Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck Read Free Book Online Page A

get work on or near the sea.
    At her office, Annie immediately asked me two questions: “Have you ever worked on a yacht before?” and “Do you get seasick?”
    The truth came out like a reflex. “No, I haven’t. But I believe seasickness is a state of mind.”
    She cracked a smile and probably sensed I was eager to get a job. We talked a long while, and then she said she would try to find something for me.
    I went back to Milan seduced by what I had seen. The famous Côte d’Azur. Huge yachts. A thriving international community. The idea of an offshore adventure was alluring. Several days later, Annie called. “I found something.”
    When she told me that the new owners of a sailing yacht called
Serenity
were looking for a chef that summer, I asked to hear more. The money was good, Annie assured me, but the owners would make demanding bosses. With scant tolerance for anything except the very best, they were the types of people who didn’t suffer fools gladly.
    “Serenity
was purchased by a very wealthy and socially prominent Italian couple,” Annie explained. “The boat will now be based on the Côte d’Azur.”
    She instructed me to refer to them always as
il Dottore
and
la Signora.
She also told me that
la Signora
was, in her own right, one of Europe’s most successful and admired businesswomen. Annie cautioned that she had heard
la Signora
could be quite blunt in voicing her dissatisfaction when something wasn’t done the way she wanted it.
    “Think carefully, David,” Annie said. “I know you’ve spent four years in Italy learning the cuisine, but these people will know in an instant if you can’t meet their standards.”
    All I could think about was the opportunity this offered for me to finally have my own kitchen and run my own show. I would be fully responsible for everything that went out of the galley. Another dozen
stages
could not make me any more qualified than I believed I was at that moment.
    I asked Annie to set up the interview.
             
    “Ciao!” the elegant, tanned
woman greeted me as I stepped from the dock to the boat.
    “
Ciao!
” I responded and wondered if Annie had stressed that I was fluent in Italian.
    It was warm even for late March, with an occasional strong gust whipping across the boat. Unruffled by the wind,
la Signora
indicated that I should follow her to the cockpit.
    I was surprised by her appearance. Her high cheekbones and forehead, which in class-conscious Europe were said to confirm both breeding and intelligence, were accentuated by dark brown, almost black hair tied back in a long ponytail. Her untucked bright blue blouse was striking over beige slacks and white moccasin-type shoes. Born of a people who created it, style draped across her effortlessly.
    At the cockpit, with an extended hand, palm up, she directed me to a cushioned seat. I stepped down into the sun-filled area that wrapped around the binnacle—the polished brass housing for the compass and steering wheel.
Il Dottore
was seated, and she introduced him to me.
    Il Dottore
appeared to have a medium build, a skin tone that looked like a perennial tan, wavy gray hair that covered his ears, a nice smile, and an easy way about him—the casual demeanor of success and confidence. Dressed in a short-sleeve, button-down shirt and slacks, he augmented the very put-together presence of
la Signora.
    I positioned myself on the seat across from both of them. The folding cockpit table was fully opened between us, with what appeared to be
Serenity
’s blueprints and the sail plan.
Il Dottore
was reading them before I sat down.
    I affected an attitude that I hoped would convey total ease. But perhaps they sensed a little nervous tension in the fact that I kept looking from one to the other, trying to determine which of the two would be making the hiring decision. I also didn’t understand why they would even consider a young American cook and not an Italian chef.
    This would be their first season as