Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck Read Free Book Online Page B

owners of
Serenity,
which they were apparently rushing to make ready for the May opening of the Riviera yachting season, less than two months off. Angry cries of the French, Italian, and British day workers on board, arguing about whose way was the right way to rewire the running lights from the navigation station, flew across the boat. But
la Signora
just tuned them out and began the interview in flawless Italian. I knew enough Italian to understand most Italians, but understanding a foreign language is always easier when the person speaking is highly articulate. This is especially so with Italian, some of whose regional accents only vaguely resemble Tuscan Italian, considered the most proper.
    “So, Davide, what kinds of things do you like to cook?” She pronounced my name “DAH-vee-day.”
    “Well, I am inspired by many things,” I answered. “I love to cook—am fascinated by—first courses and pastas. My whole perception of what pasta is—as a course, as a flavor, integral to a meal—has been rediscovered since I’ve been living in Italy. But what I like cooking most are game birds.”
    “What kind?” she asked.
    “Quail, pigeon, duck, and guinea fowl. They’re a great challenge to master,” I went on. “I’ve been exposed to a wide range of ways to prepare them.” Now, really wound up, I rambled on about how preparing special regional dishes allowed me to take the academic knowledge I had picked up during the various
stages
of my training and apply it to my own creations.
    But mostly I spoke of ideas and a refined palate, confident this would distinguish me from a dockside adventurer looking to sling galley grub for tax-free cash. I paused, ready for
la Signora
to compliment me on my broad knowledge and interesting cooking ideas. No such compliment came. Instead, she sat quietly, patiently waiting for me to finish saying all I wanted to say.
    When she was sure I was done, she said, “
Allora
,” pushing up to the edge of the cockpit bench, posture erect. I also edged closer to the lip of my seat both to signal attentiveness and to hear her above the workmen’s din.
Il Dottore
had long ago turned his attention back to the plans he was studying.
    There was no question about who would be making the hire.
    La Signora
cleared her throat and held forth:
    “This is what we like to do in the summer. We like our food to be very light, very clean. We like it to be well prepared. We want it to be fresh, to be Italian. We don’t eat a lot of meats or heavy things in the summer.
    “We want lots of fish—there is no reason why we shouldn’t have fish—we’ll be at sea!” she said, smiling and gesturing to the Mediterranean on three sides of us. Now I wished I hadn’t run on about game birds.
    “Lots of fish and seafood, plenty of vegetables—we love tomatoes—and fruits. Simple things done beautifully.
    “We’ll let you know when we want to have a pasta, so don’t think that we’ll have pasta or risotto at every meal, as you may have done at some of the restaurants where you worked.
    “No onions are to show in dishes and no snails, red beets, or mussels.
    “No meat sauces.
    “No cold plates for dinner entrées. Occasionally you may serve a dish
tiepido
”—tepid—“if it makes sense for the menu.”
    Il Dottore
mentioned something to her as she was talking. “Oh yes,” she added, “don’t be shy with
peperoncini
”—chile peppers.
    “Have different snacks available and an assortment of canapés to be served every day with cocktails before dinner service. Make many and rotate the offerings so that repeats are spaced no closer than once per month.
    “We’d like to have three or four courses for both lunch and dinner. Everything will be presented on platters and served Russian style.” Russian style, I knew, is where a server offers and then serves each person from the platter. That didn’t surprise me. No family style on this boat.
    La Signora
leaned forward to emphasize her most