by dannal
“I said one-fifty,” Max protested.
“You know, even back at Florida State, you always sucked at negotiation,” Susan said with a smirk. “Remember every time you wanted to eat lunch at San’s Wok, but me an’ Jacques would say ‘no, let’s get pizza,’ and you’d say ‘okay, whatever.’ You’re supposed to ask for more, not lowball us.”
“Yeah,” Jacques said, after taking another long sip from the bottle. “How’re you ever gonna succeed as a businessman? If you knew how much I was gettin’ for this stuff on Grand Cayman you wouldn’t feel bad about taking two hundred. Word is getting out, man. I’ll drop off cases at a dozen beach bars between here and the Bahamas before we head home, and each one of them is paying top dollar for your product. Customers are coming in to our place and asking for the rum with the fleur de lis on the bottle. They’re slapping fifties down on the bar—and that’s for one shot.”
“Word is out, Max,” Susan said. “You’re the next big thing in the Caribbean. You are big business.”
“Speaking of which, business must be good by the looks of that boat,” Jacques said, taking a glance through the port side window at The Cash Settlement, “if you can afford the likes of that.”
“It’s…borrowed,” Max said awkwardly. “From a friend.”
“Does your friend know that you have his boat? And have you ever made your friend’s acquaintance?” Jacques asked with the stern altruism of an older brother.
“Not exactly.”
“You know, and I say this as one of your oldest friends, Max, running unregulated rum to a few beach bars isn’t the crime of the century. I imagine if you got caught you’d probably be facing a bunch of fines. But stealing a boat like that is gonna get you noticed. Sooner or later.”
“Finished?” Max asked.
“Just be careful. All right?” Jacques looked Max squarely in the eye, and shook his hand.
Max nodded.
“How is your place on Grand Cayman?” Max asked. “Suzy’s Hurricane Hideout, you said it was called?”
“The place is off the chain, Max,” Jacques said, passing the open bottle of Fleur de Lis to Susan. “Packed every night: tourists, locals, you name it. It is literally a party every day. I don’t even like being away from it to cruise the islands. I’d rather be there.”
“I’m glad you guys are happy. You deserve it. You’ve both busted your humps since college, and you’ve earned everything you’ve got.”
“Hey, before I forget, when we were down in Saint Lucia last week we ran into some dude in this dive bar. The place sold these crazy shrimp fritters with this sweet-hot dipping sauce. Oh, man.”
“Stick to the story, man,” Susan said, faking a stern look at Jacques.
“Anyway, this guy looked totally out of place, and he was asking about you,” Jacques continued.
“What do you mean…out of place?” Max asked, feeling a slight twisting inside his gut, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Everyone in the place was dressed like us,” Jacques said, tugging at his t-shirt and tipping his head toward his bikini-clad wife, “but this fellow wore a shark-skin suit and thousand-dollar shoes. Said he wanted to buy some Fleur de Lis rum. He actually bought all three bottles they had behind the bar. Didn’t even care how much, just flicked down hundreds ‘til they said it was good.”
“Hmmm,” Max said.
“You’re famous,” Susan said, sounding bubbly.
“Was anybody with him?” Max asked. “With the guy with the suit?”
“Yeah,” Jacques said, looking off toward the sliver of moon that peeked between the just-parted stormy clouds, as if trying to recall the details. “Cuban, maybe. Bad-looking guy, tatted-up arms. I remember his hair was weird: well-oiled and black, with white streaks on both sides. Creepy guy actually, now that I think about it. Dude’s wearing shorts and flip flops, and this long olive drab coat with the sleeves rolled up, like he was some kind of Sandinista or some damn thing. Who does that?”
“That’s good,” Max said.
“Good?” Jacques said, sounding perplexed.
“Yeah,” Max said. “It’s perfect, in fact.”
