Mediterranean Summer (13 page)

Rick ordered flowers to be delivered to the boat early on Friday morning. Three arrangements for the salon and dining area plus two large ones for the deck. He went to the wine shop in town and bought two huge
salmanazars
of champagne—nine-liter bottles, a case worth in each. As he wrestled the bottles down the hatchway, he proclaimed, “We can’t be at the Grand Prix without these!” I had no idea how to find the space in our reefers to chill them. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he promised. “I will ask one of the captains of a nearby motor yacht if we can store them in their refrigerators.” Some large motor yachts have restaurant-style walk-in refrigerators on board.

On Tuesday afternoon, a van arrived from Italy, arranged by
la Signora
, loaded with provisions for both the upcoming weekend and the summer season: cases of champagne,
premier cru
Chablis, spring water, extra virgin olive oil, sunflower seed oil, canned San Marzano tomatoes, some cases of dried pasta, a case of Arborio rice, a huge restaurant-sized pasta pot and colander, more designer sundries, and other items for the cabins. We used Michele’s office as a storehouse, only taking what inventory we thought we would need.

Just as expected, space quickly became a critical concern, and the perishables hadn’t even arrived yet. My bilge storage in the galley was fully loaded, especially with Rick’s wine, and I began to fill the storage bins under the mess table benches. Scott offered to let me keep the rental dishes in the engine room. “A natural plate warmer,” he said, which made total sense, but he was also trying to preserve at least some of our personal space in the fo’c’sle. Patrick borrowed a few coolers from one of the maxi-race-boat teams. They would hold the beverages. But we also needed a few hundred pounds of ice. I had no clue where that would come from. A large quantity of ice is a scarce commodity in Europe. I asked Michele’s assistant if he could call the Monaco Yacht Club and see if they might sell us some. The cooking hadn’t even started yet.

At dinner that night, I explained my situation to the crew. They could already see that the food and supplies would take over our small living area. Now I asked if they wouldn’t mind if I used the fo’c’sle as a makeshift walk-in for the perishables by keeping the portholes closed and cranking up the air-conditioning. Patrick chalked up the high electricity bill that would result as a necessary cost of doing business. He also decided to give the crew a per diem to eat onshore starting Wednesday night. This would also give me the mess area for storage, and not having to cook for the crew would buy me precious time.

Even with the extra space, I still found myself constantly repositioning items in the fridge, those needed first up front or on top, later meals toward the back or bottom. All of my base items—dairy, cheeses, sliced meats, juices, and fresh pantry ingredients like carrots, celery, and lemons—filled a side in one of the reefers. The rest of the fridge space was reserved for the growing inventory of prepped items.

By Wednesday morning, it was time to move into cooking mode, and I began by making the accompaniments for antipasti or entrées like emulsified sauces, such as aioli, and tomato-based sauces. With the addition of fresh herbs, capers, anchovies, garlic, splashes of vinegar, lemon juice or zest, and extra virgin olive oil, or any combination there of, I could top vegetables, fish, and
frutti di mare
—shellfish—with an almost endless list of condiments. This would cover me for the meals outside of the main event on Saturday and give me versatility throughout the weekend.

Time spent in the south of France and Italy also exposed me to accompaniments like black olive tapenade and anchovy-based
anchoïade
—pastes that are blended with other seasonings; an almost mayonnaise-like sauce made with sea urchins called
oursinade;
a pungent green sauce made of parsley, anchovy, caper, a touch of garlic, olive oil, and vinegar called
salsa verde;
and a short list of other
salsine
—sauces—that called for other conserved ingredients out of the pantry like sundried tomatoes, roasted bell peppers, and nuts. This was a great go-to repertoire to keep in the back of my mind as I worked and put meals together. And a copy of J.-B. Reboul’s
La cuisinière provençale,
which I had on board, was an indispensable guide to the region’s cuisine.

Rick appeared in the galley from his foraging assignments looking pleased. His smile disappeared when he saw the look in my eye after opening the first box.

