Bug added one last thought. “We make gumbo for the wedding?”
“What?” I asked, not sure what he was getting at.
“That gumbo you make with that spicy sausage—I think Jesse would like that. We make a great big pot for he wedding.”
Clinton explained to me that each night after dinner, Bug finished up whatever gumbo was left. I had no idea he was such a fan of that dish.
“Okay, Bug. We’ll make gumbo for Jesse’s wedding,” I said.
“I see you was late getting Jesse at the airport,” Garrilin said with disapproval.
“We got there before he cleared customs,” I said. “How’d you know we were late?”
“I see the plane go over before your car pass through South Hill.”
“You’re kidding. You saw me driving to the airport?”
“I can see the road on Back Street from behind my house. I knew American Eagle was a little early, and I worry you be late.”
Dear Betsy,
Moving to Anguilla is a little like having a second childhood—I learn something new every day. It’s eye-opening to be a minority for the first time in my life. Skin color here seems to have little significance, though. There are only a handful of foreigners on the island, and every now and then someone refers to me as the “white lady,” but it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact, sometimes, I feel like the whole island is watching out for me; people know my every move.
For me, the pulse of the island is in my kitchen. It’s really the hub of our existence. Beyond earshot of the customers, it’s where our staff talks about politics, love affairs, boat racing, and all sorts of topics they hear about on TV. They get more channels on TV here than we got in Vermont, so they’re up on world events. CNN is as popular as wrestling and religion.
We had an early-morning sprinkle today, and the color of the water seemed to turn more green than blue. There’s little change in the weather in Anguilla, but life in the slow lane allows us time to detect the subtleties. You just can’t be in a hurry here. Our staff, though, is the best surprise of all. It’s like we have a whole new family.
Love,
Mel
We went to Malliouhana for lunch that week and saw Leon Roydon, the owner, and his son, Nigel, in the lobby. “Brace yourselves,” Leon said in his ever-so-proper British accent. “They are arriving for the holidays in only two short days. Are you ready for the rush?”
“I think we are,” Bob said.
“Brilliant.” And away he dashed.
“I don’t know if we’re really ready for this,” I said faintly.
From the Malliouhana dining room, we could see a craggy point that juts out into the turquoise sea. That spot had become a special place for me—a place for private thoughts. I’d sit with the crabs as they scurried in and out of the crevices and holes. I didn’t really go there to think about anything in particular—more just to reclaim a sense of calm. The rocks were sharp and uneven, but I could sit there for hours watching the water swoosh in and out of the caves under the cliff. I’d shared my deepest thoughts with the pelicans off that point.
We watched an old man standing barefoot on the weather-beaten rocks. He shook his net out to get the weights arranged in a circle; it looked like an old-fashioned hoop skirt. He cast out the net, spinning it like pizza dough, and it landed flat on top of a swell, immediately sinking from sight. Pulling on the rope, he hauled it in and emptied out dozens of tiny silver fish, flip-flopping onto the rocks like coins spilling out from a sack. The old man knelt down, scooped up the catch with his hands, and emptied them into a plastic pail full of seawater. Looking down from the terrace, we could see the fish dance and shimmer in the wet sunshine.
“He’s probably been fishing from that point since long before this hotel was here,” Bob said. “I’ll bet high season won’t really affect him too much.”
“I wonder if those little fish are for bait or to eat.”
Michel Rostang was in from Paris to change the Roydons’ menu for the holidays. We tried his baby artichokes in lemon sauce and the newly added bouillabaisse. Local food in Anguilla is hearty—the original comfort food—but I’d be lying to say it’s not a treat to have a three-star Michelin chef from Paris preparing our lunch now and then. On the way out the driveway, we passed the old man balancing the pail on his head. A couple carrying tennis rackets and dressed in crisp whites walked by the fisherman in the other direction, oblivious to the silvery fish inside the pail. They were making plans to play with the tennis pro the next day.
The weeks had flown by and we hadn’t thought much about holiday shopping. Garrilin suggested we go to St. Martin and treat ourselves to a few gifts. What she neglected to say was that all nine thousand people who lived in Anguilla would be doing the same thing.