Max liked Maisie’s Beach Café: it was quiet, out of the way, and served the best Ti’ Punch on Martinique. The place wasn’t much, mainly a framework of wooden roof trusses and four-by-four beams which made up almost the entire structure. Bright red, blue, yellow and green paint covered the framework, seeming to leave each board a different color. The roof consisted of a dozen or so panels of weather-beaten corrugated metal sheets, which offered a welcome respite from the oftentimes oppressive afternoon sun. The place had a long red bar well-stocked with the usual Caribbean beers, spirits for blending the popular tourist-loved drinks, and all of the local island rums. Behind the bar, through a small square opening in a red plywood wall, one could catch just a glimpse of Maisie in the kitchen, grilling, frying, and sautéing up a whirlwind.
Max took his usual table in the corner. He chose it because there were no gaps in the metal roof panels directly overhead. This cast his particular table into murky shadow beside those which sat in the dappled sunlight peeking through gaps in some other parts of the roof.
The only other patrons in the place were two locals: an elderly couple, expatriates, likely from the French mainland, who occupied a table closest to the beach. All of the six tables on the beach, unsheltered from the full sun, sat empty.
Max picked up a salt shaker, really just a Bière Lorraine bottle with a perforated cap, and absent-mindedly rolled its bottom around in circles on the bright yellow tabletop.
“Salut, Max,” the waitress said, placing a napkin down on his table and placing a short glass on top. Three ice cubes and a wedge of lime swirled in the clear liquid of the glass.
“Salut, Angelique,” Max replied, placing the salt shaker back down on the table. “How are you? Pretty dead in here, isn’t it? For lunchtime, I mean.”
“Oui,” the waitress said, placing her palms on Max’s table. She was a pretty local girl of maybe twenty with toasted marshmallow-colored skin and long curly black hair, which she kept tied up in a ribbon. “Busy last night, full moon. Suppose folks are still sleeping it off.”
“And to think, I was in bed by eight,” Max fibbed. He and Josue hadn’t made it back until three a.m. the night before. “Suppose that’s what happens when you get to a certain age.”
Angelique giggled. “Chatrou fricasse on special today,” she teased. “Diver brought in a whole bunch of ’em this morning, you shoulda seen all of ’em.”
“Ooh, tentacles. No thanks,” Max said, showing his lower teeth in a half-grin. “How about accras with that scotch bonnet dipping sauce and whatever fresh fruit you’ve got?”
“Sounds good,” Angelique said, walking over to the little square window to deliver Max’s order to Maisie.
Max sipped his Ti’ Punch. It was a mixture of local rum from the Depaz distillery up in Saint-Pierre, lime juice, and a bit of raw sugar. Max liked it when the ice cubes melted a little; the cool water opened up the rum, unlocking more of the spirit’s unique character.
He kicked off his shoes and kneaded his toes into the beach sand that made up the floor of the café. It felt good.
A deeply sunburned blonde woman wandered into the shade, stumbling in off the beach. At first, Max wondered if she was in distress. Maybe in her late twenties, the girl looked a bit like a refugee from somewhere else, having just washed up on shore in a modest coral-colored one-piece, wrinkled white sarong, and a massive straw hat, which seemed to have done nothing to protect her from the barrage of UV rays offered by the brilliance of the early afternoon sun.
Stepping into the shelter of Maisie’s metal roof, the well-toasted woman plunked down a massive shoulder bag that must have contained everything she owned in the world, except sun block.
The young woman heaved a great sigh as she sat down at the table and took off her hat, placing it down on the chair beside her. Max noticed that her blonde bob ha
ircut was windblown and rather wild looking.
His skin hurt just looking at the redness of this girl’s cheeks. She’s cute, Max thought. Probably on vacation by herself, finding out that the Caribbean isn’t everything she thought it’d be.
“Bonjour,” Angelique said to the woman.
“Oh, hello,” the lobster-skinned woman said, “do you speak English? Please tell me you do.”
It only took two words for Max to make out that the blonde’s soft voice was graced by a sweet, lilting Scottish accent. She’s really cute.
“Oui,” Angelique said with a wink. “What would you like?”
“Get me one of those big, fruity rum drinks that’s bright red, or blue, or pink and comes served in a hollowed-out pineapple, or a fishbowl, or something.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. I can’t let you order that,” Max said, standing up, drink in hand, and shuffling across the sand to the Scottish girl’s table, just two tables away from the elderly French couple.
