Mediterranean Summer (25 page)

One of the challenges I faced was how to keep the salads over a period of time so that they could be dressed and not wilted at the desired time of service. The trick was in the packing, keeping the dressing at the bottom of the container and then layering the salad ingredients, each in order starting from the wettest such as tomatoes on the bottom to the driest such as any herbs or greens. This way, everything on top of the wet ingredients stayed “dry” until lunchtime.

We didn’t have a cooler on board, so the bigger challenge was how to keep the food chilled, safe, and in good shape under the hot August sun. It wasn’t as if there were shops along a boardwalk like on the Jersey shore where I could get one. I told Rick I’d figure something out. But his look suggested that this was the least interesting thing he had heard all day. Then I scrambled and came up with a plan. Maybe at the fish shop in town I could get a couple of Styrofoam fish boxes and buy some ice. Once they were thoroughly washed, I could fill the boxes with a layer of ice, then sprinkle a thin layer of salt to solidify the ice to slow down the melting, place the food inside, add another layer of ice to cover, put the lid on, and wrap the boxes in aluminum foil and then garbage bags. If Rick placed them in the shade under some rocks nestled in cool, wet sand, they should be fine. One for food, the other for beverages.

“Don’t forget your corkscrew,” I needled a miserable-looking Rick as he started the launch’s small putt-putt motor and got it ready to pull around to the boarding ladder. It was the first time we put the restored original wood dinghy in the water, a different vessel from the inflatable tender that we normally used.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said with a grimace. But I noticed he was all smiles when he piloted the boat to the other side of the yacht and offered a hand to each of the women as they boarded—all sporting large designer sunglasses and wide-brimmed sun hats.

It was a girl’s day out. “
Adagio,
” I heard
la Signora
say to Rick as they pulled away, using the classical music term for a movement that should be played slowly, no doubt a directive to dampen Rick’s reputation for speed.

The next morning
il Dottore
invited me to join him onshore as he grabbed Alex’s red leash and brought him with us. This was a first—
il Dottore
never spent any social time with me—and I liked the idea. Maybe the “crazy water” lunch with Gianni’s grouper finally inspired him to take a deeper look into my world. Nigel and Scott were already in the cockpit polishing the brass when we went to board the tender. Nigel looked like he was off to a slow start that day. Ian told me in the galley they had snuck off in the tender late the night before, rowing it a good distance from
Serenity
before starting the engine and heading to a beachfront discotheque, Frontone, not far down the coast.

Il Dottore
and I went into the small commercial port and walked along the stone quay. I was in my
Serenity
uniform while
il Dottore
was in his casual summer attire complete with designer Italian driving shoes. Alex walked ahead of us. At first, we didn’t say much aside from small comments about the beauty of Ponza and the tranquillity of the morning. Then I told him I used my early-morning walks to unwind—that they were as much a part of my physical regimen as my sit-ups.

“I see,” he said. “Very smart of you.” And we ambled a bit farther down the quay. Then he popped a request that coiled me up again.

“Davide, do you think it’s possible we could have some meat for dinner one of these nights?” At that moment, even Alex perked up and stared at both of us.

My first sinking thought was
la Signora
’s insistence about eating only fish and seafood.
Il Dottore,
during my interview, sat right next to her when she said that. He knew her rules. Unsure how I would clear this with
la Signora,
I coughed up, “I’ll get some on board.” At least this would buy me time until I figured out what to do.

Then the inevitable happened. Alex’s leash tugged. He circled around one of the bollards next to a pile of fishnets, furrowed his brow, assumed a squatting position, and relieved himself.
Il Dottore
and I looked at each other. Since Alex wasn’t mine, I just stood there, not feeling that it was my job to clean up after his dog. Plus, I was about to embark on procuring the day’s food.
Il Dottore
had the “I don’t take care of this type of thing” expression on his face. Alone, he no doubt would have just kept walking. Now there was a witness. We found ourselves at a crucial impasse. We looked at each other again, looked back at Alex, who didn’t care one way or the other, shrugged our shoulders, and walked on. I now felt a little closer to
il Dottore
since I was privy to yet another of his quiet conspiracies. First the pasta fix, then the meat request, now this. I vowed to get him some meat.