There was always a certain amount of activity at the ferry terminal, but the week before Christmas was something else entirely. Extra boats were running but still couldn’t accommodate the crowds trying to get to St. Martin to buy Christmas presents. Incoming boats were filled with people lugging dozens of shopping bags and boxes—the one porter with his wheelbarrow could have had ten assistants and still not have kept up. Outgoing boats were jammed beyond capacity, and Jesse, Bob, and I sat on the roof of Frankie Connor’s boat waiting to make the crossing. Frankie was blasting a cassette inside, and we listened to Christmas carols through the speakers mounted precariously on the top deck. “Feliz navidad, feliz navidad . . .” And then: “Let heaven and nature sing, let heaven and nature sing . . .” The songs were all familiar but were played in a livelier tempo with a reggae beat. There were long interludes of steel drums and maracas adding pep to even the slowest of carols. An energetic version of “Joy to the World” was barely audible over the sound of the engines as we roared out of the harbor.
Most Anguillians preferred to shop in St. Martin on the Dutch side of the island, where stores had lower prices and more practical items. We couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in traffic, so we chose to stay in Marigot to browse the French boutiques. The three of us split up so we could buy gifts, and though we kept bumping into each other, we managed to fill several shopping bags. Living in Anguilla and having St. Martin only a quick boat ride away seemed like the best of both worlds. We loved Marigot’s bistros, patisseries, and shopping, but after a day of crowds and traffic, we were always relieved to step on the dock back in sleepy Anguilla. The Lady Odessa was tied up next to the ferry, its deck covered with pallets of water, soda, beer, and food. A load of red and white poinsettias covered the bow, and a new car straddled the middle of the deck.
We placed our wrapped packages up on the counter for customs to assess the duty. We had made a pact on the ferry that if they made us unwrap our gifts for inspection, we would not peek at what the others had bought. But the officer, a woman we’d seen countless times, smiled and said, “Happy Christmas,” as she waved us through without payment. I made a mental note to bring her a cheesecake.
On the way home we spotted Christine from the shop in Long Bay, hitchhiking. Instead of sticking out her thumb for a lift, she was hiking up her skirt, revealing a generous amount of a very large thigh. As she got in the backseat Bob said, “Christine, you’re showing off a lot of leg there.”
“But Mr. Blanchard,” she said, “don’ you know that the best way for a lady to getta liff?”
“You never know who you might be tempting,” I said.
“I guess I could handle mos’ anyone. Nobody gonna mess with Christine.”
The Sunday before Christmas we had an Anguillian version of an office party with the entire Blanchard’s staff. We took all nine to a casual Italian restaurant on the beach called Trattoria Tramunto. Alan, the proprietor, had lived in Italy and was married to an Anguillian whose family owned the little restaurant. We feasted on pasta and lobster, tiramisu, and panna cotta. Rum punch and piña coladas replaced the traditional spiced cider and eggnog at holiday parties back home.
“This cake taste great,” Bug
said. “What it is again?”
“It’s called tiramisu, Bug,” I explained.
“I could eat this cake till my belly get so big it would tear-a-my-suit.” Bug grinned.
After Bug polished off a second tiramisu, Alan passed around a concoction of fruit-flavored grappa, held up a glass for himself, and toasted us in Italian. “Salute,” he said.
Our glasses clinked and we all shouted, “Salute.”
“Everybody happy?” I asked. “Clinton, you okay?”
“I here in a cool, Mel,” he replied.
“We gonna do this every Christmas?” Miguel asked.
“Absolutely,” Bob said. “Everyone enjoy, because tomorrow we get slammed. We have ninety-four reservations in the book for dinner, so get ready. The season is here.”
“We ready,” Bug said. “Leff them come.”
“Salute,” Ozzie cheered one more time.
“Salute!” we all repeated.
“Here’s to Blanchard’s,” Lowell said. “We the best.”
Chapter 8
On December 23 hotels filled to capacity, taxi drivers abandoned the domino tree, and our phone started to ring nonstop with people calling for reservations. Overnight the tourist population on the island tripled; it was an invasion of monumental proportion. Sleepy little Anguilla had awakened; in fact, it was in overdrive.
