges, it was a fascinating way to see beautiful places. But most important, through it all, there was no shortage of laughs.

Michele arranged a final dinner for us at a small restaurant in town, the Safranier, one of our favorite hangouts. With his office staff, we honored
Serenity
’s strong showing in the races and celebrated the end of the season with friends from other boats.

But as the evening wore on, Rick, ever sensitive to my moods, could tell my attention was elsewhere. He asked me to go with him to the bar area and tried to engage me in another of those “what next?” sessions we had been having. I surprised him when I said I would not be returning to Italy to look for any new jobs. After five years living abroad, I would be returning to the States.

“When did you finally decide this?” he asked me, rather taken aback.

“Tonight,” I answered, “while we were talking about the summer. Even though there is still plenty I’d like to do, I’ve accomplished a lot. I want to leave Europe on a high note.”

“But will
la Signora
let you go?” he said in an instant. “The superrich are different. They can be very proprietary toward the help, especially the ones they like.”

“I’m already steeling myself for that,” I said, knowing that I had to call and let her know my decision.

Once convinced I would be leaving Europe, Rick invited me to spend the last two weeks before my flight to New York at his family’s house in the Pauillac wine region of Bordeaux. I quickly accepted. My first stop on the Continent had been in the south of France, and a last couple of weeks near where it all started seemed an appropriate close of the loop before heading home.

At dinner one night, Rick’s mother raised her glass and called for a toast.

“To David.” She paused, then added, “And to going home. Compliments. In France we say, ‘
Les voyages forment la jeunesse
.’ Traveling matures youth.”

Now, sitting at Rick’s parents’ table, he and I were spinning out war stories from our season at sea—the nonstop entertaining in Monte Carlo during the Grand Prix, the relentless heat below deck in August, and the night of the big storm en route to Sardinia—when the telephone rang. Rick’s mother excused herself to answer it in the kitchen. Within moments, she returned to say the call was for me. I was puzzled. Who knew I was there? I went into the kitchen to take the call.

“
Ciao, Davide!
” It was
la Signora,
her voice, as always, rich with exuberance. I wondered how she knew where to reach me.

“
Buona sera, signora,
” I answered, trying to perk up my voice and sound more sober than I was.

“How wonderful that you and Rick are spending some time together before you depart.
Che bella,
” she said in her sharp and crystal-clear Italian. “Is this a good time to talk? There is something I would like to speak to you about. We have a project for you.”

I hesitated before responding. Just a week before I had told her of my decision to return home. Now I wondered if her project was a way to keep me in Europe so that I’d be available the next spring for another season on the yacht.

She didn’t wait for my answer. “Davide, listen carefully. This is business. It is for our annual New Year’s pheasant shoot at our house in England. I am putting together
la mia ottima squadra di servizio”
—my ultimate service team—“and we would like you to cook for the occasion. Can we discuss menus?”

There was a moment during which neither of us said anything. Finally, I said something like, “I am leaving for New York soon from Paris. Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind, and I can fax you some ideas.”

“I don’t have time for faxes!” I could almost see her hand flying through the air dismissively. “Too much back-and-forth. We can meet before you leave and go over the entire menu program in one meeting. Two hours and it’s done.”

“But I’m leaving the country this Saturday.”

“Here is my schedule. I am in Padua through Wednesday, Modena on Thursday, and Como on Friday. Call me tomorrow and tell me which city you are going to meet me in.”

Sheepishly I said, “Como might be the easiest.”

“Perfect. Then it is settled. Friday morning, ten-thirty, at our apartment in Como.
Grazie, Davide.
”

The call had taken no more than a few minutes, but it was long enough to put me in disarray.

“What does
la Signora
want?” Rick asked when I was back at the table. “She wants me to cater for them and their friends in England over the holidays. She also wants to meet with me this week to go over the menus. How am I going to manage that?”

“You call Michele first thing tomorrow and have him book a flight for you from Paris to Como. She wants to speak with you in person. She doesn’t care what it costs.”

“She has probably already called him,” I said as I reached for my wineglass.

“Are you pissed that she called you or that you agreed to meet her?” Rick asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

As soon as the commuter flight to Como took off, I started to question my decision to agree to this trip. In my last face-to-face conversation with
la Signora
, her way of presenting my role as the family’s “special events” chef was characteristic of her savvy and made the offer hard to refuse. “You love Italy,” she said. “Why don’t you stay here? We very much like your work. We can set you up anywhere you want in Italy. Think about it carefully.”