After a few days
at Ponza and another small island nearby, Palmarola, we weighed anchor for our next destination. I had never felt lower on departure. I loved Ponza. One can claim those little beaches nestled under the cliffs for a day. Even its name is cool.

But there was nothing wrong with Capri. Then again, I had to remind myself, I was seeing these islands, even during high season, from an offshore base. No crowds at sea. And early-morning forays onshore before the world took to the streets continually offered the chance to get a taste of a day in the life from the places we were in, and this was a great one.

I walked up a fairly steep and narrow road to the town of Capri, a route I remembered from a previous visit. The wildflowers in full bloom were as colorful as I remembered them. Along an old stone wall at the side of the road, a massive growth of purplish blue morning glories were basking in the sun. I was struck by the hand-painted ceramic tiles posted or inserted in the walls in front of the homes with the residents’ names or house numbers adorned with caricatures of fish or sea creatures swimming around them. And the view of the sea, with
Serenity
at anchor below, gently bobbing in the shimmering water, was glorious.

A quick cappuccino in one of the
caffès
in the
piazzetta
at the town center was apropos before starting my quest. The key was being
in
the
caffè,
since at the bar a cappuccino would be a couple of bucks. Had I taken a seat outside, it could easily be ten or even twelve. It’s one of those fairly consistent things throughout the land, but in high-brow places like Capri, especially in summer, prices were a little higher. Plus, a little harmless eavesdropping on the locals was a great pastime. Women spoke about social gatherings, men about soccer.

As had become the norm, I let the markets and shops drive my menu planning. I went to the
forno
to get in on the first bake, and asked if they could hold my purchase until I returned. This way there would be less bulk in transit through the very narrow and bustling pedestrian-only streets in town. Then I passed one of the
latterie,
and the feature for that day’s lunch jumped out. The delivery must have been dropped off minutes before I arrived because what was in front of me was incredible. Three cheeses from the same vat of milk:
caciotta,
the first cheese pulled from the curds that are then formed in small wicker baskets, was still draining whey in the tub it was delivered in; jumbo egg-shaped balls of
fior di latte
mozzarella, made from those same curds and so fresh they were still tepid, were floating in a milky brine to season them; puffy snow-white ricotta—curds from the reboiled whey—in little plastic conical baskets had a little steam rising from their milk-fatty tops as the cheese settled into the molds. The only other way to get cheese fresher than this would be to have a cow on the boat! I took a kilo of each on sight alone. They’d be in perfect shape by the time they were served at lunch with thick slices of tomato, a healthy drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, and crystals of coarse sea salt. A slight departure from the ubiquitous
insalata caprese,
this version with a trio of fresh cheeses was true to form.

I
had
to take one of the little convertible taxis, unique to the island, back down the hill. These modified Fiats from the 1950s are to Capri what yellow cabs are to Manhattan. And the drivers were funny guys. The taxi I chose was bright blue, others were red, and I saw a couple that were pink and yellow. Most of them had a decoration attached to the front grille, like a bouquet of plastic flowers or some kind of stuffed animal.

But back on board, the long days and incessant heat were beginning to take their toll down below. Scott, our regulator of power distribution, refrained from turning on the air conditioner in the fo’c’sle. With the owners and guests on board and our constant nights at anchor, most of the available juice went to the aft areas of the boat. We had to be satisfied with the occasional slight breeze that came through our small portholes.

“Get used to it” was all he said in answer to our pleas for cool air.

