Bob studied the wine list. “Heavy, heavy French,” he said. “It’s a great list, but I’d mix in some California and Australian bottles.”
“It’s still quite formal,” I concluded. “People come to this island to relax. I don’t want our dining room to be hushed and uncomfortable. Guests need to feel more like they’re at our house for dinner. Elegant but friendly.”
Having shown sufficient lack of awe for our most formidable competitors, we sat down to an excellent meal. My quibbles were philosophical. The gazpacho was creamy and luxurious, whereas my ideal gazpacho is peasant food—chunky, full of crisp cucumbers and shallots and plum tomatoes and red bell peppers with a zip of lemon. Maybe a sprig or two of fresh dill. Homemade croutons on top. All right, not exactly peasant food, but rough-and-ready and exploding with flavors. I pulled out my notebook and made a few jottings. Bob’s appetizer of lobster in puff pastry was made with locally caught lobster and my roasted rack of lamb had a crust of mustard and bread crumbs—heaven. This was serious competition.
As we ate, ideas bubbled up and I made a list. I wanted spices, varied textures, intensity of flavor. “What do you think of dumplings filled with local lobster?” I asked Bob. I was on a tear. “We need nicer glasses than these. Thinner stems and thinner rims. Crisp white linens and candles instead of oil lamps. Real silver instead of stainless.”
“You’re bankrupting us already,” said Bob as he drained the last of his Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
We were still savoring that meal as we set out the next morning in search of a house to rent. None of the real-estate brokers could help us; they specialized in vacation properties for thousands of dollars a week. Bob and I decided to comb the island in search of for rent signs. This did not seem unreasonable. The island of Anguilla, whose name means “eel” in Spanish, is only sixteen miles long with one main road running the entire length—thirty-five square miles of wiggly coast, scrubby desert, and rocky points that poke thrillingly out into the sea. We knew that even for the little we could afford to pay, we could find a stunning location.
We began at the very western tip of the island and explored every little dusty road we came to. We eased the jeep between two white pillars where a small sign discreetly marked the entrance to Covecastles. The eight contemporary buildings sat on a dune and had steps leading through the sea grape and down to the water in a private cove. Their smooth, curved rooflines were snow white against the blue sky.
“What a location,” I said. “Let’s see if we can rent one.”
“Oh, no,” the woman inside the office said. “These are not long-term rentals. Covecastles is a private condominium complex and the units are booked through the season. Besides, they rent for twelve hundred dollars per night. You wouldn’t want to pay that kind of rent, would you?”
“No,” said Bob. “That’s a little high. Are there really that many people who can pay that much for a room per night?”
“Our guests are looking for a quiet hideaway. We get a lot of celebrities who don’t want to be recognized; it’s almost like renting a private home.”
“Do you think they might go out if there was a good restaurant nearby?” I asked.
“They might,” she said. “But these people travel all over the world and are accustomed to the very finest dining. It would have to be up to the highest standard for them to leave the property.”
“Thanks for your help,” Bob said. “Have a good day.”
We got back in the car wondering if we were out of our league. No, we decided, but running this restaurant would certainly be a challenge.
Driving on the left took some getting used to, and pulling out onto the main road sometimes called for a sudden swerve to correct our position. Anguillian traffic circles, called roundabouts, were a challenge. The signs said GIVE WAY, which we were more than willing to do—if we only knew which way to give. Stopping seemed a sensible choice but induced a chorus of horns tooting for us to move along. A lot of the side roads went only a few hundred feet before dead-ending at yet another deserted beach, and most of the houses were on the main road, facing inland—as if turning their backs on paradise. By the end of the day we’d found six possibilities; only one was anywhere near the water.
In front of Bennie’s Grocery, Bennie stood talking to his son, who sat in the car with the motor running. When he saw us, he patted the roof, signaling that the young man was free to go, and asked if we’d had the lease typed. We said we’d spent the day looking for a place to live, and queried him on the house he’d mentioned.
“The one I own needs some work,” Bennie said. “Let’s see what you found.”
