“No, man,” Lowell answered. “They ain’ havin’ a good night a ’tall.”
Our St. Martin suppliers were not working out as well as planned. The patois there, a mixture of French, Dutch, and Caribbean, was much more difficult to interpret than the Anguillian version, which was at least based on English. We ordered 250 pounds of flour and received 2,500 instead—perfect if we were opening a bakery. I ordered a case of radishes and received twelve radicchio. Sun-dried tomatoes were missing from an order and replaced with pink ice cream cones. We were also at the mercy of Mother Nature: The Lady Odessa stopped running for three days in a row because of a ground sea.
“Sorry,” they said. “The waves are too rough to cross the channel.”
No one was able to define the term ground sea, but it is an oddity that seafarers must know in their souls. It was an underwater storm that assaulted the beach in front of the restaurant. The noise was deafening as ten-foot waves crashed against the sand, drowning out all conversation in the dining room. Yet the sky overhead was clear and blue, and relaxed island pelicans stood patiently on the rocks, backs to the wind, waiting for the sea to calm down so they could resume fishing.
The customers loved it. At Cap Juluca the waves crashed right through Pimms, and the beach bar floor was covered with water. Malliouhana’s dining room, perched on its promontory, was dry but dramatic as enormous swells collided with the craggy rocks below. With each crash salt spray was propelled into the air, sometimes soaring over the roof, creating a curtain of color as the sun’s rays rainbowed through the airborne water. Guests sat for hours mesmerized by the show. Meanwhile, we were out of almost everything on the menu. The seven-mile passage between Anguilla and St. Martin became impassable.
We hadn’t seen Thomas in days. He had become a regular part of our day, arriving barefoot and salty from the sea with his burlap bag of squirming lobsters. During a ground sea it was impossible for him to go out and pull up his traps. “This ground sea,” he said, “she gonna mash up my pots. It’ll take days to fix ’em up again.”
“How long do these ground seas last?” Bob asked Rupert, the captain of the Lady Odessa.
“Usually a couple a days,” he answered as the two stared across the channel to St. Martin. “A week at the most.”
“A week!” Bob said. “We’ll be out of food and closed in a week. What am I going to feed my customers?”
“I’m already out of business,” Rupert said. “My boat ain’ makin’ no money tie up out there. We always get a couple a ground seas in December. This one early, though; she a bad one.”
They both scowled at the waves as the Lady Odessa, firmly tethered in place, rode up and down, rocking with the swells. The taxi driver tree shaded a lineup of unhappy men, and even the domino table sat idle; the ground sea had put a temporary stop to everyone’s business, and spirits were low. Bob scoured the stores, gathering scraps for our empty walk-in cooler—a head of lettuce here, a few tomatoes there. He returned with a backseat full of food but only half the shopping list crossed off. “Shiitake mushrooms are not an Anguillian staple,” he declared crossly while unloading the car.
We watched the unrelenting surf at Meads Bay; it was awesome, formidable, and showed no signs of subsiding. The waves roared so loudly it was difficult to speak. “We won’t have anything to serve in two more days,” I yelled. “We’ll just have to close.”
Three days later the waves returned to normal, the sky never once hinting that we’d had bad weather. The underwater storm had come and gone. We had hidden our regular menus at the restaurant and managed to eke out enough specials to remain open until the Lady Odessa and ferryboats were running again.
I went back to see George, the chef at Cap Juluca, who suggested I call his supplier in Miami if I wanted a more reliable source of food. “They can get anything,” he said, “but it’s expensive—everything comes by air. But man, when you get a ground sea, you don’t need to worry.”
Expensive was an understatement. Tourists continually asked why prices in Anguilla are so high. If they spent only one week trying to supply a restaurant, they’d understand immediately. Our menu prices had to go up as soon as we made the switch to Miami, with freight costs of over a dollar a pound and duty reaching astronomical numbers. The freight wasn’t bad with expensive items such as veal chops, but for a fifty-pound bag of potatoes that cost $11 in Miami, it was another story. Add $50 in freight, plus the duty, and that bag of potatoes costs $70. But the accessibility of ingredients improved drastically; shiitake mushrooms, fresh herbs, raspberries, spring roll wrappers, and all those other hard-to-find items came with relatively little hassle.
