The Secret Cove in Croatia. Julie Caplin
Zita handed her the bottle. ‘Smell.’
The distinctive fruity smell of olives hit her. ‘Wow, that smells good. Fresh. Like … well, like real olives. You can almost imagine them being crushed.’
‘Picked last October.’ Zita tilted her head with a definite hint of pride. ‘Here every family has their own piece of land with olive trees. We have a plot on Brač, up in the hills. In the autumn the whole family goes to the island for the week – everyone helps. And then the oil is pressed at a local co-operative. You must take a bottle back to the boat.’
‘Thank you, that would be great,’ said Maddie, thinking she’d save it to make a really good salad dressing.
‘And you must have a glass of wine.’ Zita pointed to a row of outsize glass jars tucked behind the archway.
‘Wow,’ said Maddie, eyeing the big jars of deep blackberry-coloured wine with their traditional wicker weave which looked fabulously rustic. ‘What do you call those? And is the wine homemade as well?’
‘In English you’d call them demijohns.’ Zita laughed and shook her head. ‘And yes, the wine is homemade but not by us, but there is a family connection of Ivan’s – his cousin makes the wine.’
‘Here, try.’ Ivan thrust a thick glass goblet of the wine into her hand, having poured several from a jug on the side.
‘I don’t know much about wine,’ said Maddie, gingerly tasting it.
‘All you need to know is if you like it,’ said Ivan, lifting his glass. ‘Živilli.’
‘Živilli,’ said Zita.
‘Mmm, that’s good,’ said Maddie.
Zita took a sip from her own glass. ‘Dalmatian red wines are very good. We have many. The white is different and will often be served with water in the restaurants. The tourists get cross because they don’t like it to be watered down. The red, I think, is the best.’ She shrugged. ‘Ivan and I, we prefer the red. You must take some wine back with you as well.’
Maddie was handed an apron and ushered over to the oven, where Tonka had begun to fry several pieces of different fish. Her impromptu cookery lesson featured lots of sign language and laughter as Tonka and Vesna attempted to teach her how to cook the dish. After that, to Maddie’s surprise, they showed her how to make fresh pasta.
‘I thought pasta was Italian,’ she said to Zita.
‘We’re very close to Italy and our history is very intertwined. The Venetians ruled here for over three hundred years. We do eat lots of pasta although, when it is a main dish, it is made with meat and shellfish, not fish. We do add what we call rezanci, vermicelli in Italian, to some of the fish stews and my mother has her own special ingredient, which I know –’ Zita’s eyes twinkled with amusement ‘–she’ll want to show you.’
Tonka was certainly an enthusiastic teacher, patting Maddie hard on the shoulder at regular intervals, while Vesna stood by and nodded approvingly.
‘Mmm, that tastes amazing,’ said Maddie when Tonka offered her a spoonful of brujet. The simplicity of the dish in terms of ingredients was belied by the fragrant, fresh flavours. ‘I’m not sure mine will be this good,’ she said, pulling faces and pointing to herself, to the amusement of Tonka, who patted her on the shoulder again and nodded in reassurance, while pointing to the fish and the herbs on the side.
‘Mama says if you use good fresh fish from the market and lots of seasoning, you can’t go wrong,’ translated Zita.
Maddie smiled her thanks towards the older woman. ‘That’s what she thinks. But at least I know what fish to buy now.’ Thanks to Zita, she had a page of copious notes and a list of fish to ask for at the market, as well as several recipes that Tonka had dictated, waving her wooden spoon at Zita, who’d painstakingly translated them all under Vesna’s watchful eye. It was a real team effort.
Shaking her poor cramped hand, Zita looked up. ‘Mama wants to show you her finishing touch. You’re very honoured. Some of these recipes are closely guarded secrets and this one she’s never given to me before.’
‘Come, come,’ said Vesna, pointing to the table as she started to ladle out the fish broth into wide soup bowls.
Maddie sat between Tonka and Zita and listened to the flow of Croatian around her, with Zita’s occasional translations to keep her involved.
‘Mama is talking about her neighbour, who she met in the market; she has trouble with her son. He started work on the top floor of his mother’s house to turn it into an apartment for him and his wife, but he has stopped halfway through the work and there is water running down the walls.’
Tonka was shaking her head and said something else, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. Zita giggled. ‘Apparently he’s a plumber.’
‘Oops,’ said Maddie. ‘I can see why he’s not very popular.’
Zita translated and Tonka let out a delighted laugh.
‘It’s very common in Croatia for families to have big houses and the next generation moves into the top floor,’ explained Zita.
‘God, I’m glad that doesn’t happen at home,’ said Maddie with a slight shudder.
Despite the language barrier, Maddie couldn’t remember an evening where she’d been made to feel so welcome. Without being unkind, she could have guaranteed that not one of her family would have been willing to try the fish or if they had they’d have stared at it with deep suspicion because fish came in batter with mushy peas and chips from the chippy.
‘Is good, yes?’ asked Vesna.
Maddie nodded. ‘Very.’ She patted her tummy in a Winnie-the-Pooh sort of motion that had everyone beaming. ‘If anything I make turns out this good, I’ll be very happy. Perhaps if I get stuck, Ivan can give me some help.’
Zita sniggered, translated for her mother and Ivan’s grandmother and there was a very pregnant pause before all three women burst into uproarious laughter.
‘That would be a no, then,’ said Maddie, joining in the laughter as Ivan shook his head.
‘I’m the captain of the boat.’ He winked at her. ‘I don’t do the cooking.’
This was heaven. The whole boat to herself and the pick of the sun loungers. Maddie sipped at her gin and tonic, stretching out, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. She’d earned these few precious hours of sunbathing. The crew manual had been absolutely invaluable, as had her visit to Ivan’s house. She smiled at the thought of last night. She’d got it all sorted. Menu plans. Shopping lists. And, thanks to Zita, a complete selection of recommended markets and shops in all the different ports they were likely to visit. And first up, as soon as she got to a fish market, she would be making a fish broth.
Despite the delicious glasses of Ivan’s family’s red wine, which had slipped down rather well last night, she’d set her alarm for six and by eight-thirty this morning she’d checked all the cabins were clean, made sure every bathroom had fresh towels and planned today’s and tomorrow’s evening meal and lunch as well as early evening canapés, shorthand for olives, fresh anchovies and a plate of meat and cheese for the guests’ arrival at five-thirty.
As she reached for her drink, tilting her book up against the sun to shade her face, she became aware of voices and the rumbling rhythmic thud of suitcases being pulled over the wooden planks of the jetty. Ignoring them, she turned another page of her book and sipped at her gin and tonic.
She’d read several more pages of her book and was starting to consider setting the alarm on her phone to have a little snooze when someone called out, ‘Ahoy there, Avanturista. Anyone home?’
She