We spread our map on the hood of the jeep, and Bennie studied intently the places we’d marked.
Bob pointed to the one with a view of the water. “This would be our first choice,” he said, “even though it’s a drive from the restaurant.”
Bennie shook his head. “That one’s not owned by an Anguillian.”
“Does that matter?” I asked.
“When you get your work permits—which I can help you with, by the way—there is a stipulation that requires you rent from an Anguillian. It’s one of the ways we protect our economy.”
We were happy to rent from an Anguillian, said Bob, but it was essential to our well-being that we have a view of the water.
“All the beachfront land is set aside for resort development,” Bennie explained. “If we were to sell beachfront land to foreigners for private homes, we would have nothing left to provide jobs and income.”
Bob and I stared at each other, dismayed, realizing this made perfect sense for Anguilla.
“Besides,” said Bennie, “building on the beach is risky when we get a bad storm. Most locals prefer to be on higher ground—preferably facing the road to keep track of the neighborhood activity.” He laughed. We didn’t.
Bennie tapped on the map at an intersection in the west end. “Here’s a house that’s ready to move in to,” he said. “Malroy Jefferson owns it. He lives in England but he’s from Anguilla, so you can rent from him. His brother, Bertroyd, is a bellman at Malliouhana.”
We knew Bertroyd, who agreed to meet us at his brother’s house. It was instantly apparent that life as an Anguilla resident would not resemble life as a guest at Malliouhana or Cap Juluca. The hotels were lush with gardens. The house did not have a single plant or tree—or, for that matter, a single blade of grass, just rocks and dirt surrounding a white concrete box. Bertroyd’s brother had tried to replicate parts of his English home, but something had been lost in the translation. There was a bidet in the bathroom, along with a cast-iron tub with gobs of dried cement oozing out the edges. More problematic, the entire house had been covered in various shades of beige and green wallpaper. The moist Caribbean climate is not conducive to wallpaper, which in this case had come unglued; strips were hanging down in all directions like half-peeled bananas. “We could tape it back to the walls,” said Bob, always looking for the bright side.
Otherwise Bob and I stayed mum as Bertroyd guided us from room to room, past the toilet with the broken-off flush handle and the shower plugged with cobwebs. Hoping to let in some fresh air—the house was as hot as a pizza oven—Bob turned the rusted cranks on the louvered windows, but they just went round and round, refusing to catch. The kitchen cabinets were scattered with mouse droppings, and the refrigerator was smaller than the one we’d given Jesse for his room at college. “If the fridge a problem,” said Bertroyd, “I think Malroy would get a bigger one. Everything else just need to be cleaned.”
The rent, said Bertroyd, was eight hundred dollars a month. It was while I was processing this figure—which seemed exorbitant—that I noticed the Shell station across the road.
We drove back to the hotel in silence. The cons of moving to Anguilla were suddenly smothering the pros. What were the pros, anyway? We would trade our beautiful house in Vermont on its private, ten-acre hilltop for a rectangular concrete bunker on the main road with a view of a gas sta
tion. Opening a little beach bar with just the two of us was one thing—there wasn’t much to lose. But now we were going to sink all our money into building a fancy restaurant. We’d need waiters and sous chefs and dishwashers and . . .
What the hell had we been thinking?
“Oh, God!” I said out loud, and started to sob.
Bob pulled off the road, shut off the engine, and put his arm around me. “We can keep looking for a better house.”
“It’s not just that!” I wailed. “You have no idea how much it’s going to cost to build this restaurant, and even less of an idea how to run it.”
“I’ll take some measurements tomorrow,” said Bob, patiently, “and we’ll work on a design for the building. We’ll get the best prices on materials.”
“You always think you can build everything for less than it actually costs! You’re such a goddamned . . . optimist!” The word came out like a curse. It certainly shut Bob up.
