Italy for Dinner

Italy tonight in the Bay of Bengal. Elena's geographical arrangements continue to bear very little relation to the view outside, which is one of their chief attractions. The ship can proceed through its own sequence of water and weather while dinner offers a separate account of where we are. I find both journeys easier when one includes pudding.

There was mushroom risotto, chicken with lemon and panna cotta. The risotto arrived with that soft, glossy appearance which makes simplicity look suspiciously demanding. Mushroom warmth rose from the plate, followed by the clean scent of lemon from the chicken. It was an excellent dinner even before the panna cotta entered consideration, though I considered it fairly early.

Making risotto for an entire crew in a moving galley seems to me an act of confidence bordering on aggression. Rice can be surprisingly exacting even in a stationary kitchen, where its only obstacles are heat, timing and my judgement. Producing it here with such apparent ease suggested a level of competence best admired from a safe distance with a fork.

I offered Elena a compliment. She dismissed it and asked whether I wanted more. I did. This is one of the advantages of dealing with someone practical: a vague exchange about excellence can be converted at once into a useful quantity of food. I accepted another helping and abandoned my attempt at eloquence. The risotto did not need a speech, and Elena plainly did not need me explaining the difficulty of something she had already done.