Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck

Author:David Shalleck
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780767930239
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2008-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

I arranged the canapés in concentric circles on the silver tray we always used for cocktail service. I wanted the small, handmade savory pastries to suggest the artisanal effort by virtue of a neat, symmetrical presentation. Aesthetically, it worked beautifully and fortified my edict that making the first selection visually pleasing also made it more desirable to eat.

La Signora came into the pantry while winding her watch, dressed up in a casual elegance I had not seen before—dark blue slacks and a crisp white blouse, her open collar giving way to a large pearl necklace. She seemed to be wearing a little more makeup than usual, that is, if she ever wore any. A gold lamé headband kept her long dark hair behind her ears so the matching pearl earrings could show.

“We are going to dine onshore tonight, so no need to cook,” she said as she put her watch on.

“Very good,” I responded, trying not to show surprise or disappointment. But when she left, I threw my hand towel into the sink with a frustrated snap.

Why couldn’t I have been told sooner? She knew I worked all afternoon getting their dinner prepped and ready. Not even a mention of how good it smelled in the galley or an acknowledgment of seeing the components of the main course—my mise en place—out and ready for service.

Now what do I do with all of the food? Obviously, my time in planning, shopping, and prepping and the cost of goods didn’t matter. I could hold some for the next day, like the calamaretti farciti—tiny calamari stuffed with Romano’s wonderful shrimp-and-vegetable filling, a signature of his restaurant. But I really looked forward to serving the incredibly plump rombo—turbot—just caught, gently baked with zucchini and a splash of wine. The rest would go into the crew menu, but I already had that meal ready, too. I made enough of the filling for the calamaretti to stuff pasta for baked cannelloni. Oh well, I thought, it’s their boat, their life, their money.

“As soon as I serve the ladies their tisane before they go to bed,” Rick told me upon hearing the news, “I’m outta here.” La Signora had provided us with her custom tisane mix of dried herbs, flower petals, and roots blended at her local erborista, a concoction prepared like tea that apparently made for better, restful sleep and was a cure for all that ails you.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Back up to Forte dei Marmi! The harbormaster gave me the names of some clubs to hit. Time to play with the Florentine girls!”

“By the way,” I asked him, “what were you doing at the harbor office?” “Making a telephone call. I can’t stand calling long-distance with phone cards,” he said with a flip of his hand. Rick’s use of stock French gestures always made me laugh.

“You just go in and ask to use the phone?” I said incredulously.

“I have it charged back to the boat,” he explained. “I’ll pay the boat back if Patrick asks.

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