“Frozen seafood! Why did you get this?” I asked. I was pissed.

“It’s good quality,” he said.

“I’m trying to make a good impression with the owners and I have to cook with frozen food?” So much for not taking shortcuts.

“With some lemon juice and one of those good olive oils you have they’ll never know,” Rick replied.

“Did you get the veal stock?”

“Here,” he said as he handed me a food-service-sized container of veal base concentrate, a canister of dark brown pasty mass, steps more flavorful than beef bouillon cubes but usually laden with MSG and never able to offer the natural gelatin I needed in order to have a sauce with the shiny and silky viscosity I was after. I wanted refined, rich, and luscious veal stock, the backbone of the sauce maker’s craft.

“You have to be kidding me. I’m not using this.”

“Why not?” Rick asked. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t grateful.

“When you said you knew where to get stock, I saw five gallons of beautiful
fond de veau
arriving at the boat. I assumed you had a connection or friend that worked in a restaurant around here.”

Suddenly it was Rick who was pissed. He walked out of the pantry and into the salon.

I wanted complete quality control in an effort to deliver flavor, and proper stock was the essence of the red wine sauce I needed to make. That afternoon I bolted to one of the larger butchers in town and rallied about thirty pounds of veal bones cut into small pieces. I would roast the bones that night in order to get them nice and caramelized for good color in the stock and, more important, the deep, roasted meat flavor I was looking for in my sauce. A sauce like this would be the perfect condiment to the seared pieces of veal
bocconcini
that would go into it just before service. By Friday I’d be ready for the final steps to make the sauce.

Five

Spaghettoni

Monte Carlo

W
e left Antibes at precisely one-thirty in the morning. While the crew stayed up for the ride, it was my only chance to get some sleep. I had no difficulty passing out until the pounding racket of the anchor chain being let out through the pipes in the fo’c’sle pulled me out of my dream state five hours later. We were backing into our spot in the port of Monte Carlo.

The marina was like a big open piazza on the water, much wider than most harbors, and apart from a couple of boats it was beautifully empty when we arrived. We were guided just off of center and tied up to the quay. From the aft deck I got the first view of the city. Right beyond the quay, the streets around the public pool in the middle were transformed into the racetrack that worked its way around the entire city. Spectator grandstands were constructed on either side and adorned with billboards and international flags. I could see that the temporary overpasses above the track were close to being fully operational. Already, the public-address system wired throughout the city broadcast an endless stream of announcements, interviews, and commentary in three languages. For the Formula 1 Grand Prix weekend, the elegant city of Monte Carlo was transformed from its polished and pristine self into an arena and host to one of the most famous sporting events in the world.

I did not come up for air again until mid-afternoon, and by then boats were anchored, three, four, five deep, behind our reserved front-row seat. Crews were hopping from one boat to another in their dinghies to shoot the breeze with old shipmates.

The quays were mobbed as well, and Ian had taken it upon himself to search for celebrities after spotting Mick Jagger walking past earlier that morning. The report came down to me that Simon Le Bon of the rock band Duran Duran was on the aft deck, talking with the owners’ children. Later Rick would fill me in about the Italian paparazzi trying to get their subjects to pose while darting compliments at them—“
Bellissima! Stupendo! Encora!”
—until the Monte Carlo police shooed them away. I was too busy down in the galley to enjoy any of this firsthand.

I had to finish up everything I would need for the Saturday party. I had made peace with the limitations of my marine stove for everyday cooking. But there was no getting around the fact that it could not meet the demands of this kind of volume production. But I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of making this weekend work.