Several taxi drivers were in and out of Blanchard’s ten times each night. Teddy shuttled customers continually between Cap Juluca and our restaurant and no longer had time for his usual Caesar salad at the bar. During the day he would stop by to use our gardening hose and give his new red van a quick wash on the way to pick up guests at the airport.
The change of season brought an entirely new kind of tourist. Gone were the curious budget-minded travelers—the people who read our menu with raised eyebrows, shared one dinner for two, and were outraged that we charged for bottled water. Hotel rates skyrocketed as Anguilla became a tropical paradise for movers and shakers from around the world. Private jets landed in St. Martin because our runway was too small. Tiny chartered planes would then shuttle people over to Anguilla. Taxi drivers loaded Louis Vuitton luggage into their cabs instead of the backpacks of low-season tourists. Spirits were high.
Our mellow mornings of kitchen prep became frantic tests of endurance. I answered the phone twelve times before I was able to finish cracking a dozen eggs. I needed exactly forty-five eggs for a batch of vanilla bean ice cream, but how to keep track with all the interruptions?
“Hi, this is Cindy at Cap Juluca. I need a table for six at eight o’clock tomorrow.” I wiped off my hands and put the guest’s name in the reservation book.
Thirty seconds later: “Hi, this is Heather from Carimar. I have a guest who wants a table for four at eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve.”
As soon as I hung up: “Good morning, it’s Hermia from Frangipani Beach Club. One of our guests would like to dine with you on Thursday. It will be a table for two at eight.”
“Quick, Bob,” I called out. “Finish weighing this cream cheese and start browning the—” Before I could finish giving instructions, the phone rang again.
“Hi. It’s Sylvene from Covecastles. I have guests who want to book five nights with you during their stay.”
I had to teach Marcus to do more of the prep work so that Bob and I could take turns handling the phone. He learned how to dice red peppers into perfect, identical squares and how to grate lemon peel and ginger root. Often I had to juggle the reservation book while demonstrating culinary techniques such as how to gently fold egg whites into a bowl of chocolate. Thomas’s daily lobster deliveries got bigger and bigger. His burlap bags, which had once weighed in at thirty pounds, were now up to seventy-five pounds. It took two people to lift them up and hang them from the scale.
At holiday time our little restaurant could have been set in New York. The bar was a sea of people who seemed to spend their days planning how many lobster cakes to order for the table and wondering how we made the chocolate coconut shells. Our menu, service, wine list, and entire reputation were suddenly under intense scrutiny. “Is your calamari fried? Because I only eat grilled calamari.” “There’s no cream in the chowder, right?” “Can I get this sauce on the side?” “You’ll fillet the whole fish for me, won’t you?” “Can you take the lobster out of the shell?” “I’m allergic to peanuts.” “I’m allergic to butter.” “I’m allergic to everything, what would you recommend?”
Bob and I were exhausted. The pressure, both in the kitchen and in the dining room, was intense. This was definitely no sleepy little beach bar.
The jet-setters of the world also had definite ideas about dinnertime: they collectively insisted on a table at precisely eight P.M. Even eight-fifteen would not do. And if we somehow convinced them to accept an eight-fifteen reservation, they’d show up at eight anyway. Luckily, they loved us. The word about Blanchard’s spread quickly on the beaches, and as our popularity grew we were able to convince people to come a little earlier or a little later. It was, we explained, impossible to serve an entire island at one time.
Christmas Eve was our busiest night yet. We served almost a hundred dinners and finished work just before midnight. Bob, Jesse, and I fell asleep without our usual late-night snack. We were exhausted, and morning prep would come soon enough.
“Bob, I hear a noise,” I said, shaking him from sleep only minutes after we had crawled into bed. “There’s someone outside.”
Bob sat up and listened. “If it’s a prowler,” he said, “he sure isn’t trying very hard to be discreet.” It sounded as though a huge crowd was forming in our front yard. I heard the rattle of someone climbing over the chain-link fence as a car engine shut off. The clamor intensified and seemed to be getting closer. Voices were all talking at once, metal clanked as if something had been dropped, and then a large, heavy object was dragged noisily across our porch.
