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The real mind-boggler was the finish. It was gorgeous, even a little mystifying, like somebody’d taken ten blocks of modern, high-end Milanese decor, inexplicably refined it into the essence of all things Italian, then poured the result into the hull of a sexy, souped-up speedboat. I blinked, allowing my eyes to wander across the aviation-style cabinets that circumscribed the interior.
They were perfect. The metallic-silver Awlgrip they’d been sprayed with looked lustrous, lacquer-like. The interstices between the doors were rectilinear, identical. Their bottom edges, from where I stood at the foot of the companionway, stretched forward in fastidiously straight lines, parallel to the lines of the Corian countertop surfaces and the lines of the slats of the miniblinds.
Whooooeeeeee! I scratched my head, then smoothed my thumb over the edge of the dinette table, a museum-grade artifact of chrome steel, glass, and wood. Most levels of fit and finish I encounter while reviewing boats are comprehensible, meaning I’m able to understand how, with a certain degree of expertise and the right kind of tools, a given group of craftspeople are able to achieve certain ends. The level of fit and finish I was admiring at the moment, however, belonged to an entirely different—I’d say artisanal—order. No matter how much imagination I applied to the tools and techniques of the Italians I’d met earlier, during a tour of the Riva plant, I simply could not fathom exactly how they’d created this enigmatic work of art.
a d v e r t i s e m e n t
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The layout was simple, but sybaritic. Except for a small, single-berth, single-head stateroom for crew accessed via a cockpit hatch, the entire below-decks living area was given over to the exclusive enjoyment of the owner. Up forward, there was a thick double berth with switches for individualized reading lights and an array of finely crafted drawers containing such unique standards as Italian leather luggage and embroidered towels, sheets, and shirts, all emblazoned with the Riva logo. Amidships and to port, chastely hidden from view behind the doors and lids of a built-in credenza, I examined a Frigonautica refrigerator, Bosch cooktop, Panasonic microwave oven, and stainless steel sink. Adjoining lockers, cupboards, and upholstered drawers were loaded with silver-plated flatware, a stackable stainless steel pan set, and a china set for four, again all emblazoned with the Riva logo. Moreover, to dial it up yet another notch, a "bottle refrigerator" had been added, a deliciously decadent feature. I was told it could chill a champagne bottle and a couple of flutes in less time than it takes to pop Bocelli’s Romanza into the stereo.
The dinette area, with the aforementioned museum-grade table and lounge, was to starboard (opposite the credenza) at right angles to the Sharp 15-inch LCD-type TV installed on the after bulkhead. A couch-potato-friendly setup? Not really, since it throws a kink into the neck of anyone wanting to dine and channel surf at the same time and stations the TV too far away for viewing from the berth. The washroom—"head" seems a bit crass—was a knockout, though. Just abaft the dinette, a door opened onto a commodious cabin with lacquered overhead panels, a Techma electric MSD, and a separate stall shower. The place was so Italian! Took me a few minutes to realize the chrome-steel bowl in the thick, lime-green, frosted-glass countertop was actually a sink!
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