“And just what are you, the island’s beverage police?” the Scottish girl said. Her tone made Max wonder if she was being playful, or hostile.
“Yes, I am with the Martinique beverage police, and we’re cracking down on tourists ordering crappy drinks.”
She laughed with a loud, vibrant cackle. Max wondered if she’d already had a few drinks. But man, it was a great smile.
“I’m Isobel. Isobel Greer,” she said, using her foot to push back the chair opposite her, sliding it backwards in the sand, offering it to Max.
Max placed his Ti’ Punch on the table and sat. “Craig. Maxwell Craig.”
“Ooh, the James Bond type,” Isobel sneered. “I suppose that’s your bit, then, in’t it? You wait until the single touristy ladies order a fishbowl drink, and then you step in with your smile, your charm, and your dashing black hair. Does it work out for you much?”
“You’re the first person I’ve ever seen him talk to in here,” Angelique said, as she placed a plate of croissants on the French couple’s table. “’Sides me or Maisie. An’ he comes in every day.”
“Thanks a lot, Angelique,” Max said. “No tip.”
Angelique stepped over and punched Max on the arm good-naturedly. “Yeah, right.”
Max flashed the waitress a grin that said, “How could I possibly be mad at you.”
“What are you, a hermit or something?” Isobel asked.
Isobel’s lack of couth made something in Max’s gut flutter. He liked this girl.
“I guess I would say that I prefer to be alone,” Max said.
“So what about the drink then?” Isobel asked, taking off her oversized sunglasses and placing them down on the table, revealing the crisply-defined tan lines her shades had left around her eyes. Max thought her large blue-green eyes were sparkling and amazing. “You going to suggest something or just let me die of thirst? Look at what this Caribbean sun has done to my fair Scottish skin. I feel like I’m as dehydrated as a camel.”
“Are camels dehydrated?” Max asked, trying hard not to laugh, lest she think it was at her expense. “I thought they were known for not needing water for a really long time.”
“They must be as dried out as toast,” Isobel said seriously. “They’ve gone so long without a drink.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t sit there and watch you order some pedestrian tourist drink full of too much fruit juice and syrupy, mass-produced, saccharine-sweet rum. You are on Martinique—this is possibly the most magical place in the world to order a glass of rum.”
Angelique set Max’s accras down on the table that he now shared with Isobel Greer. “Have you decided what you’d like to eat, Miss?” the cheerful waitress asked, standing poised with a pad and pen.
Isobel took a quick look at the menu, which was printed on bright green copy paper; the menu changed every day based on whatever types of seafood the divers and local fishermen brought in each morning. “Oh, how about the dorade grillée des îles,” Isobel said, sounding the words out carefully, trying to say it just right. It brought a grin to Max’s face.
“Excellent choice,” Max added, before dipping an accra in the spicy dipping sauce and taking a bite. “It’s always fresh here.”
“And can you bring us the full range of La Mauny?” Max asked Angelique. “What the French would call a dégustation.”
The waitress nodded and headed toward the window to place Isobel’s food order before going behind the bar to set up Max’s drinks.
“Try an accra,” Max said to Isobel. “Popular Caribbean cuisine; fritters made from salt cod that’s been rinsed in cool water for a couple of days. Here at Maisie’s they mix in some fresh chopped shrimp as well. The dipping sauce is a little spicy, so tread lightly.”
Isobel dipped one of the fritters and took a bite. A look of grave concern overwhelmed her face. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, and tears welled up in her eyes.
“Angelique?” Max shouted. “A glass of milk, please.”
The waitress brought a tall glass of ice cold milk, and Isobel did her best to put out the fire in her mouth, as Max continued to dip and munch his accras.
“What are you doing in Martinique,” Max asked. “Just on a vacation by yourself?”
“Um, I was going to come here with a friend, but she got delayed,” Isobel said. “I’ll catch up with her in a few days. Until she arrives I’m staying at a tiny hotel down the road here called L’auberge Mignon. Hope I said that right.”
Max smiled and nodded. “Sounded good to me. Where you from?”
“Sort of all over,” Isobel said, “It all started in Perth, Scotland; then Kent, England; Cork, Ireland; Boston; Chicago; Miami. But I’m here now, and I’m starting to wonder if I ever want to leave.”
