THENASTYBITS (16 page)

Later, in that happy, hazy, lazy, semisunstroked state that comes with too much time spent drinking banana daiquiris (made with real bananas) poolside, I was in no shape to cook much for lunch. I padded down to Fredy's for a fresh baguette and some cold cuts. Though dress during the day was casual (there is a dress code after six), passing a few silver-haired gentlemen in crisp khakis, handmade bespoke linen shirts, and thin timepieces, I felt like Gilligan, crashing a party for the Howells. Back in my apartment, I made sandwiches, soppressata and
jambon blanc
for me and sliced steak (leftover from the previous night) for Nancy. Suffering from an inferiority complex while shopping in my jeans and T-shirt, I'd overcompensated by buying a bottle of Roederer Cristal to wash the sandwiches down. I may not have been rich, but I was, after all, living as if I were—if only for a few days. Feeling on top of the world as only the drunk can feel, a here-today-gone-tomorrow-what-the-hell kinda rich, I finished my sandwich and the champagne and staggered through my living area, past the couches and armchairs and cocktail table, out onto my veranda and flopped into my Jacuzzi. The perfect end, I thought, to a perfect meal.

Before dinner, Nancy and I watched a video from the ship's extensive library on our big-screen TV, the wretched, incomprehensibly awful
Arabesque
—the only positive effect of the film being that after eighty minutes with Sophia Loren, I was in the mood for Italian. (No matter that in the film she played some kind of weirdly generic cartoonish Arab character.) I made penne in fresh pomodoro sauce, preceded by woody but welcome steamed white asparagus. My knife was sure as I filleted perfectly acceptable plum tomatoes and slivered slightly older than vintage garlic. I picked fresh basil leaves, cracked a can of Italian plums, another can of paste, sweated, swirled, simmered, and seasoned, all without a moment's seasickness, the kitchen behaving brilliantly. It had everything, didn't it? A microwave with broiler, a food disposal that could have handled Jimmy Hoffa, a dishwasher, all the appliances and doodads one could hope for, including vertical slicer/grater, blender, food processor, manual juicer, and blending wand. And so clean! Always clean! How could it not be? The whole place was scrubbed down, polished, and tidied twice a day, first in the morning while we drank and sweated by the pool, and again later, by a hurrying duo of charming yet focused Scandinavian girls, cute as buttons but with the work ethic of Sherpas, who'd arrive at six bearing chocolates, towels, and replacement staple items and give the whole place a quick going over. Fredy's had been, on balance, very good to me, managing to come up with everything on my provisions list but fresh chives. For chicken stock, I received a fresh batch from
The World's
kitchens. A "small amount of flour" arrived portioned in a paper cup, sparing me the burden of a five-pound bag.

The kitchen was pretty damn stylish too. Recessed lighting, elegantly concealed washer and dryer, shiny new refrigerator with ice-maker. I cooked al dente penne in one of the heavy-bottomed sauce pots, drained it quickly into a colander, and dragged it, still leaking a little of the starchy pasta water, into the waiting sauce. A few tosses, that magic moment when the pasta

took in the sauce, a last glorious shot of extra-virgin olive oil, and onto the plates. No one alive could have cooked better pasta that day. I was sure of it. As we ate, the sea moving by outside our long expanse of windows, the sun setting on the horizon, I felt like Emperor of the Sea. Not wanting this alcohol-inspired sense of mastery to end, when I finished my penne, I diced up the complementary platter of tropical fruit, tossed the mix in balsamic with a little fresh mint and sugar, and served macerated fruit salad for dessert.

Ham omelettes for breakfast the next day, followed by a visit to The Tides for a very decent lunchtime artichoke risotto for me and a gnocchi for Nancy. I made herb-roasted chicken and ratatouille for dinner and got ahead on the next day's menu by preparing another blast from my personal past (a long-ago trip on the
Queen Mary),
vichyssoise, and socking it away into the spacious refrigerator to cool overnight.

By now feeling perfectly (if artificially) at home with my swank surroundings, the next morning I again padded down to the neighborhood grocer for another freshly baked baguette and some cocoa powder. I had a plan, another cherished golden oldie from childhood. When I returned, Nancy had squeezed fresh orange juice, and we followed that up with steaming bowls of bittersweet hot chocolate into which we dipped long buttered halves of the baguette. As a few drops of buttery chocolate dribbled off my chin, I half-noticed the sky turning steel gray, the sea picking up, spindrifts of foam and spray beginning to trail off the tops of the swells. The up and down motion of the ship began to be more pronounced, with an occasional dull thud as the ship's bow muscled through a particularly big wave.

I did not, for some reason, feel like lunch that day.

