Читать книгу The Captain's Journal - Hans M.C. Mateboer - Страница 5

Those who have never worked on cruise ships might wonder what this story is about after reading the title. The crew of every cruise ship on which I’ve sailed knows exactly what I’m talking about, even those who’ve been in their jobs for only a few months. It’s the weekly check of every food preparation area on the ship, whether it’s the bars, pantries, storerooms, or kitchens. The inspections are carried out by the senior officers and are very thorough to ensure that the highest possible food safety standards are met.

Having worked on these ships now for many years, I am often amazed at how poorly many shore establishments compare to the high standards on board cruise ships. One of the side effects of having done these inspections so many times is that I expect every place I visit to measure up to similar standards. Because of this I have embarrassed my wife on several occasions when we go out for dinner and by a stroke of fate, we’re seated in such a way that I can catch a glimpse of the kitchen operation. Invariably I go through the checklist ingrained in my brain. Pffff! No time or temperature control! My God, raw meat stored on top of cooked meat! Can I believe I’m watching the cook taste food every time with the same spoon? My wife will roll her eyes and try to hush me up, but usually to no avail.

Walking out of a restaurant is a fairly uncommon thing. The manager usually asks the reason for this sudden departure in an effort to save a customer or to make a show as to how much they care to know why. Rarely is the answer appreciated. Managers invariably turn red in the face and undoubtedly wish to never see you again. I’m only too happy to comply.

Standards on cruise ships haven’t always been this high. In the old days rules and regulations weren’t taken very seriously. The manuals were there, sitting on the highest shelf hidden under a collection of discarded knives and unused utensils. In most cases these books were only used to show that we knew what we were talking about.

“Oh yes, we adhere to the latest guidelines,” an executive chef would say, arrogantly patting the books and closing his eyes to avoid the accumulated dust blowing into them. That the book was still shrink-wrapped with a sticker dated seven years earlier conveniently escaped his attention.

Standards also varied greatly by which part of the world the ship sailed. In the United States, things were a stricter than almost anywhere else. The people on board made a difference, too. Some were lax, while others pushed more to uphold standards. On ships that sailed outside the United States for an extended time and with easygoing management on board, one could find some unusual surprises.

As a newly appointed safety officer, I was very excited when setting out for the first time, aware of all the responsibilities going with the job. I was assigned to the oldest and smallest ship owned by the company, but just the right type for a novice. She had just returned to Miami after years of service in the Far East, and now she would sail the Caribbean until the company could sell her for a reasonable price. This didn’t affect my happy anticipation at all. Many others, in particular the captain, didn’t share my happiness, or so it seemed. His previous ship had been our flagship, making cruises around the world, and I wondered if something had gone wrong and that he was sent to this ship as punishment. He didn’t have a bad reputation at all. On the contrary, he was known as a fair but strict man – one not to be trifled with, but also one who wouldn’t make anybody’s life difficult without a solid reason.

One of my responsibilities was to be part of the kitchen inspection team each week, a duty I took very seriously. I found out quickly that the main reason for my being invited to participate was not so much the need for my expertise, but to relieve the more senior officers of the group from the boring chore of record keeping.

I was at least ten minutes early for my first inspection, and I’d been notified that the team would assemble outside the hotel director’s office. He was an old hand on the ship and known to be a bit of a character. While waiting for the others to arrive, I couldn’t help but wonder how two people with such different personalities like his and our captain’s could successfully work together. Through the open door, I saw him sitting in his undershirt, drinking coffee and with a tray of sticky buns in front of him.

“I’ll be there in a second,” he yelled. “Let me put on my shirt.”

The captain, who’d just arrived, was clearly unaccustomed to being kept waiting, and he immediately started showing signs of impatience and aggravation. The hotel director came out a few minutes later, licking the crumbs and sugar from his fingers.

“Let’s take the main kitchens first,” the captain announced gruffly. He walked off without giving us another look, clearly expecting to be followed.

“A bit edgy today, isn’t he?” the hotel director inquired. I shrugged, not wanting to get drawn into whatever was going on between the two highest-ranking people on board.

“Well, not to worry.”

We entered the kitchen at the bakery, and he headed straight for a tray with a beautiful selection of cookies.

“Oh! Look at this,” he exclaimed. “Let me see, maybe one chocolate chip and a peanut butter cookie. Here, take some. They made them especially for you.” He held the tray in front of the captain and me. The captain looked at the tray with a deep frown, and with an abrupt move grabbed it and slammed it down on the counter, spilling quite a few cookies onto the kitchen floor.

“Crew are not allowed to eat in the kitchen. That goes for us, too. Give the good example, will you?”

The hotel director looked astonished, and he put an uneaten cookie in his pocket, while quickly stuffing the half-eaten one into his mouth.

“Forgot about that,” he mumbled apologetically.

We walked on to the butcher shop, with me dutifully recording whatever remarks the captain had. To my surprise we found another tray with goodies. It was a selection of fine meats and delicious sausages, all cut into bite-sized portions. The butcher, a jolly round-faced man, picked it up and held it in front of the captain.

“Please take some, sir. Look, this carpaccio is the best. I’ll put some on this little plate for you.”

At first it looked like the captain was going to take a piece, but then he pulled himself together.

“What do you mean with this? I said no food can be eaten in the kitchen! Those are the rules!”

The butcher started to laugh, seriously misreading the captain’s outburst.