Calculating how much to order was the hard part. We needed a crystal ball. We had to guess how many dinners would be served and which menu items would be the most popular. One night practically everyone in the restaurant ordered veal chops. That left us with too much snapper and tuna, which had to be thrown away. Two nights later, having loaded up on veal chops, we had a run on lobster. Trying to predict the future, I made daily lists and faxed them to Miami.
Then the relay race began. Our food was packed in giant insulated boxes with cold gel packs and delivered to the Miami airport. From there it was flown to St. Martin, where it was off-loaded on the runway—in the sun—and transferred to a private plane operated by an enterprising Anguillian named Benjamin Franklin, who flew it over to Anguilla. At that point paperwork slowed down the race, and often our baby lettuce and raspberries wilted in the heat. Customs inspected each box, matched it up with invoices, and separated, stapled, stamped, and initialed several colored forms indicating the duty owed. Little Joe, previously the electrician, now our trucker, loaded the boxes and drove them to the restaurant, at which point I’d make last-minute menu changes after discovering that something hadn’t arrived.
It wasn’t until our ice cream machine stopped running that I truly realized the costs of doing business on a tropical island. I called the store in Florida where I’d bought the machine, and because toll-free numbers don’t work from Anguilla, it took a $90 phone call to determine that I needed a small rubber belt—only $3, they said.
“I’ll just stick it in the mail and you’ll have it in a few days,” the man offered. I explained that the last package sent to me by mail still hadn’t arrived and it had been six weeks. No, I said, I couldn’t take chances with the mail, and I asked him to send it by Federal Express. Several days later I got a call that the box had arrived and was in the customs warehouse at the airport.
Bob drove to town immediately, hoping to get the part in time to still make at least one flavor of ice cream that night. The three o’clock scene at the airport resembled any other tourist destination when new arrivals are welcomed. Concierges displayed signs identifying which hotel they represented, porters with dollies offered to help with luggage, and taxi drivers lined up waiting for a fare. Unfortunately for us, customs was tied up for over an hour when American Eagle unleashed its thirty-something vacationers. Bob had no chance of clearing our little box until everyone had been shuttled through the system, so he chatted with taxi drivers and hoped he’d be out in time to get ready for work.
At four o’clock Bob was finally allowed into the customs office, where he was handed the invoice for the part ($3) plus the receipt for Federal Express ($85).
“Where’s the package?” Bob asked. The officer nodded toward the warehouse.
“How much duty do I owe?”
“You gotta do an entry and pay at the treasury,” the man explained.
Bob’s frustration must have shown on his reddened face, because the man apologized for the procedure. He handed the invoice over to Bob, who then had to locate Tippy. Three days passed before we could pay the duty and were permitted to take our little rubber belt back to the restaurant. The $3 part cost us $215.
Part 3.00
Phone call 90.00
Federal Express 85.00
Tippy 15.00
Duty 22.00
Total $215.00 (plus eight days without ice cream)
During dinner Blanchard’s turned into a hub of activity for more than the staff alone. Taxi drivers hung out in the kitchen, and I gave them samples of coconut cheesecake and Caesar salad while waiting for their customers to finish dining. They’d talk with our staff about politics or boat races or business in general. For me, it was like taking a night course in island life, illuminating fragments of Anguilla through these little snippets of conversation.
“Mel,” they’d say, “you seen Vanessa’s wedding Sunday?”
“Who’s Vanessa?”
“You know, she Cynthia’s husband’s cousin. She work Cap Juluca. She drive the yellow jeep with number six-three-four-two. Mel, she have the biggest wedding yet here in Anguilla.”
I had no idea who Cynthia was, much less her husband or her cousin, but I was curious to learn about the biggest wedding in island history. The fact that I was supposed to know everyone on the island, what they drove (including their license plate number), and where they worked was a constant challenge.
