“C’mon! It’ll be fun. We’ll pretend I’m the idiot son of a South American dictator. And you’re my wife.”
“If I see a limbo contest shaping up, I’m going over the side,” said Nancy.
A few weeks before we were scheduled to join the ship, two sleek leather and woven linen document cases arrived in the mail along with some briefing material.
“See, Nancy. See,” I said, waving the objects in front of her nose.
On the date of our departure, we flew to Curaçao, where we were met by a ResidenSea representative at the airport and soon got our first look at The World, an impressively big, newer, sleeker, more dramatically sharp-looking version of the floating cities you see disgorging day-trippers in ports all over the Caribbean.
There was a bottle of Piper waiting on ice when we arrived. Exhausted from the flight, we gratefully sucked it down before passing out in the master bedroom. The next morning, after a room-service breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice and croissants and pastries still warm from the oven, I went out to explore.
During a tour, I learned that though The World may be a floating enclave of rich people who demand the very best, in this case, the rich eat a lot of frozen food. Until I saw a sushi chef hanging a fishing line off the far end of the putting green, I was staying away from the sushi bar, thank you very much.
When Nancy and I were summoned to meet with Stig, the safety officer, in the ship’s theater, I told him that I’d be doing a lot of cooking in the apartment. His face immediately took on a look of horror. Apparently, few of the owners take full advantage of their kitchens. He explained that at the first sign of smoke, our kitchen would automatically seal itself up behind Bond-like sliding fire doors that would emerge from tasteful concealment in the walls. Overhead sprinklers would discharge; an alarm would alert the bridge. I instantly made a mental note to avoid making any dish requiring deglazing. Stig seemed like a nice man, but I did not want to see him wielding a fire extinguisher in his pajamas in the middle of the night as I stood with a scorched pan in my hand.
I decided to keep it simple. Steak and potatoes. Pan-seared entrecôte, perhaps, with a baked potato.
The four-burner AEG range heated up fast, the burner glowing fiercely deep beneath sexy-looking black ceramic, and was surprisingly responsive to every twiddle of the dial. Though a chef had very pleasantly offered to “thaw out anything” from a vast walk-in freezer containing every conceivable cut of meat, poultry, fish, and game, the entrecôtes I requested were in fact faux filets—sirloin—cuts that come from farther back on the cow and are not as tender. But they were nicely marbled and of good quality, and they seared up well in one of the thoughtfully provided nonstick pans, forming a lovely brown crust of sea salt and crushed black pepper. Any worries about smoke faded with the efficient whirring of the overhead exhaust hood. I handled the gentle, slow-motion cantering of my kitchen floor well, I thought, for a landlubber, and when the time came, the steaks joined the potatoes in the reassuringly named Competence B-300 oven until medium-rare. Soon, Nancy and I, in soft ResidenSea bathrobes, were sitting at our dining room table, a towering floral arrangement dead center, eating perfectly respectable Black Angus steaks and crisp-skinned potatoes accompanied by an amazingly affordable bottle of Brouilly from Fredy’s, a seagoing version of an Upper East Side gourmet grocery that managed to come up with everything on my list but fresh chives.
Emboldened by this previous success, I rose early the next morning and confidently made omelets aux fines herbes, chopping with the seriously sharp knives provided. I’d seen a pretty impressive selection of stinky French cheeses at Fredy’s and had over-optimistically ordered an Époisses and an Alsace Münster. But when I went to fold a slice of the Münster into my eggs it became clear that this particular cheese had seen better days. Nancy, however, was very pleased with her cheese-free omelet, happily poring over The New York Times, thrilled not to be missing recent developments with her homicidal rabbi.
A few hours later, in that happy, hazy, semi-sunstroked state that comes with too much time spent drinking banana daiquiris (made with real bananas) poolside, I was in no shape to cook lunch. I made my way through the nightclub-style common areas down to Fredy’s for a fresh baguette and some cold cuts. Though dress during the day was casual (there is a dress code in the evening), after passing a few white-haired gentlemen in crisp khakis, bespoke linen shirts, and thin timepieces, I felt like Gilligan crashing a party for the Howells. The ship was eerily, intimidatingly empty, although there were, I was told, 76 passengers on this cruise, along with a complement of 260 crew, who were always quick with a “Hello” and a “How are you today?” But not a single passenger spoke to me, nodded, or in any way acknowledged the goofy-looking interloper in their midst. I was not offended. They seemed not to speak to one another either. Unlike most cruise passengers, sailors on The World do not seem eager to meet new people or socialize.
For dinner that night, I made penne in fresh pomodoro sauce, preceded by woody but welcome steamed white asparagus. My knife was sure as I filleted decent plum tomatoes and slivered slightly older than vintage garlic. I picked fresh basil leaves, cracked a can of Italian plums, another can of paste, sweated, swirled, simmered, and seasoned—all without a moment’s sea sickness, the kitchen behaving brilliantly.
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