“Yes, we know, but Captain Munroe liked to have his little bites during an inspection. Cookies in the bakery, a little selection of meats over here, sushi in the fish preparation room. We don’t mind, you know. Wait till you see what the pastry chef has put together.”

The captain’s face slowly turned red during the leisurely explanation of the butcher, who didn’t hesitate to put a few morsels from the tray in his own mouth.

“I’m not Captain Munroe and get out of here! If you don’t stop chewing this minute, at least close your mouth when doing so!” the captain erupted. Abruptly he turned around and walked toward the fish preparation room. We left an astonished butcher behind, his mouth still open and ready for the little piece of sausage he was holding halfway between the tray and his mouth.

In the fish room, everything seemed to be all right at first. The crew, having been alerted of the wind’s new direction regarding eating in the kitchen, had quickly removed any evidence they thought would further upset the captain. The fish chef was all smiles and his area spotless, which did a lot to improve our commander’s mood. Surveying the room, I saw a tray of sushi in one of the garbage bins, half covered with some hastily gathered regular garbage. Almost finished, the captain opened a walk-in fridge that bore a sign pronouncing it “Out of Order.” His mouth dropped open at what he saw, then he turned around to us.

“A fiddle?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, no sir! This is a violin and we play here together. This room has incredible acoustics,” the fish chef explained, happily producing the bow from a filing cabinet then putting the violin under his chin to play a tune. The man was so eager to explain that he didn’t notice the veins at the captain’s temples had started to bulge, nor did he see our hotel director behind the captain, making violent horizontal movements with his hand at his throat.

“I’ve been teaching Bill for a few months now and he’s becoming quite good.”

“Bill? Bill who?” the captain asked, his voice sounding as if he had trouble breathing.

“Well, I mean Bill, the hotel director.” His voice slowly trailed off, his gaze shifting from the captain to the hotel director’s contorted face. Finally the chef was getting the message, although from his puzzled face, I knew he was completely in the dark as to exactly what this message was.

Bewildered, the captain slowly turned to look at Bill, and Bill quickly left the room ahead of the wrath of his boss. Before the captain could go after him, somebody came in from another entrance at the opposite side. Taking no notice of us, he started complaining to the fish chef.

“Hey Mat, you promised to bring me those salted raw herrings. I need them right now.”

“And who might you be?” the captain roared, forgetting the hotel director and taken aback by the total disregard this new person on the scene seemed to have toward him.

“Me? I’m Ernie. I prepare the appetizers.” Without acknowledging us any further he turned around again. “Now come on, Mat, give me those herrings. I don’t have all day.”

Our captain clearly had difficulties trying to decide whether to get angry with Ernie or to satisfy his curiosity as to why he needed salted raw herrings. After a brief internal battle, curiosity won.

“What do you need salted raw herrings for? Not as appetizers, I hope!”

“No, man, of course not. It’s for the caviar.”

“The caviar?”

“Yeah. We ran out of it months ago, and we’ve been making it ourselves ever since. Saves us a tidy bit of money too, and I can use a few extra dollars for my kitchen, I’ll tell you.”

Without the captain noticing, I saw the hotel director roll his eyes. He’d returned and was peeking carefully around a corner, listening to what was being said. Quietly he moved away when his face began to perspire.

“How in the world do you make caviar?” the captain asked, his voice betraying more amazement than anger. Apparently Ernie was one of these happy souls who never saw a problem with anything. Not even this time, although it was obvious to me that the captain was making great efforts to keep his composure before exploding.

“Well, you know, it’s not too difficult really. You take the finest grade of tapioca, mix it with charcoal powder, not too much of course, a little gelatin, then you put the raw salted herring in it for a few days. Ever so often you stir it around. Man, nobody tastes the difference. It was Bill’s idea. We even make our own venison.”

“We make our own venison?” the captain gurgled.

“Oh yes, it’s easy enough. You take some…”

“Enough!” the captain suddenly roared. “Where is that hotel director?” Wildly he looked around, but the man had disappeared again. Mat and Ernie looked at each other and then at the captain in complete amazement. What was the matter with him? Had they done something wrong? Seeing he wouldn’t gain anything by staying around much longer, the captain stiffly walked off. I followed him, and on my way out I heard Mat and Ernie resume their conversation about the raw salted herring.

I must say I admired the captain’s self-control. He resumed the inspection and stayed dangerously quiet even when we found the vegetable chef not at his workstation but outside, innocently asleep in a deck chair. He even smiled thinly a few times at some of the other cooks we met that morning. Wisely, and probably to avoid heart failure, he refrained from asking any more questions, but he wasn’t happy. That, at least, was very clear. Neither was the hotel director, for that matter. I ran into him a few hours later as he stood at the railing with a strained look on his face, shakily lighting a cigarette and muttering to himself. Another unhappy person, no doubt, was our executive chef, but I didn’t find this out until three days later when we were back in our homeport. I saw the two of them walking down the gangway with their suitcases. The third victim of this debacle, and a truly innocent one, was the poor violin. I found it in the garbage room broken into three pieces.

The improvement of the standards in our kitchens was impressive and immediate. The results of the inspection the following week could easily compete with those done today. Everything was spotless, the cooks were all present, and if they didn’t always know what to say, they certainly knew what not to say. I was impressed with what our captain had achieved in one week.

Doing kitchen inspections myself, I often smile when seeing my hotel director, always efficient and professional. Some time ago, I asked him if he liked violin music. I can’t remember what his answer was, but I remember his face, because he didn’t understand my question at all. When he reads this, he will.