"Learning Atlantic Travel Rhythm by way of Gastronomy"
In the middle of the Atlantic it was 5:45 pm and time again for the daily aperitif. The apéro as one says in French. Having left the tropical breezes of the French West Indies, the gigantic cargo ship Fort St. Georges, part of the Caribbean fleet of the French shipping company CMA-CGM, floated along calmly. It was day two of nine on a particularly serene journey from Guadeloupe to France; instead of whitecaps and seasickness there were gentle breezes and endless apéros. We gathered in the passenger’s lounge, which although recently designed for the construction of the ship in the early 2000s, was complete with 50s reminiscent furniture. I felt like I should be wearing a cocktail dress and holding a martini. Instead I wore my comfortable jeans and t-shirt and wrapped my legs under me on the couch; so much for the romanticized idea of boat travel. Yet despite my outfit, cocktail hour was being followed daily with a voyaging addict’s vehemence. There we all sat; me and Mikaël, the two young vagabonds, the Italian retiree who lived in southern France and the Swiss doctor. A conglomerate of cultures and ages, but all bound by our common language of French, hence the use of apéro, and our love of odd travel.
Trans-Atlantic boat travel seems to make sense for an older generation which still remembers sticker covered suitcases. I myself come from one of speed; everything in life is quick leaving no time for relaxed travel. It was therefore no surprise that my friends and fellow passengers were shocked that I wanted to cross the Atlantic on a boat with not much more to entertain myself with but hundreds of cargo containers filled with bananas. Even upon boarding in Pointe-à-Pitre, Guadeloupe the French captain, decked out in his official marine attire, pointed out that young passengers like ourselves were rare. Apparently we were not of an age to get into the rhythm of trans-Atlantic boat travel.
Our age did not stop us from taking advantage of the adventure. We were invited often into the officer’s lounge for cocktail hour. Here my romanticized ideas of boat travel were fulfilled; French officers stood around and smoked cigarette and cigars, all purchased duty free, and told us stories of the global boat crossings. There were stories of months without sleep because of bad weather leading to incessant boat rocking. Others shared intriguing stories of navigating busy ports like Hong Kong and Sydney. One evening we were even treated to an outdoor cocktail and hors d’oeuvres party with the entire crew of the ship. A blend of French and Romanians, we stood in the late afternoon sun with small sandwiches of caviar and pâté complete with the intense ocean blue background.
If the cargo ship trip was defined by anything, it was the food. On a French line, there was the necessary French cuisine, unrestricted by the fact that we were in the middle of an ocean and far from fresh fruits and vegetables. The French chef, a copious man with oversized hands and a striped apron, was a master of entrées and desserts. Meals varied from shrimp to lamb to paella, complete with red and white wine. Fresh baked baguettes were served in baskets that covered the pristine white tablecloths. If the small circular windows hadn’t been overlooking the ridged lines of the ship’s many containers one would have assumed a classic French restaurant.
There was a rhythm to everyday life that resounded in the recurring mechanical sounds of the ship; a rhythm defined by food. In fact it is no surprise that in an extremely metallic and hard environment as a trans-Atlantic ship, where workers are away from their families for months on end, meals are the main uplifting moment of the day. In the morning the table was covered in croissants, butter, jam and the mandatory Nutella, complete with coffee thermoses and orange juice. Lunch was a three course meal, complete with a complex dessert before the traditional final consumption of French cheese. Dinner was much the same, but without the dessert, but on the Atlantic one has to make “sacrifices.”
Our chef was a copious man, his accent strongly evoking his Southern French roots. He had large hands, almost the size of the cheese plates he served; he looked as if he would be able to reach his arm into the ocean and pull it out three wriggling fish in hand. He chain-smoked when not in the dining room and had a liking for Martinique rum. Underneath his chef’s apron he wore an old tourist t-shirt from Guadeloupe and every morning he printed off the day’s menu so we would know what to expect at midi and soir.
My favorite meal was on a Monday, two days since leaving Pointe-à-Pitre. The air was still warm, but the computer on the bridge indicated the decreasing water temperature; we were clearly leaving the Caribbean. Sunday had been an equally important day culinary wise and we had eaten with the officer’s, I being the only girl at the table. The two hour long lunch led me to believe that a lighter version would be served the following day. I had not learned the gastronomic workings of the ship yet; Monday midi was anything but light.
I came down to the dining hall after a morning of lackadaisical book reading. I had been perched for two hours on a weathered bench, sticky from salt water, with my stretched out legs supported by the rusty railings that kept me from falling into the Atlantic. I had images of rolling waves and blue sky in my head.
Already set on the table were plates of dark red beets, covered in a contrasting white chèvre accompanied by smoked salmon. The four of us passengers, me and Mikael, the Italian and the Swiss were impressed. Mikael offered a glass of wine to go with the meal and we all accepted. Between bites of beets and chèvre we recounted our morning adventures. I had read, Mikael had spent two hours photographing boat architecture and the Italian retiree had spent a fair amount of time enjoying the wind in his hair before dinning his glasses and returning to his intriguing novel. But the Swiss doctor beat us all. He had been on the bottom deck on the look out for dolphins when an odd object floated by. In the middle of the spacious Atlantic, far from any mainland, he had seen a refrigerator.
“J’ai déjà fait plus que dix voyages en cargo et ça c’était mon premier réfrigérateur.” I have been on more than ten cargo ship voyages, but that was my first refrigerator sighting.
The thought of the floating fridge was quickly erased by the arrival of banana sorbet drenched in Calvados, a trou normand. The trou normand is used in French gastronomy to clear your palette of the intensity of flavors from the first course before moving onto the entrée; a true part of extensive meals defined by several courses in fine restaurants.
Our palettes cleared, the main course arrived. A boeuf en croûte, a tender round of beef sautéed with mushrooms and baked into a pastry crust. The Italian retiree pointed out that the restaurant view, the cargo containers that were tightly stacked on the other side of the porthole, in other circumstances would not have been worthy of this meal, but on the Atlantic one had to make acceptations. “Ca fait partie du charme.” It’s part of the charm.
The charm of the meal was completed by cream filled éclairs, which by that point, my stomach was nearly incapable of consuming, but in the name of my trans-Atlantic voyage, I dug into nonetheless. At the end of the meal our knives and forks were neatly laid onto our empty plates, the wine bottle was transparent with the lack of its liquid and we were silent with gastronomic ecstasy.
As we started to get up and move towards our rooms for the obligatory after lunch nap I looked at my watch. “Vous savez quoi?” You know what? The others looked up. “L’apéro est dans trois heures et demi.” The apéro is in only three and a half hours. I saw the amused look on the Italian retiree and the Swiss doctor. Even younger travelers can get into the rhythm of trans-Atlantic travel.