It grew dark, then darker, rain becoming constant, the sea getting rougher by the hour. I woozily cleaned portobello, cremini, and oyster mushrooms and fine-diced black truffles for my risotto. I braised recently thawed veal shanks and made the sauce for my osso buco. I zested orange and minced fresh herb for gremolata, all the while lurching dizzyingly around inside the spacious but increasingly claustrophobia-inducing kitchen. Stumbling wearily to the bedroom for a brief lie-down—as my stomach was beginning to feel less than terrific—I felt the ship lean to one side, threatening to propel me through the windows. The ship's movements didn't seem to bother Nancy at all; she watched me moaning on the bed with a pitying look. As long as I lay there I was okay. But among my many unlovely aspects, I am a degenerate smoker, and as smoking is prohibited indoors (except in designated areas, my apartment not among them), I had to pay periodic visits to the now rain-swept veranda to smoke, huddling against wind and spray in a sodden deck chair or clinging to the rail before tottering back inside again to collapse. Feeling really wretched now, I tried to keep trips to the kitchen brief.

When the veal shanks were tender and the sauce reduced, I shut off the stove and put the pot aside to cool. I muttered something to Nancy about putting everything away for tomorrow as there was no way I was eating anything tonight. Thankfully, I had not started the risotto, or anything that wouldn't be better tomorrow. As
The World's
information channel informed us that winds were now approaching gale force and seas rising to eighteen feet, the captain's voice suddenly issued from hidden speakers over my bed (more shades of
The Prisoner),
assuring passengers in a casual, conversational tone that conditions would "probably" not get too much worse and chiding those among us who had apparently been complaining that the seas had been too calm and unexciting. This is another difference between you and me and the very rich: The very rich, among them most residents of
The World,
for instance, have previously owned yachts. They know what it feels like to have your stomach rise up into your rib cage every few seconds while the floor heaves and pitches around you. And they seem to like it.

I have to admit, the ship managed the seas beautifully. Even

when swells reached the occasional twenty-seven feet, my sleep was undisturbed by groaning or creaking, the shriek of protesting beams or stressed rivets. The hull, as if surrounded by shock absorbers, handled every crashing wave with a solid, well-muffled authority. Nothing in the apartment moved or dropped save an occasional book flopping onto its side. Pots and pans stayed on the stove, lamps stayed on tables, doors remained shut, cabinets closed. As the ship rose and fell, the most violent movements were inside my stomach as I was squashed and lifted (rather gently I confess) above and into my firm and expensive bedding.

I don't know that I would ever buy a residence on
The World,
regardless of what lottery I might someday win, or that I would ever book lengthy passage in her rental suites or studios. Most of her residents own two or three homes, which suggests a net worth unattainable in my lifetime and the lifetimes of all my friends put together. As delightful as it sounds to drop by one's floating home-away-from-home in say, Sydney, sail for Ho Chi Minh City, disembark for a few weeks, then rejoin her at some other port of call by plane—or private jet, as some surely do—I am not, I think, a seafaring man. I wish
The World
well, and all the intrepid souls who sail within her. They know better than I the ways of the deep blue sea—and how cruel a mistress she can be. They are used to solitude and are, I think, surprisingly self-sufficient for a demographic no doubt used to much pampering. Rather than living behind high walls on the Riviera, or in some faux agrarian-wonderland compound in Napa, or getting their faces and buttocks stretched taut in LA, here they relax, read, spend time with a few select loved ones, looking comfortably untaut and unattractive in their swimwear by the pool: a little mist, a blender drink, a nice nap, some frozen fish for dinner, remaining in contact with their faraway empires via Internet and satellite phone. I will always remember an elegant, silver-haired Frenchman who, during lifeboat drill, looked warily at the rather extravagantly appointed emergency launches and wanted to know only if there was plenty of red wine stored among the provisions. I liked him for that.

We ate the osso buco after the ship tied up at Puerto Limon, Costa Rica. And it was delicious.

My risotto was perfect.

o
c

IS
CELEBRITY
KILLING
THE
GREAT
CHEFS?

there has always been
an element of the hustler/showman in the great chef. From Careme's extravagant
pieces montees,
best-selling books, and careful career management through Escof-fier's shrewd partnership with Cesar Ritz and on into the television age, smart chefs have known that simply cooking well is not enough. The chef in the dining room, mingling with the guests in an impeccably white starched jacket and toque, is a different man than the chef his cooks see. All chefs know and accept how much of the business of fine dining is artifice: The mood lighting, interior decoration, uniformed service staff, the napkins and silver, background music, and erotically descriptive menu text all conspire to create an environment for customers not much different than a stage set. Chefs have always written books, multiplatformed, and performed—to one extent or another—for their public. Whether coddling their customers or snarling at them, a chef caters to expectations, creating an image, hopefully one that will sell more food and attract more public.

With the advent of the Food Network and expanded media interest in chefs worldwide, however, the bar has been raised considerably. Speaking well and being good on television, giving good interview—these skills now seem almost as important as knife work. Even the Culinary Institute of America, the prestigious professional cooking school, now offers media training as part of its curriculum.