It wasn’t bad what she had proposed. The idea was tempting and would satisfy most of my concerns about staying in Europe. I’d find an apartment, most likely in Florence, and be able to enjoy many of the pleasures of an Italian lifestyle. But I kept reminding myself I didn’t spend the past five years angling for a personal chef job. Of course, she had too much pride to bring up the offer once I had turned it down, but she had to expect I would see the two offers as part of one campaign.

“How nice that you
have arrived early,”
la Signora
said as she approached me while I waited in front of her apartment near the lake in Como, in one of the fashionable neighborhoods in this silk and textile capital of Italy. I had only known her around the boat, so I had never seen her in business attire. She was certainly very well put together in a red Chanel dress. I took the few shopping bags she carried and followed her up a short flight of steps.

She walked me through a large apartment sparsely decorated with furnishings that whispered, not shouted, extreme wealth. As we got to the dining area, she directed me to a seat near the end of a polished walnut dining table that was an antique of regal proportions. Two pads and two pens had already been laid out. She went into the kitchen to greet the housekeeper and request a beverage service.

“It’s nice to see you again,” she said as she sat across from me, then pulled a few folders from her briefcase. Always cordial, she was not one to extend opening pleasantries. I could see she was ready to get down to business.

“Every year we do a traditional New Year’s pheasant shoot at our farmhouse in Oxfordshire with our friends,” she started. “But this year we want it to be more than special. I want to plan the menus for each day.”

She laid out the marching orders, including details of the house, the schedule, the rest of the staff, and travel arrangements. Each dinner would have a theme. As the food changed, so too would the wines, the flowers, the table linens, service wares, even the uniforms of the service staff. Now I understood her impatience to have the menus settled. All the other decisions hung on the food.

“I would like every dish to blend in with the idea of Italians being in England during the winter for this special occasion. You can make Italian dishes some nights and classic English on others. But for sure, on New Year’s Eve, we are going to have a very traditional Milanese menu. I will bring some of the food for it.” She mentioned
cotechino
—a type of sausage served over lentils. The lentils symbolize coins in Italian folklore, so the more lentils you eat, the better your chances for financial success in the New Year. And
tortellini in brodo
—a classic winter dish from northern Italy.

She had clearly thought it all through. “One night we would like to have roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. The house manager has a great recipe.” I took “roast beef” to mean prime rib. “On another night, let’s do rack of lamb. They have delicious lamb in England,” she made a point of telling me. There would be a large ham to bake already ordered from the local butcher, Scottish salmon, and Dover sole. Once again she wanted the meals to convey a sense of place.

There were many other details she mentioned—from local sourcing to the layout of the kitchen, including a coal-burning Aga stove and cold rooms in lieu of refrigerators. I listened intently, sometimes taking notes, most of the time just trying to get a feel for what she wanted, never once interrupting her. At one point she paused and leaned back in her chair, signaling that she was ready for any questions or comments I might have.

I had none for the moment, and she went on. “Lunch will be served every day out in the field. We will mark predetermined places in the forest where the stewards can meet us for service. You’ll need to have this ready in time for them to pack and get set up.”

I had to think about England in winter—it was going to be pretty cold. All summer on the Mediterranean, I had cooked coastal Italian dishes for them, a very different cuisine. She was clear and specific about the English food she wanted included, so while she spoke, I started to scratch out on my clean white pad menu ideas that made sense.

By now
la Signora
was waiting for my reaction. I was certain she had finished with her dictates.

Before I spoke, I tested in my head what I might say. Then I jumped in, never more confident of my cooking instincts.

“I assume there will be cocktails and canapés as we did before dinner last summer,” I said, “so I will locate some foie gras in London on the way up to the house. That, as you know, makes for a great start. Warm Stilton cheese on crostini would be another. I think a winter vegetable minestrone might be a nice
primo,
and this is certainly the season for risotto. I can even make gnocchi with brown butter and sage if you’d like, and better yet, I will make them with squash as they do in Friuli. It would be perfect before the ham. If I can find guinea fowl, they would be great braised with apples and served with polenta. With the bounty of the shoot, I wonder if we should think about roasting pheasants one night. And many of the meats you mentioned can also be carved for warm
panini
at lunch. Even consommé with porcini mushrooms will work well in the field. For desserts, I’d like to bake pears in sweetened red wine, make
panna cotta
with that wonderful clotted cream from Devon, and definitely the chocolate
torta caprese
that you like.”