“Mel, she go Puerto Rico for her dress and everybody else’s outfits in the whole wedding. Her cousin from St. Thomas come to make the cake, and they say it the biggest, most beautiful cake ever. People say there was four, maybe five hundred people there. The cars from church go for miles. I know you see it, Mel. They go right past your house. It was a breakfast wedding, so they passed early, and they was tootin’ their horns all the way.”
Everyone was disappointed that I had somehow missed the wedding, so Clinton changed the subject. “I ain’ never wearin’ a seat belt. Not me. You seen that car accident in North Hill? That guy was lucky he ain’ had a seat belt on. They jus’ make it so you can’ get outta the car.”
I started to explain about car safety, but nobody listened. Bob and I might be the only people in Anguilla to wear seat belts. Clinton actually was worried that I might be putting my life in danger with this practice and had tried to convince me to listen to reason.
It was a happy kitchen. Without question, Bug had the most tedious job in the restaurant. Most people would complain after hours of washing dishes. Not Bug. He stood bent over his sink of scalding water, telling funny stories to keep the rest of us in good humor.
Bug loved to mimic me, much to the delight of the rest of the staff. From behind the line I’d call, “Table six,” indicating that a waiter should come pick up an order, and Bug would echo, “Table six, table six, please come get this food.” If nobody came immediately, I’d yell again, “Table six.” Mirroring my animated orders, Bug would place his soapy hands on his hips, stamp his foot, and yell in a still higher register, “Table six! Does anybody work here anymore? This food is getting cold. Table six. Now. Please!”
Clinton learned to dice, chop, puree, and julienne like a pro. He carefully saved the seeds from any vegetable and wrapped them in paper towels. Each night he would carry them home to plant in his garden the next day. As he worked, Clinton bounced to the rhythm in his head. One particularly hectic evening he sang quietly to himself, “He’s got the whole world in his hands . . .” I joined in to lighten the mood of a crazy night, and within minutes the entire kitchen was rocking: “He’s got the whole wide world in his hands . . .” Garrilin decorated desserts with a new flair, Shabby knocked the spatula on the grill to the rhythm, Bug blew soapsuds into the air, and Ozzie’s body wiggled to the music without ever moving his feet. Had a stranger walked into the kitchen just then, they might have thought I had completely lost control. Nights like that were the best.
I stopped in the road just a hundred yards from the restaurant, waiting for our neighbor, Elbert, as he coaxed his herd of goats in front of my car. The lead goat—I assumed it was the patriarch—was out in front, dragging a black rope behind. A few stragglers wandered at the rear, and Elbert rounded them up, prodding with a stick.
Every morning he waved and smiled as he drove his herd of goats down to Meads Bay, where he tied the leader to a tree or sea grape. The rest of the herd—apparently unaware that they were not tied up as well—spent the day close by, foraging for food. Their ears were soft and floppy, and they flicked their short tails in play. The babies frolicked in and around the group, rediscovering their mother’s milk when hungry.
The lead goat intrigued me, though. If untied, would he run off to explore the island, racing wildly up the road looking for adventure? I pictured the rest of the gang trotting along behind, heads down, embarrassed by the rebellion.
Elbert’s herd safely crossed the road, and he waved goodbye as I continued toward the restaurant. Elbert’s day was pretty open. His entire life was pretty open. I thought back to my years at Blanchard & Blanchard, recalling my calendar jam-packed with commitments. Sunday nights Bob and I would study the week ahead, wishing there were more hours in a day. Waiting for a herd of goats to cross the road would have stretched my patience to its limits, but now I was starting to look forward to stopping in the road in the quiet of early morning, waiting as Elbert and his goats, rope dragging behind, leisurely crossed to the other side.
Chapter 7
There are no turkeys in Anguilla. We decided to fly them in from Miami, even though air freight would cost more than the turkeys themselves. It was risky planning Thanksgiving dinner on a British island in the Caribbean, but tourists and expatriates began calling several weeks ahead, hoping we would observe the tradition. Ten large frozen birds arrived by plane. We roasted and baked for days: old-fashioned stuffing, sweet potatoes with maple syrup and rum, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pies, apple pies, and a Caribbean version of cornbread with little bits of crushed pineapple.