It was also in Capri that
la Signora
first began to venture into the galley. She walked in one day with a bagful of hard-to-find
tartufi di mare
—sea truffles—small clams whose shells resemble truffles. Apparently, she hit the fish shop at just the right moment. “They don’t show up every day and are gone quickly when they do come in,” she explained to me, adding, “Delicacies like this are valued by those who have an eye for them.

“
Per favore,
” she asked me, “could we have them on the half shell, nice and cold, with a little lemon on the side? That can be our first course at lunch.”

She was keen on having them, like the sea urchins,
crudo
—raw.

It wasn’t long before
il Dottore
made his way to the galley to see his companion’s catch.

“How did she ask you to prepare them?” he asked.

“Raw with just a little lemon,” I replied, following directions.

“I want them steamed,” he shot back.

I didn’t know what to say or what to do.

“It’s unhealthy how she wants them. Who knows what kind of water they were in,” he said.

He excused himself and went up on deck. Moments later,
la Signora
called for me to come to the deck, and I found myself dead center in a debate over a sack of clams.

“Raw is the right way—it is summer—this is how you eat them,” she lobbied.

“You don’t know what the water is like,” he answered.

“Amore,
look at the blue—there is nothing wrong with this water.”

“I just want you to be healthy. Steaming them will make sure you don’t get sick.”

“Do you think I would eat something to make me or any of my guests sick?”

“Why take the chance? What’s wrong with steaming them?”
Il Dottore
looked to the guests, trying to sway support to his side. No one blinked an eye, fearing it might be taken as support one way or the other.

“
Scusi,
if I may,” I said, realizing that an intervention was in order. “How about if I make them half one way and half the other?”

They both looked at me. It was quiet for a few seconds, and then they both said, “
Va bene.
”

A day later, news came down to me through Rick that I was about to have another chef in the kitchen. Rick, ever the crew conduit for owner gossip, reported that
la Signora
had announced to her guests that she would be preparing her signature dish,
spaghetti con astice
— spaghetti with lobster—the next afternoon.

Rick continued that the guests, led by Dennis of course, lustily clapped and cheered at this announcement.

La Signora
came down to the galley the next day, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a scarf that gently fell over her chocolate brown one-piece bathing suit. A large white towel was wrapped around her middle. This was the first time we had ever been alone, for the rest of the crew somehow disappeared on deck.

She prodded and inspected the ingredients I had prepared in advance. She had requested lobsters with claws—
astice
—not the local spiny lobsters—
aragosta
—that didn’t have claws. “More meat and more flavor,” she told me. I was curious about this preference since
astice
are not indigenous to the Mediterranean. By the time she arrived in the galley, I had broken them down into pieces—claws, knuckles, the tails cut into three, and the bodies—according to her instructions. I also provided two kinds of oil, extra virgin and sunflower; a couple of onions; garlic cloves; fresh, ripe, peeled and halved San Marzano tomatoes; whole
peperoncini;
parsley; and of course spaghetti. She gave a quiet “
perfetto
” as she touched each ingredient.

To fill the silence, I stammered some unintelligible stream of nonsense about the day, realizing too late that my hard-earned knowledge of formal Italian had suddenly failed me. I looked up only to see Alex watching
la Signora
through the hatch above.

She dipped a finger into the oil and touched it to her tongue approving my choice. I helped her get the burners on the stove started and adjusted two flames, since the pan was large and the stove was small.

La Signora
started to cook, placing a little of each oil in the pan while contemplating if she should add more of either. The onions and garlic went into the pan to heat with the oil, then simmered slowly to soften and release their aromatics. She slowly tossed them with a wooden spoon, giving this initial step a lot of concentration to seemingly find the place where a cook becomes focused on the pace of cookery. She added some of the drained tomato water to the oil to help braise and soften the onions. After tossing them around for a couple of minutes, she scraped out the pulp from each piece of onion and removed the remaining outer layers from the pan, voicing her theory that onions should not be visible in a dish since the solids are hard to digest. I had never seen anyone do this before. No wonder she cooked with low heat and asked me to cut them into large pieces.