Captain Cook's Story

[captain cook]

Pan sear and deglaze

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Oh the woes of the traveling Megayacht chef:
We were scheduled to arrive in Potro Cervo, Sardegna shortly after lunch so the guests could go shopping. The trip had been miraculously extended another week and I was unable to pick up my last provisioning two days earlier because the boss decided not to stop in Bonafaccio. It was now 4:30 and I was desperately looking for a man named Gino and a truck full of my beautiful supplies. Our boat was gigantic and blue with a very well known name written across the stern. I figured he’d see me. After a few moments I noticed a truck across the port with a faded painting of grapes on the side and a man leaning on the fender smoking. “Buona sera. Gino?” “Si si, Chef?” “Si, Jim”
This was about the extent of my Italian. Gino was hardy and hale with a suntan and the build of a stone cutter. He seemed like a nice guy but the nightmare began when I looked in back of the truck. It was empty! I held out my palms in classic Italian exasperation. “Gino”. He made motions of steering and pointed away from the boat. “My brother. We go now.” By 4:00 I usually have all my vegetable prep done for dinner with the meats seasoned and a fair idea how everything will go. It was now 5:00 and I didn’t have a single bit of prep done. There were 12 guests and 10 crew waiting for a meal that would rival any of the café’s and restarants nearby. And so we were off through hill and dale like Bing Crosby and Bob Hope to buy vegetables from Gino’s brother.

 

[Paint]

....waiting for the end of the story....Did everything turn out OK? Left us on a cliffhanger there Captain!

 

[captain cook]

Aye Mate. From where in Britain might ye hail. As for that night in Porto Cervo all I can say was the Pastis was mighty well earned. But a few years back...
"The use of an agent was new to me. Shopping in the Med had been introduced to me six years before by a brusque response of Captain Dimitri’s. I’d asked him where to get the bread and vegetables and seafood to which he replied: “Follow the old women with the shopping bags.” Starting around 6:00 am each morning that summer I scoured (and depending on how lost I would get, jogged) the back streets of these majestic seaport towns in search of my lovely ingredients. I would come to learn the basic lexicon of gestures, local phrases and editorial sound bytes needed to arrive back on the boat with some of the most beautiful raw ingredients I’d ever seen. Noticing my apathy one day Captain Dimitri accompanied me on one of my morning jaunts to the fish market. He rummaged through the pile of St. Pierre (you are not to touch the fish I would later find out with much drama) and pulled out the deadest looking of them all. After a few foul remarks in Greek, to which I responded in wide-eyed uncomprehending agreement, he tossed it back on top of the pile and continued with the fishmonger. Were it not for my donkey bag, frumpy chef’s jacket and the stripes of his starched white captain’s shirt I think one of us would have been stabbed. The fishmonger muttered a few of in his own language that I’m sure were just as rude. Then he returned with a fresh crate of 20 St. Pierre. Bent and stiff with the signs of rigor mortis these fish had been just a few hours out of the water. This was as good as it gets and we took them all. The captain and I stopped for an espresso, as was our usual when he came ashore with me. Once again it seemed like he knew the bartender, the café and the town. And once again he told me to stop ogling at our French stewardess. He also told me that a well-known Prime Minister would be joining us for two weeks. There would be security, probably a few arms dealers and that I was to stay in the galley. And no more Ice Cream Bombe jokes.