Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck Read Free Book Online

my kitchen.”
    Nadia’s face softened while she fixed her apron. “David, you have it in you. Faith told me you took a risk and left a fancy job in San Francisco because you want to be a real chef, someone whose cooking is a vision into his soul. What happened to the person with courage who walked away from a good situation at home? Where did this
bravissimo
young man lose his
figura?
”
    Figura
is one of those Italian words that doesn’t translate well. It can mean the impression you make on others, your personage. The way she used it, the best translation might be “unshakable belief in oneself.”
    Maybe I didn’t have it was all I could think.
    “Don’t be so solemn,” Nadia went on, her tone now motherly, smiling, almost teasing. “You are leaving us soon.” She took me inside and pulled an Italian cookbook from a shelf in the library. Before handing it to me, she said, “Just know I say what I say to help you, not hurt you. We will always be friends.” And then she reached for a pen and began to inscribe the title page. In Italian, she wrote: “
Per Davide. Buona fortuna. Ti auguro di diventare un grande chef
”—For David. Good Luck. I hope you become a great chef.
    I went up to my room to think about what had just happened. Nadia’s eyes and words cracked the shell. It was three in the afternoon, and the bells in the local clock tower down the road started to ring. I recalled having seen the words in large letters painted under the clock: è L’ORA DI FAR BENE —It is the hour to do well.
             
    Seasons changed one into
the next. My language skills increased, although to some Italians I had a Spanish accent. My clothes all bore the “Made in Italy” label, although I could never quite figure out how to wear them as well as the locals. I eventually became a legal resident with a work permit and an identity card. I began dreaming in Italian.
    Italians feel an immense pride that tends toward the regional rather than the national and reveals itself in more than just the cooking. From cosmopolitan Milan in the north to history-laden Rome, each region has its distinct identity, style, and attitude.
    My trip introduced me to many of these differences, and I knew I would be coming home a vastly better cook. Given the right ingredients, I could prepare numerous regional recipes. However, even though I had learned a great deal about Italian food, I wanted the opportunity to choose ingredients and write menus, if for no other reason than to reassure myself that my culinary grand tour had been worth one of the longest sabbaticals ever taken by a cook.
    I thought about contacting some of my bosses in Italy to see if they had any real jobs for me, not another internship. But I didn’t love the idea of starting at the bottom. And once in, I wasn’t sure how long I could get away with the white lie a friend of mine recommended I tell people for acceptance in a class-conscious society: “Tell them you’re the chef, not a cook.” In a small town, I was bound to get caught.
    While working in Milan, I contacted a yacht charter agent whose name I had been given by a friend in San Francisco. There were large yachts that plied the Mediterranean, he told me, and many of them had private chefs on board. The idea was intriguing.
    The agent, Annie, was based in Antibes on the Côte d’Azur. I told her what I had been doing and that I was interested in possibly cooking at sea. She invited me to her office for an interview. She said my timing was good because the yachts were starting to return from the winter in the Caribbean. I made an appointment and went to Antibes during my next days off from work.
    As the train made its way from Genoa west along the coast, I had a nonstop view of the Mediterranean. The most romantic body of water on the planet was right in front of me. Two vivid tones of blue—water and sky—filled the train windows. By the time I got to my destination, I would have said anything to