Alessandro had told me that he would not be in when I arrived for work in the morning.  His wife was “with child” and he had to take her to the doctor’s office.  When Alessandro is off, I help Roberto, the pastry chef.  We usually start the day cutting up fruit for the breakfast buffet and then spend the rest of the time making desserts of one kind or another.  Today we were making cookies. At Hotel Santa Caterina the guests receive a welcome cookie plate in their guest rooms when they arrive.  Every few days Roberto would make several batches of different types of cookies and we arranged them on little china plates, covered them with saran wrap and tie each plate with a bow so they could be delivered to new guests.

           “Roberto,” I asked, “have you always been a pastry chef?”

           “When I was young, I was a champion at table tennis. Then I have my bakery, but business no good. So when I get married and have little girl, I get job at hotel. Do you want to see photos of my family?” Roberto got out his wallet and showed me pictures of a beautiful young woman and an adorable daughter about 4 years old.

           “Che bella,” I commented. I got out the photos of my husband and children that I had in the pocket of my chef’s pants and shared them with Roberto.

           “Mia familia,” I explained as I showed him pictures of Craig, Gretchen, and one of Brian and Eric in their military uniforms when Brian was still in the US Marine Corps and Eric was still a midshipman at the US Naval Academy. He smiled and nodded.  Then I put the photos away and we got back to work.

           After lunch, we made more cookies and a luscious almond cake. 

           Francesco, who is the assistant pastry chef and looks just like the actor Sean Penn,  has always been polite, but cool towards me.  The men in the kitchen are unaccustomed to working with a female chef.  I try to ignore their stern expressions and focus on working hard.  Francesco made pudding in the morning and was making Zeppolina after lunch – tiny, fried doughnut balls.  I was surprised when he brought one to me to taste.  It was delicious! 

           When I got off the bus at the top of the hill overlooking Positano, the narrow passageway that wound down to the beach front was crowded with tourists – stout Germans with walking sticks, Britons in sensible shoes, lovers walking hand-in-hand and Italian families.

           “Scusi. Excuse me,” I said as I navigated down the stone steps toward the internet cafe and around them as they stopped to examine colorful merchandise displayed in open shop doorways. 

           When I got back to the apartment that afternoon, I was stunned to find it a mess. I recognized the book that Ben had been reading, his dirty socks, a t-shirt, alarm clock, crumpled papers, and dirty dishes spread out on the floor, sofa and table.  I certainly didn’t feel like being the mom here and having to clean up after someone else when I got home from work.  I gathered together the dirty dishes and placed them in the kitchen sink, picked up the trash and neatly stacked the books on the table in the living room.  It didn’t bother me that his side of the bedroom that he shared with David looked as though a tornado had passed through it, but I wanted the main room to be tidy. 

            Seth had issued us all cell phones with instructions to call him if we needed anything.  They were pre-paid phones, so we could add minutes to them if we wanted by paying a few Euros at the Tabacchi shop. Apparently, our family members could call us at no charge, but to call out of the country was very, very expensive. I carried mine with me all the time, but had never used it. I was surprised when it rang.

           “Hello.”

           “Hello, Mom?” I recognized my son Eric’s voice immediately. He is a Naval Officer stationed in San Diego and was home in Maryland on leave.  He asked how things were going and I told him what I’d been doing.

            “I already thought you were a good cook,” Eric said.  “I’ll bet you could teach them something.”  Ahh, the confidence your children have in you.

            “What are you and Dad doing?”

            “He’s fixing lasagna for dinner.  Well actually he’s heating it up in the microwave.  By the way, I like the way you labeled everything in the house for him.  You forgot to label the dishwasher, but he seems to be doing okay washing the dishes by hand.”

            I spent the next few minutes catching up on news from home and then said good-bye.  I wondered what Craig would do when he ran out of lasagna. Remember, he didn’t know how to cook?

            I poured myself a glass of white wine and decided to spend the evening reading. We had two metal chairs that sat on our porch next to the plastic clothes drying rack which was always draped with wet towels and someone’s underwear.  (You can’t be modest when you share an apartment with other people!) The porch was shaded by the lemon trees in the yard and was a very peaceful place to read for a couple of hours until the mosquitoes came out. I  had managed to locate two bookstores—one on the way down the hill from the bus stop in Positano and another in the piazza in Amalfi—that sell English language novels.  I know that I should be purchasing something in Italian to help improve my language skills, but can you imagine how long it would take me to complete Harry Potter or a Tom Clancy book in Italian?  I stopped regularly at each bookstore to stock up on paperbacks. Before I went to bed that evening I penciled Ben a note:

            “Ben, we all have to share the living room.  Could you please clean up before you go to bed? Thanks, Marcia”

           When I arose the next morning, the living room was straightened and although the dishes hadn’t been washed, they were in the sink. Guess Ben got the message. I headed out the door to work.