The fo’c’sle was transformed into a faux refrigerator. Portholes stayed closed. I even opened the chain lockers in the floor to try coaxing coolness out of the sea under the steel hull. But I wasn’t done. Because the anchor was laid for our stern-to parking, one of the chain lockers sat vacant. This could be a perfect place to store the cheeses. The conditions were basement-like—just what we needed. I lined the inside of the locker with garbage bags, and then carefully stacked the cheeses inside. I put the cases of vegetables as far forward as possible near the forepeak. Those crew members who slept near the chain locker were going to get a mixed smell of garlic, onions, and cheeses as they shivered through the night. Late Friday morning, eight large pastry boxes of petits fours took the entire surface of the vacant eighth bunk. Whoever packed them wrote “Serenity” on each to designate our order. How ironic I thought. The weekend was shaping up to be the furthest thing from serene I had ever experienced. I put “Don’t Touch!” signs on each.

By Friday afternoon, the race-car drivers had started their practice runs through the city streets. The high-pitched revving of their 800-horsepower engines reverberated off the modern high-rise apartment buildings, back into the harbor, through
Serenity
’s hull, and would not stop until the moment when the checkered flags were waved and the race finished on Sunday. This only added to my stress. Nor did it help when Patrick came down below to post some all-area pit passes that Michele had arranged for the crew. “If you have time, you should check it out,” he said, and left them pinned to our little message board. What a tease. I asked Kevin to get them out of my sight.

It was now early Friday evening. “Showtime,” Rick announced when the owners and guests arrived. I quickly went into my cabin to change into my uniform. Rick was readying a tray with flutes of champagne to offer as a welcoming start to the weekend. I could hear muffled compliments in Italian as
la Signora
gave her guests the multimillion-dollar version of a “nickel tour” around the interior of
Serenity.
It was getting louder and clearer as they made their way toward the pantry.

“
Ciao, Davide!
”
la Signora
greeted me as she introduced a few of her friends. Minutes later,
il Dottore
stuck his head in the pantry to greet me with a big smile. They were ready for a big weekend. They didn’t come forward to the galley, probably for good measure. It wasn’t a sight I was proud to share. Even if it hadn’t been so full of food, something happened to the decorating when it came time to do the galley. Gone was the classy nautical feel apparent throughout the rest of the yacht. The galley decor looked only one step up from that of the engine room.

Several minutes later, now alone,
la Signora
came back to the galley to review the plan. She wanted assurances that her orders were going to be fulfilled. I wanted some small sign that she trusted me.

Dinner that night was fine, easier than expected. Only fourteen people. A simple plate-and-serve-type menu: small shrimp salads with porcini mayonnaise that was divine, baked sea bass with a
tian
of potatoes and zucchini, crispy
tuile
“cups” filled with crème fraîche and berries. The whole sequence of dishes went well with Rick’s nonstop pouring of champagne. One meal down, only three more to go. Kevin came down after dinner and offered to help. It seemed this was typical of him, always thinking of the next person. “I think I’ll need all hands for the big party” was my only request. Once dinner was over and I had cleaned everything up, I went back to cooking. By one o’clock, after some further reorganizing, restacking, reshuffling, repositioning, and the disposal of lots of garbage, I went to sleep.

Going to the bakery in the morning for bread and breakfast pastries was my only opportunity to get off the boat for a little while to see the world and gather my thoughts. Beyond that, Rick was my link to the outside, giving me constant news of activity on deck or on the quay. “Incredible women all over,” he’d report. Just what I needed to hear. Then Patrick came into the galley with his camera to change film at the mess table and tell me what great shots he got of the race cars coming around the S-turn near our berthing during their practice runs.

I could have done without the Saturday lunch since it got in the way of valuable prep time, but my “parade” of five antipasti was easy enough to serve, even if it took the whole morning to prepare: asparagus with Parmigiano-Reggiano, lemon, and olive oil; leeks vinaigrette with green peppercorns; goat cheese medallions with olives and crushed fennel seeds; toasts with
oursinade
—topped with minced celery hearts and spring onions; and the very mild French garlic salami,
saucisse du l’ail,
thinly sliced and topped with batons of pickled bell peppers and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Throughout the afternoon, there were occasional momentum busters, such as when one of the owners’ kids wanted a snack
panino.
Fatigue weighed me down, and I began to feel like I was having an out-of-body experience. And things were just warming up.