Thanksgiving morning I turned on the TV in the kitchen at nine o’clock. On NBC the Macy’s parade was just starting, and it was odd to be in Anguilla watching the floats go by my old building on Central Park West. Bob, Marcus, and I watched the festivities as we prepared dinner. Marcus was enthralled with the parade. He stood at the sink, eyes glued to the TV, his huge high-top Nikes untied as usual, hair braided into short tufts that stuck out in all directions.
“What that one is?” he asked as each new float or balloon appeared. He recognized some of the cartoon characters and identified them with great pride. “That Bullwinkle. That Superman. Who that one be?”
Although Marcus had a hard time working and watching TV at the same time, we enjoyed pointing out to him the high points of the parade. I don’t think he ever understood just how big the balloons were. Bullwinkle shifted in a gust of wind, and Marcus laughed as it popped an arm on a streetlight. He stopped what he was doing for a while, leaning and pulling on imaginary ropes as if he were guiding the giant balloons himself.
Marcus’s lack of respect for anything mechanical was already legendary in our kitchen. If something didn’t fit or was stuck, he just pushed or pounded harder until either it gave in or it broke. We had already replaced a sheared-off bolt on the juicer two days before—Marcus had broken the arm right off. As he watched the Ohio Fife and Drum Corps march down Central Park West, I heard a loud snap. He looked at me with big, ashamed eyes, holding the broken handle to the Cuisinart in one hand.
“Sorry, Mel. Sorry. I sorry,” he said.
The heat in the kitchen was unbelievable, and I’d been cooking turkeys for what seemed like forever. Suddenly I needed to get outside. I decided to let Bob deal with Marcus, and I walked down the path to the beach and sat on the sand to collect my thoughts. My mind was racing. How many times had I shown Marcus how to remove the bowl from the Cuisinart? I had never seen someone so incapable of following instructions. My mind wandered and I missed Jesse. How could we have decided that he shouldn’t fly home for the holiday?
Just as I was starting to feel really sorry for myself, Bob’s voice came from behind. “Mel, there’s a timer going off, and I don’t know what it’s for.”
“Oh, no.” I jumped up. “The pumpkin pies!”
We ran back to the kitchen and found Marcus taking the pies out of the oven.
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br /> “I think these done,” he said.
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“I sorry I mash up that machine,” he said.
He reminded me of Jesse when he was small. “That’s okay, Marcus. Just try to be a little more gentle with things.”
“I fixed the juicer,” Bob said. “I bet I can fix the Cuisinart too. Maybe a little superglue would do it?”
I went back to basting turkeys, and Marcus went back to watching the parade.
Thanksgiving brought a notable increase in the number of visitors on the island. The restaurant grew steadily busier. The increased pace was both exhilarating and profitable. At the end of the week we were exhausted, but we had a little money left over. There was a little more cash flowing in than out, and we could see a light at the end of the financial tunnel. We went for our walks on the beach with a growing sense of satisfaction.
“It would be cold in Vermont now,” Bob said as he waded through the frothy turquoise water. We both let the image of Thanksgiving in Vermont sink in a little. The foliage would have made its spectacular showing in October, then been stripped to a pallid gray by a relentless rain, egged on by an arctic wind. Snow flurries and nightly frosts, wood smoke in the air, the last weekend for the hunters to bag their deer and secure a freezer of venison for winter. And here we were in bathing suits and suntan lotion, walking in eighty-degree water past browned, relaxing tourists.
Strolling on the beach had taken on a whole new character with the opening of the restaurant. We had become a topic of conversation among the many guests who found our lifestyle intriguing and even enviable. A pattern had quickly developed, which usually began with a wave on their part as we walked by in one direction, sometimes accompanied by “Great dinner last night” or “Look, it’s the Blanchards.” Bob and I would wave back and continue our amble toward the end of the beach. Now and then we’d stop when someone indicated they wanted to know more.
A Trip to the Beach Page 12