Snip. Snip. I was trimming glossy green lemon leaves to evenly shape them so they could be used as a garnish for lunch service.  The grill station chef at the restaurant by the pool would place a thick slice of fresh mozzarella di buffalo on the grill and as it warmed and began to melt, he would transfer it to a lemon leaf and serve it as a garnish with the grilled fish of the day.  I finished filling the rectangular stainless steel container with freshly trimmed leaves, covered it with wet paper towels and put it into the reach in refrigerator.

Alessandro put a stack of baby eggplants on the table in front of me.  He picked up the vegetable peeler and showed me how to slice off thin slivers of eggplant skin. Then he wrapped the eggplant skin inside out in a multi-layered circle around his fingers and showed me how to slice it very, very thin.

“You try,” he instructed.

I wound the slivers around my fingers and made very fine, almost transparent slices.

           “Piano, piano,” he kept saying. Was he trying to discuss music?   I have absolutely no musical talent.  He didn’t say anything more, so I didn’t try to respond. But that evening I checked the word in my Italian/English dictionary and discovered that it meant “slowly, carefully.”

When I finished slicing the eggplant peels, Alessandro placed them on a cookie sheet and roasted them very slowly until they were crunchy.  A little pile of toasted eggplant peels resembling a nest would also be used to garnish a plate. Alessandro told me later that Chef was very impressed with the very, very fine cuts of melanzana (eggplant) peels that I did for the garnish.  He said they perfetto!

Another garnish they used at the restaurant was a cheese “cone.”  Alessandro showed me how to put a square of Swiss cheese on a piece of parchment paper and add a sprinkle of minced parsley and a very, very thin slice of red pepper.  Then he microwaved it for 1 minute and the instant it finished, he quickly wrapped it around a cone-shaped piece of metal (one of the cooks said he made it from a tin can covered with foil, but I have seen metal “horns” or cones available where baking supplies are sold.  It cools right away and makes a fancy cone that they fill with pasta on a plate.

These tasks took me all morning, and then it was time for a break and the employee lunch.  Most of the time, the employee lunch consisted of meat, a vegetable and pasta.  Occasionally the vegetable was oven baked potatoes which, combined with the pasta, seemed like an awful lot of starch for one meal.  Today the “meat” or protein portion of the meal was a batch of whole, deep fried fish about 4-6 inches in length.  I thought they might be anchovies, because I knew they were larger than we’re used to seeing them in a can and they were eaten more regularly in Mediterranean countries.  I got in the lunch buffet line with my plate and watched the people in front of me heap piles of fish on their plates.  I wasn’t sure how you ate them (whole?) as they were really small. I decided to just serve myself the pasta, rigatoni in tomato sauce, and the vegetable, which thankfully was steamed green beans. I carried my plate out onto the porch and found a seat near Roberto. As I ate my lunch I watched the other chefs use their fingers to tear off the fish head and then pull it downward taking the backbone and tail off in one piece.  Then, yes, they opened their mouths and ate them whole!

Various tasks filled the afternoon and I was tired by the end of the day. It was warm and clear outside when I emerged from the hotel, and I decided to take the ferry home rather than riding the bus. I walked down the hill from the hotel to Amalfi and bought my ticket at the tabacchi shop. I watched the kayakers play basketball as I waited for the ferry to arrive at the pier. Onboard the ferry, I selected a seat on one of the wooden benches on the top level which was open-aired. The gentle hum of the diesel engine combined with the rocking of the boat and the warm breeze almost lulled me to sleep.. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and scoured the rugged coast. Pastel-colored stucco houses and gardens cascaded down the hillsides connected by steep stone steps. I could see tiny inlets and coves where the colorful fishing boats were sheltered that hadn’t been visible from the winding roads above that I traveled on the bus. When we reached Positano, I disembarked and headed for the internet café to check email.

The view from the ferry

Then I headed back up the hill to the main piazza. (My legs were certainly getting a work out here!) Fresh tomatoes were displayed in crates outside the deli along with eggplant, zucchini, fennel, onions, garlic and a dazzling display of fresh flowers. I decided to stop and get something for a light dinner. The deli was narrow with shelves on one side stacked from floor to ceiling with paper products, pasta, olive oil, vinegar and canned goods. The refrigerated glass case on the other side held a vast array of meats and cheeses. I selected two ripe, red tomatoes, a fresh baguette, a bottle of olive oil and a wedge of soft provolone cheese. The old man behind the counter weighed and tabulated my purchases, placing them in a white plastic sack for me to carry back to the apartment.