“I don’t want to do this,” I went on, glaring at Bob through tears. “Eight hundred dollars a month for an ugly house on the main road with no view, and three thousand dollars for that stupid little shack. We don’t have the money.” I knew I was losing it, but I didn’t care. “We know nothing about living in a country with goats and lizards thousands of miles from anywhere. I just want to go home,” I said, then exhaled and resumed crying.
Bob was quiet for a moment. “We’ll leave tomorrow,” he said. He started the jeep and headed for the hotel.
At Malliouhana I ran upstairs, hoping no one would see that I’d been crying, and Bob informed the front desk that we’d be checking out in the morning. He asked them to call the airline and get us on the flight to Boston. In the room, I broke down completely. I changed into a long T-shirt, climbed into bed, and pulled the sheets over my head.
My face mashed against the pillow, I heard the big door open and close, then Bob’s voice telling me we’d been booked on a 2:05 flight the next afternoon. I heard the door leading to the balcony open, and the light behind my eyelids turned red—it was the setting sun. “How about dinner?” said Bob.
“I’m not hungry.”
I had stopped crying, but my stomach hurt. An odd sense of guilt had swept over me. I felt as if I’d betrayed someone—but who? Mac? Bennie and James? They’d see us as impulsive foreigners who’d come into their lives and made empty promises, but they were businessmen—they’d survive. Joshua? Would he ever call me “daughter” again? Maybe it was Anguilla itself that I’d betrayed—my favorite place on earth, my refuge. Or had I betrayed myself?
“You could just have a salad,” said Bob.
“Go down without me.”
Bob sat on the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go back to Vermont,” he said softly. “We’ll get jobs like normal people.”
I raised the covers and looked into his eyes, which were bluer than I’d ever seen them. Those eyes could always do it. “Okay,” I said, “you’ve hypnotized me. Let’s have one last great meal before we leave.”
The Restaurant at Malliouhana was presided over by Jacques, the quintessential maître d’, and overseen by the great Michel Rostang, who’d fly in from Paris periodically to tweak the menu. We sat at our usual table, which overlooked the rocky cliff and the turquoise water below. The spotlights on the rocks attracted three-foot-long gar fish, whose glowing eyes seemed to meet ours as they drifted lazily past. Bob ordered a bottle of ’85 Château Palmer, and as we waited for the salad of haricots verts and marinated scallops and roasted whole chicken from Bresse for two, I began to feel better. Who wouldn’t? By the time the chocolate soufflé arrived, we were brainstorming about business possibilities back home.
I fell asleep dreaming of Vermont. I wondered, however, as I drifted in and out of sleep, why barefoot James was grilling burgers back in our barn.
At five A.M. my eyes snapped open. I crept onto the balcony to watch the day come in. The dark sea pounded on the rocks below as the sky turned from black to dusky blue and the stars disappeared. My favorite time; while the world slept, I could bring order to even my unruliest thoughts. I stretched out on the lounge chair and sucked in the strong scent of the sea. Five minutes later I unlocked the heavy mahogany door to our room, trying not to wake Bob, and slipped into the open hallway.
The only way to the beach at Malliouhana is via a long and winding staircase that looks as if it has been chiseled into the cliff. This time of day it bends almost literally from the darkness of the previous night into the blue and red of the dawn.
With each step I felt as if I was coming out of a cloud. I rounded the last curve of the stairs and saw the white beach below, and it seemed suddenly vital to reach its safety. The instant my bare feet landed in the cool, wet sand, I knew I was home. A wave broke around my legs and then receded, eroding the sand under my feet and causing me to sink farther down, as if the beach were claiming me. I was overcome with a sense of belonging.
When I woke Bob, breathing hard from my climb back up the stairs, I told him I wanted to live in Anguilla and open the greatest restaurant in the Caribbean.
“You’re a nut case,” he said, and gave me a big hug.
Signing a lease in Anguilla is a casual affair—at least for James. “Meet me at the shop in Long Bay,” he said. And there the three of us signed the life-changing document on the hood of a jeep in a dusty parking lot. James had a Heineken in his hand and was barefoot, and Bob and I marveled at the absence of lawyers and witnesses.
