The first time we met Claudio, it was at a seaside bar next to the marina. Romano and Claudio prefered this bar because, unlike the others in the area, it had no metal bars covering the walls, doors, and windows. In those other bars, I imagine, the view must have been quite similar to the vista seen by Alcatraz's inmates.
During the first half of our conversation, Claudio, with his intense bulging eyes, told me all the reasons for which I deserved the label gringo...and why I should be ashamed. During the second half, he informed me that the American scientists had devised a method a rerouting hurricanes, generally in the direction of Haiti and Cuba. We were sceptical, so he offered proof : the US had not been hit by a hurricane in more than three years. Check mate, gringo !
Claudio is not Venezuelan, he's not even South American. Claudio's an Italian in his 50's or 60's. He has no hair on top, but more than enough for a gray ponytail on the back of his head.
Claudio, like our host Romano, lives alone on his boat. He has done so for the past 15 years at least, and for nearly all of those years, he docked in Cartagena in Colombia. But at the moment of our passage through Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela, he was living across the dock from Romano, and they had become friends.
Later that evening, we offered to make a meal, something simple...egg fried rice. And so in Romano's tiny kitchen, with his tiny utensils and tiny pan, and on his tiny stove I prepared the dish. On one burner the rice, the other some veggies frying. Pauline and Romano were seated inside the cabin. Claudio stood on the steps leading from the cabin to the upper deck. I added a bit of salt and pepper to my vegetables. And I was about to start frying the rice when Claudio suddenly said that he wouldn't be eating with us that evening, but he offered to cook an Italian meal the following day, and then he hastily left.
The next day, we walked across the plank to Claudio's immense sailboat where he was sweating profusely over the stove wearing only his sagging gray underwear. He was preparing two dishes : one with fried zucchini, garlic, and fresh basil bathing in vinegar...and the other was a pasta dish with vegetables and fresh Italian cheeses. Both were heavenly; I had thirds and could have eaten more, but I wanted to avoid being called a greedy or gluttonous gringo.
Throughout the whole cooking process, he discussed all the rare herbs and quality ingredients of fine Italian cuisine...almost all of which were too expensive or unattainable in Venezuela. At least for us. For him, it was unthinkable to consume the fodder that 90% of Venezuelans eat every day, such as cornflour arepas, manioc, or the plethora of fried meals. He told us that not only must you have the finest quality ingredients, you must also cook with feeling, and at this point he made some strange Italian gestures; while puckering his lips, all five of his fingers touched at a point where they could very well have been milking his aura's invisible teat.
It was here, while talking about feeling, that he pointed to me. "I saw him, tossing in salt and pepper with no feeling." So that was why he left in such a hurry ! His index finger on his left hand was now pulling down on his lower eyelid, his other index finger fixed firmly on me. "I saw him," he repeated. Then he said it again. I didn't deny it. For chrissake, it was egg fried rice ! I promised myself that the next time I cook in front of an Italian that I would sniff the salt, lick the pepper, listen to the curry...I would feel them all !
I was relieved to be leaving after only two days there, no matter how delicious his cooking was. And part of me, only part of me, smiled when, one week later, Hurricane Irene blasted the East Coast...must be my shameful gringo heritage.
During the first half of our conversation, Claudio, with his intense bulging eyes, told me all the reasons for which I deserved the label gringo...and why I should be ashamed. During the second half, he informed me that the American scientists had devised a method a rerouting hurricanes, generally in the direction of Haiti and Cuba. We were sceptical, so he offered proof : the US had not been hit by a hurricane in more than three years. Check mate, gringo !
Claudio is not Venezuelan, he's not even South American. Claudio's an Italian in his 50's or 60's. He has no hair on top, but more than enough for a gray ponytail on the back of his head.
Claudio, like our host Romano, lives alone on his boat. He has done so for the past 15 years at least, and for nearly all of those years, he docked in Cartagena in Colombia. But at the moment of our passage through Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela, he was living across the dock from Romano, and they had become friends.
Later that evening, we offered to make a meal, something simple...egg fried rice. And so in Romano's tiny kitchen, with his tiny utensils and tiny pan, and on his tiny stove I prepared the dish. On one burner the rice, the other some veggies frying. Pauline and Romano were seated inside the cabin. Claudio stood on the steps leading from the cabin to the upper deck. I added a bit of salt and pepper to my vegetables. And I was about to start frying the rice when Claudio suddenly said that he wouldn't be eating with us that evening, but he offered to cook an Italian meal the following day, and then he hastily left.
The next day, we walked across the plank to Claudio's immense sailboat where he was sweating profusely over the stove wearing only his sagging gray underwear. He was preparing two dishes : one with fried zucchini, garlic, and fresh basil bathing in vinegar...and the other was a pasta dish with vegetables and fresh Italian cheeses. Both were heavenly; I had thirds and could have eaten more, but I wanted to avoid being called a greedy or gluttonous gringo.
Throughout the whole cooking process, he discussed all the rare herbs and quality ingredients of fine Italian cuisine...almost all of which were too expensive or unattainable in Venezuela. At least for us. For him, it was unthinkable to consume the fodder that 90% of Venezuelans eat every day, such as cornflour arepas, manioc, or the plethora of fried meals. He told us that not only must you have the finest quality ingredients, you must also cook with feeling, and at this point he made some strange Italian gestures; while puckering his lips, all five of his fingers touched at a point where they could very well have been milking his aura's invisible teat.
It was here, while talking about feeling, that he pointed to me. "I saw him, tossing in salt and pepper with no feeling." So that was why he left in such a hurry ! His index finger on his left hand was now pulling down on his lower eyelid, his other index finger fixed firmly on me. "I saw him," he repeated. Then he said it again. I didn't deny it. For chrissake, it was egg fried rice ! I promised myself that the next time I cook in front of an Italian that I would sniff the salt, lick the pepper, listen to the curry...I would feel them all !
I was relieved to be leaving after only two days there, no matter how delicious his cooking was. And part of me, only part of me, smiled when, one week later, Hurricane Irene blasted the East Coast...must be my shameful gringo heritage.
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