The real show
—at least for me—wouldn’t begin until late Saturday afternoon. I took a break on deck with some of my crewmates earlier that day.

Ian spoke up first: “How are you going to be able to do this in that little galley?”

Nigel piled on: “That’s a small stove for a hundred, mate.”

Even Rick couldn’t resist: “
C’est bête”
—basically, this is mad. “How does she expect all of this food to come out of here?”

By early evening I could see Rick feeling the pinch, too. He flipped his umpteenth Marlboro over the side as large bags of ice arrived. Between the ice and the rental glasses, the pantry became virtually impassable. Rick and I quickly huddled to work out how we would organize service. Passed canapés as the guests arrived. This would go on for an hour or so. We worked out the dinner timing once
la Signora
gave her fifteen-minute warning. Each course would be put on platters in the galley, then go to a table on deck, where Rick would serve individual portions on small plates. This would be an elegant way to do service while at the same time keeping the guests from completely assaulting the buffet table. In theory this all seemed to make sense.

Patrick put on his formal attire—a dark blue captain’s blazer complete with epaulets, brass buttons, and the
Serenity
logo embroidered on the breast pocket to be worn with white pants. He came into the galley, looked around at the masses of food and rentals stacked everywhere, and with a “glad it’s not me” grin asked if we were ready, before heading up to the deck.

Kevin offered to help with any last-minute prep, so I put him at the mess table with a toaster to start making croutons for the canapés out of France’s great white bread for toast,
pain de mie.

Nigel volunteered to help with the dishes, so I explained how I planned on recycling the early-course plates. We fired up the dishwasher for the first time—and hoped its three-minute cycle would be a strong ally. Ian, seeing the others pitch in, sheepishly admitted to having worked as a waiter for a caterer one summer, so we immediately shanghaied him to be a food runner between the galley and Rick. He would also be the busboy, charged with bringing down all the used plates and silver. “Should I wear white gloves?” he asked with a little sarcasm. I certainly appreciated the last-minute volunteerism, but these guys had never worn the shoes of a banquet chef who was about to be “in the weeds,” as they say in the restaurant business. They couldn’t predict the intensity of the next few hours.

Things began heating up in the galley. I arranged a few trays of canapés and showed Kevin how to do it. Then he took over from me. Rick came down to pick up the first tray. “Prince Rainier is on board,” he declared, fixing himself one last time before going topside. He smiled wide and said, “Here we go, flat stick!” “Flat stick” is a speedboat driver’s term meaning “full speed.” That evening he accelerated like one of the freshly tuned engines that screamed from the race team garage area, a background noise that continued through the night.

I set up the antipasto in the pantry. Meanwhile, the large pasta pot took all four burners to get the water to a boil. I had to prepare two different kinds of pastas with only one pot, so the fusilli would get scooped out into a colander. The pot would then be temporarily moved to the counter, while at the stove I tossed the pasta with the still simmering sauce until I had two platters’ worth. Now it was time to return the pot to the stove for the second pasta. There was no way I would have blanched the pasta ahead of time—a practiced but lame shortcut—especially when cooking for a large group of affluent Italians.

It took only two courses to discover my system of plate washing was a bust. The dishwasher couldn’t keep up, plus the process of loading trays, rinsing them, placing them in the machine, then looking for a place to dry the prior load competed for the same space that I needed to cook and plate the food. Kevin began to hand wash, a valiant but futile effort. Ian had to manage finding places to put down stacks of dirty dishes, while I needed him to quickly take the platters up to the deck. This wasn’t working, and suddenly piles of plates were everywhere.

“Ian, bring the plates forward. Scott, can you take the plates and scrape them into a garbage can on deck, then hand them down the crew hatch? Nigel, use the shower in the head for the pre-rinse. We’ll take them from there and send them clean to the pantry.” Not perfect but better. Finally there would be a wash system that flowed somewhat in the manner of a proper restaurant kitchen.