Later we went for a drive, talking of names for the restaurant. Could we somehow combine our names and Jesse’s? Bomeljes? Jessmelbo? Meljebob?
“Why don’t we just call it Blanchard’s?” Bob said.
“Perfect,” I said. “That covers the whole family.”
We rounded a corner and came to a small harbor, where a half-dozen wooden fishing boats were anchored, bobbing like brightly colored toys. The boats bore names such as Falcon, Rumrunner, and—our favorite—It’s a Business.
We watched as one made its way to shore, its captain deftly maneuvering around the coral reef that protected the bay. His younger helper, bare feet planted firmly apart, kept his balance by holding a rope tied to the bow. He looked as if he were water-skiing on the deck.
We walked down to the water to see what they had caught. The captain passed a large, bright yellow plastic tub over the side to his assistant, who now stood waist deep in the water alongside the boat, which was called Blue Runner. The tub was crawling with lobsters. It was clearly too heavy for the young man, who struggled to keep it from sinking as he towed it out of the water toward the beach.
Bob kicked off his sandals, waded out next to the boat, and grabbed a handle. “Thanks,” said the young man.
“I Thomas Rogers,” said the captain when he got back to shore. “That Glenroy. He my youngest. You come to buy lobsters?”
“We were just passing by,” Bob told him. “But we are starting a restaurant on Meads Bay. Would you be able to supply us with lobsters when we open?”
While they talked, I settled myself on the beach and burrowed my toes into the cooler sand under the surface. The sun was directly overhead, and its magical warmth penetrated my muscles as I adjusted to island time. I felt unaccountably happy.
Thomas didn’t notice several giant lobsters that had escaped from the tub and were scrambling down the beach, looking disjointed and prehistoric. Bravely deciding to retrieve the runaways, I tried to corner them using my shoes as a blockade. Since Caribbean lobsters have no claws, I thought they’d be easy to catch. I grabbed one around the middle. Its tail snapped against my hand so hard that I yelped and flung the creature into the air. By that time Thomas and Bob were enjoying the show, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. Saving me from further embarrassment, Thomas ambled over, lifted the feisty lobster by the antennae, and returned it and the other escapees to the tub.
Glenroy appeared from behind the sea grape, driving his father’s truck onto the beach, and pulled up to the pile
of buckets, gas cans, and other paraphernalia they’d unloaded from the boat. He and Bob stowed the lobsters and equipment onto the back of the truck while Thomas went back out, tied the boat to a buoy in the bay, climbed into a dinghy, and paddled for shore.
“Thomas gave me his number,” said Bob as we drove back toward Malliouhana. “He said he can catch as many lobsters as we need. And his cousin catches snapper.” He stopped, victorious. “Our first vendor on the island!”
Grilled lobster with a honey glaze . . . crispy crusted snapper with curried rice . . . I could almost see the menu.
Chapter 2
We had trouble paying attention in Anguilla. Unencumbered by walls, our blue beach umbrella created a delightfully distracting office. We forced ourselves to concentrate—to work in a spot where the rest of the world comes to play. We sketched floor plans, our toes wriggling deeper into the sand as each new idea struck. Fat lizards puttered around us, their tails creating intricate patterns in the sand. They snatched tiny bugs with the tips of their long, long tongues—we were hypnotized. Concentrate, we told ourselves, concentrate. We moved paper cutouts of tables and chairs around on the plans until we were satisfied we had a workable layout.
The existing restaurant was a disaster—the nautical theme reminded me of a poor imitation of “Pirates of the Caribbean” at Disney World. The bar was a termite-infested boat that crumbled when touched. Telephone poles draped with ropes and fishing nets held up the roof; lobster buoys, rusty anchors, and brass propellers rounded out the seaside memorabilia. The bathrooms were worse—hardly more than outhouses with a subway-corner scent. (I refused to go in.) A few pieces of equipment could be salvaged from the kitchen: a grill, a ten-burner range, and a small walk-in cooler. Serious scrubbing, we hoped, would revive them.
A Trip to the Beach Page 3