“What should we do?” I asked Bob. “This is horrible. Someone’s breaking into our house, and there’s nothing we can do. Do you think they have guns?”
“Calm down,” Bob whispered. “The door is locked, and I don’t think they can get in very easily.”
“Should we wake Jesse?”
“No, just stay put.” Bob quietly prepared the lamp on his nightstand for defense. He pulled out the plug and unclipped the shade.
“We’ve been so stupid. It never even occurred to me that someone would break in here. I’ve always felt so safe and—”
“Shhh,” Bob said. “What’s that?” he asked, straining to hear more.
“It sounds like music. Do you think thieves here come with radios?”
“Shhh,” he repeated. Clutching his lamp club, he left me alone in the bedroom while he sneaked out to investigate.
Without warning, he yelled, “Mel, quick, get out here and wake Jesse!” My heart pounded in my throat.
I dragged Jesse out of bed and we tiptoed into the living room, where Bob was unlocking the sliding glass door. I quickly counted twelve people—men, women, and children—lined up on our porch, all shuffling around and instructing each other to switch positions. Bob slid open the door, and at that moment the room filled with sounds of music like I had never heard before. There was an entire band out there, complete with keyboard and guitars. Children backed up the musicians with a rhythm section, tapping out the beat on Coke cans and scraping washboards with forks and spoons.
“We wish you a merry Christmas . . . we wish you a merry Christmas . . . we wish you a merry Christmas . . . and a happy New Year.”
The black sky camouflaged the performers, but their silhouettes were brightened by gleaming white smiles. The songs were both familiar and new—“Silent Night” and “Joy to the World” followed by a song about baby Jesus with a reggae pulse that made the entire group swoop and rock to the syncopated beat. It was a heady twenty minutes before the leader signaled the others to stop and announced that they were the Church of God of Prophecy Serenaders. “Happy Chr
istmas,” he said, “and welcome to Anguilla.”
The sun was already hot at eight o’clock on Christmas morning. All three of us giggled with delight that we could wear shorts on this winter holiday, and we reminisced without nostalgia about snowy fields and the smell of pine boughs on the mantel over a crackling fire. “Let’s go on a picnic,” I suggested. “We’re in good shape in the kitchen for tonight, and we should celebrate the holiday at the beach.”
Bob and Jesse jumped at the thought of escaping the phone for a few hours. Jesse gathered up beach towels and suntan lotion, and we went over to the restaurant to prepare our lunch. Bob picked a few fat green limes from our trees, and I rolled them around on the kitchen counter, pressing hard to release their juice for a pitcher of limeade. Jesse steamed a big christophine squash, an island variation of zucchini, and when it was cool he diced it into bite-sized chunks and mixed it with a little sour cream, a generous grinding of black pepper, and lots of fresh dill. Thomas had brought me his usual burlap bag the day before, and I made a salad of cold lobster and homemade Dijon mayonnaise.
Jesse begged for our family specialty, coconut cupcakes, so we delayed our picnic an hour longer to bake a fresh batch. The secret, I reminded him as we mixed and blended, was the almond extract. And, of course, plenty of coconut. We put coconut in the cake batter, coconut in the frosting, and sprinkled more coconut on top. We shared one as soon as they were done, and laughed at the thought of our customers seeing their chef on Christmas morning munching on cupcakes.
We decided to drive to idyllic, remote Captain’s Bay. We were happy to find the bakery in town open on a holiday, and the smell of freshly baked bread was intoxicating. The woman said we had arrived just in time. They were closing in a few minutes, but luckily she had a fresh loaf for our sandwiches.
Feeling as if we were on vacation, I’d brought along a camera for the day. I found myself stopping and—as if seeing Anguilla for the first time—taking pictures of a blue-shuttered cottage, two baby goats cooling off in the shade of a car, and a man cleaning fish on a piece of plywood. We bumped along the dirt road to Captain’s Bay and then lugged towels, books, a portable edition of Scrabble, two umbrellas, and all the food down to the deserted beach. There was not a soul or building in sight, and it was the busiest week of the year in Anguilla. There were plenty of beaches to go around.
A Trip to the Beach Page 14