“You’ve bounced around a lot,” Max said, then he threw back the second half of his Ti’ Punch, draining it.
“I’m a substitute kindergarten teacher. It lets me move around when I feel like it. Suppose I just haven’t found home just yet,” Isobel said, locking eyes with him and curling her lips into an adorable smile that melted Max, right in his middle.
Angelique returned with a large silver tray, upon which rested six bottles of rum, all of which bore a bright red and yellow label depicting a sultry Martinican woman standing amongst sugarcane stalks. Two tasting glasses with tapered mouths and wide bowls sat on the tray next to the bottles.
“We have these glasses in Scotland,” Isobel said. “Whisky’s kind of big there. They use these in the tasting rooms.”
“First things first,” Max said, handing Isobel a glass and pouring out the clearest of the rums. “This is not rum as you probably know it. This is rhum agricole. It has a distinct difference from the Bacardi or Captain Morgan or what have you. Typical mass-produced rum, the French call rhum industriel. It’s made from molasses, which is what’s left over from the cane juice after sugar has been refined off. The molasses is fermented, and distilled into rum. Then it’s either bottled clear or placed in oak barrels to age, which is what gives it the darker amber color—of course some rums add caramel coloring to theirs, but I’m not going to get into that.
“Here, on Martinique, the rhum agricole is fermented and distilled from freshly cut and crushed sugarcane juice. The first thing you’ll notice when you smell it is an aroma sort of like—”
“Like grass,” Isobel said, scrunching up her face in a surprised expression as she looked up from her tasting glass.
“Exactly,” Max said, “since sugarcane is in the same horticultural family as grass. This particular bottle is La Mauny 40° White, which is forty percent alcohol and has not been barrel-aged.”
Isobel sniffed her glass again. “It’s really nice, though. I can smell all kinds of things. It’s very spicy.”
“This one is known for its finish of black pepper and lime,” Max said, sniffing his own glass. “Now, touch your tongue to the rum to get your mouth used to the 'burn’ and then take a sip.”
Isobel took a sip and sc
runched up her face again, then shook her head. “Whew!”
“It takes a bit to get used to the alcohol when it’s not mixed in a daiquiri or punch—although those aren’t bad things, they just need to be done right. This rum is actually great for mixing, Ti’ Punches, mojitos, daiquiris, and so forth.”
After they had sipped their first rum, Max poured a dram into each glass from the second bottle. “This is the same kind of rum as the first one, but it is fifty-five percent alcohol.
“It’s got a sweet, sugary smell,” Isobel said, sticking her nose deep into her glass. “It’s sort of honey-like.”
Max nodded.
“La Mauny distillery is maybe an hour’s drive from here. There are seven working, or smoking, distilleries on Martinique, along with a few that stopped producing, but either have their rum made by one of the smoking operations, or else they might still serve as aging facilities, warehousing oak barrels of aging rum.
“Probably the most unique thing about the rhum agricole produced on Martinique is that it has a special designation. Look at this,” Max said, pointing to the label on one of the bottles.
“Appellation d’Origine Controlée Rhum Agricole Martinique,” Isobel read aloud. “What does that mean?”
“The French are very particular about the quality products they produce. Think about the Bordeaux classifications for wine, or think of Champagne, for that matter. Outside of the Champagne growing region, sparkling wines are just called sparkling wine. They can’t be called Champagne unless the grapes are grown in the right place, they are the right varietals, they follow all the rules. Then they can label their bottles Appellation d’Origine Controlée Champagne.”
Isobel nodded to let Max know that she understood, as he poured out rum from the last bottle on the silver tray. “Mmmm,” she said, giving the V.S.O.P. rum a sniff. “Smells like caramel and a little bit like orange.”
“Rhum agricole on Martinique is regulated just like Champagne,” Max said. “They have certain areas where they are allowed to grow the sugarcane, a certain method of distillation is required, and the cane must be freshly pressed or crushed to produce the juice within a certain time. There’s a very specific process, but the end result is AOC rhum agricole Martinique. And you’re surrounded by it.”