At the apartment, I poured olive oil on a crusty slice of bread and layered it with slices of provolone and tomato. Then I topped it with fresh basil leaves. I watched television for a little while as I ate. The Italian news was followed by a soap opera that took place in a five-star hotel and restaurant in Italy. I think the bus boy had something going on with a laundry worker and “Mama” was running things in the kitchen. Only in Italy would a soap opera be centered on a kitchen!

           The Italian meal is a time when family and friends connect. The big meal of the day is usually around 1 or 2 PM and can last a couple of hours. It is composed of several courses and begins with Antipasti (appetizers) and is followed by the Primi Piatti (first plate—usually a pasta dish), a Secondi Piati (second plate—meat and vegetables), Insalata (salad) and is finished with Dolci (dessert.) Occasionally fruit and cheese follow the dessert. Of course, wine is served with every course and the meal is always capped off with coffee (espresso).

           The Amalfi Coast is a wedding destination. My roommates and I often saw two or three wedding parties on the weekends having their photographs taken outside one of the churches in town or on the beach. Hotel Santa Caterina was one of the few hotels that had a dining room large enough to accommodate more than 75 people. Thus, we cooked for wedding receptions at least once a week and they encompassed all of these menu courses.

           After about two weeks working for Roberto, Chef Domenico moved me to the main kitchen where I started as a prep cook – the one who does all the chopping and cutting of ingredients for the recipes that would be prepared that day- and as the saucier’s assistant. Alessandro (the saucier) was the chef who prepared seafood and pasta.  He was about 6 ft. 4 in. and looked a lot like the American actor, Elliot Gould.

           Alessandro was busy making ravioli for the restaurant dinner menu. I watched him pipe the filling onto the dough.

           “You bring notebook and I give you recipes,” he told me. Then he assigned me some prep work for a wedding reception that was scheduled for that evening.

           The basil stems were covered with wet soil and I paused to wipe my hands on the hand towel tucked into my apron strings. I was separating the basil leaves from the stems and getting ready to wash them.  Placing the stopper in the stainless steel sink, I filled it with cool water and added the fragrant basil, swishing it around to clean off the dirt. Then I caught the floating basil with my fingers and placed it in a white plastic bin perforated with slots to allow any remaining water to drain off. I tore several sheets of paper towels off a roll on the shelf and folded them protectively over the basil before placing it in the refrigerator. 

           My next task was peeling and mincing garlic cloves. I separated the cloves and placed one on the cutting board. I laid the heavy chef’s knife on top of it and pressed downward to crush the garlic and release the skin. Then I peeled the layers of skin off, exposing the smooth, glossy garlic clove. I set it aside and picked up another one. When the peels were all removed, I collected them all on the cutting board and began cutting, using a fluid back and forth motion with the big knife, releasing the aroma of the garlic.  When I had it minced into a fine paste, I scooped it up and placed it in a plastic container, covered it with damp paper towels and put it in the refrigerator to join the basil.

           We purchased much of the fresh seafood that we used in the kitchen from local fishermen. That morning a fisherman had delivered a cardboard box with several huge sea bass, two lobsters and a large octopus. The women who washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen during breaks and in the evening were also assigned to clean fish.  Two of them were at one of the sinks—one was scraping scales from a large fish and the other was gutting and cleaning the octopus. She wiped her hands on her blue uniform dress and took it to the Alessandro. (The dishwasher girls also bring everyone cappuccino and espresso on little trays at regular intervals and fruit punch in the afternoon. The “coffee break” takes about 20 seconds – just enough time to stir in a tiny spoonful of sugar and toss the espresso down.)

Conchetta the dishwasher

           After Alessandro finished the ravioli, he made octopus risotto for the wedding reception. Risotto is made from Arborio rice. Instead of steaming the rice in water, you slowly add broth to the rice and stir constantly until the liquid is absorbed and the rice has a creamy consistency.

            “Popoli (octopus), they are strong.” (I think he meant that they were tough.)

            He proceeded to show me how to beat the live octopus with a mallet until it was tender, although limp and mushy made a more apt description. I think it would have been easier to just drive one of those motor scooters over it a couple of times. Then he submerged it in a pot of boiling water. I didn’t know that octopus turned purple when cooked, and I was surprised that the boiling didn’t make it tough all over again. Alessandro set some aside to use for a cold seafood salad that they were serving for the wedding and sliced the remainder to sauté before adding to the risotto. 

            The whirr of the blender was added to the other sounds of the kitchen—water running, pots and pans clanging and the men laughing and chiding each other in Italian over some event I couldn’t understand.  I glanced up at the clock and realized that it was almost time to me to go home. When they are preparing for a wedding reception, the kitchen staff does not get its usual break from 3PM to 6PM.  Instead, they have to work all through the afternoon.

            They were busy frying veal and roasting huge fish for the Secondi Piati as I left at 4PM and the pastry chef, Roberto, was decorating the wedding cake.