A Trip to the Beach

by Melinda Blanchard

  Before lunch, we each grabbed a coconut cupcake and went off to explore the rocks on either end of the bay. They rose just thirty feet high, but at the top they afforded a view of the sea that went on forever. The water at the shore was the lightest of green; farther out it mingled with cobalt as puffy clouds cast their fleeting shadows. The slap of the waves at Captain’s Bay seemed louder than on the western side of Anguilla. There was a wildness at this end of the island that was even more dramatic than I’d remembered.

  Our lobster sandwiches were heavenly, and when lunch was over, Bob napped under an umbrella while Jesse and I played a game of Scrabble in the sun. By three we felt relaxed and ready for the busy night ahead at the restaurant. The answering machine, when we returned, had twenty-three new requests for reservations, and we were already full for the whole week. Bob spent an hour returning calls and taking names for a waiting list while I went to work baking rolls for dinner.

  The dining room at Blanchard’s over the holidays was filled with celebrities from around the globe; producers, directors, fashion icons, actors, models, politicians, and Wall Street gurus arrived daily. A hush fell over the room each time a superstar was shown to his or her table. Some were difficult to recognize in casual attire with no stylist or hairdresser for miles around, but they added an element of excitement to each evening.

  On one particularly busy night a woman dining in the restaurant had told us she was writing an article on the villas of Anguilla. She was including a section about restaurants and asked Bob if she could take some pictures of him in the dining room. He didn’t mind, but said it was imperative that she not bother any of the customers. She followed him around taking pictures and was very discreet until Bob reached a table in the corner. The woman pointed her camera directly in the customer’s face, practically blinded him with the flash, and made a beeline back to her table.

  “What the hell is going on here?” the gentleman demanded.

  Bob apologized and explained about the article, saying that the woman was supposed to be taking pictures of him. The guest’s wife became indignant and said, “We reserved under other names, but you really don’t know who my husband is, do you?”

  Once the gentleman introduced himself, Bob realized he had a serious problem on his hands. This was a major movie star, and Bob was terribly embarrassed not to have recognized him. He went back to the woman with the camera and asked for the film, which he then turned over to the celebrity. We never did see any mention of Blanchard’s in any article about Anguilla’s villas.

  We hadn’t given much thought to New Year’s Eve, or Old Year’s Day, as it is called in Anguilla, until concierges began calling with questions. Carimar Beach Club wanted to know if we had a fixed menu, Blue Waters asked about entertainment, and Covecastles was hoping for fireworks.

  Leon Roydon called from Malliouhana, warning us about a particular guest who would be joining us for dinner on New Year’s Eve. Dr. Gibson was one of his best customers and had never before ventured off the hotel property; he had apparently heard about our restaurant and was planning to give it a try.

  “Please understand,” Leon explained, “my only interest in calling you is to ensure my guest has a positive experience. His Anguilla visits have been very protected until now, and I don’t want to take any chances. He’s something of a gourmet and a wine buff, particularly fond of Montrachet, so I wanted you to be prepared. He also tends to dine with a large group, so the number in his party may grow; he loves to entertain. I’d suggest preparing a large table for the chap, just in case.”

  “Bob,” I said after hanging up the phone, “this Gibson is a heavy hitter. We’d better not make any mistakes or I’m afraid we’ll ruin our good relationship with Malliouhana.”

  Sure enough, Dr. Gibson’s table grew and grew. The concierges called repeatedly. We felt as if we were preparing to serve dinner to the president of the United States.

  “Hi, this is Patricia from Malliouhana. Could you make the Gibsons’ table an eight instead of a six?”

  “No problem,” Bob said.

  “Hi. Patricia again. Dr. Gibson wants to add two more.”

  “Melinda, it’s Rosalind. Put down another two for Dr. Gibson.”

  “Hi, Bob, it’s Agatha from Malliouhana. Dr. Gibson would like to increase his group to twenty-one people. Is that a problem?”

  “Twenty-one?” Bob asked. “All at one table?”

  “That’s right. That’s no problem, is it?”

  Bob could hear from Agatha’s voice that it couldn’t be a problem. There was no choice. “It’ll be a little tight, Agatha, but we’ll get them in.”

  That night before dinner we had a staff meeting specifically to prepare for the Gibsons. Our largest table so far had been ten, so twenty-one discriminating guests from Malliouhana demanded our utmost attention. Their table must be ready on time, orders taken promptly, wineglasses kept full—every detail must be perfect. Lowell and Miguel assured us that they would be on their toes. When Bob said the large party might drink a case of red wine and a case of white, Bug couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. “Leff them come,” he said. “We got plenty wines in that room. They ain’ gonna drink all.”

  Clinton and I were a little less confident. We could imagine the talk around the pool the next day. “We had the most horrible meal at that ghastly little place next door. Absolutely wretched. Oh, no, don’t bother. Cancel your reservations.”

  At eight o’clock sharp Gibson and company marched in. Bob, Lowell, and Miguel helped the party get settled at the long table, the host at one end and his wife at the other. Bob and Dr. Gibson discussed the wine at length and chose a 1990 Chassagne Montrachet from Domaine Bernard Morey to start. Miguel ran to get several bottles and started to pour. It took almost five bottles to fill one round, and he started to worry we would run out. Choosing a red wine to serve with the main course took even more time. Dr. Gibson chose an ’82 Calon-Segur, but another gentleman said he would prefer a Margaux. The discussion continued back and forth for fifteen minutes as Bob looked around the room nervously; the restaurant was completely full, and he couldn’t break away to help the other guests.

  We had made up a fixed menu for New Year’s Eve, so Lowell didn’t need to take any orders, but a woman in the group called him over for a favor. Dressed in what looked like an Armani gown, her hair pulled elegantly back into a jeweled clip, the woman complained of a tummyache.

  “What I would really like,” she said, “are some scrambled eggs.”

  Lowell was speechless. We had spent days preparing the menu for this special occasion, and now he had an order for scrambled eggs. “No problem,” he assured the woman. “I’m sure the chef would be happy to oblige.”

  Lowell came rushing into the kitchen. It was time to send out the first course for the big table. “The only problem,” he said in a very quiet voice, “is that we need an order of scrambled eggs.”

  “Scrambled eggs?” I screamed. “Are you out of your mind? Do you see what’s going on back here? I don’t even have a free burner on the stove.”

  Clinton could see the pressure was getting to me. “Mel,” he said, “I make the eggs. Don’ worry. Jus’ show me what to do.”

  I talked Clinton through the egg ordeal as Shabby, Garrilin, and I sent out the rest of the orders. Space in the kitchen was at a premium that night. Crayfish was mounded on the grill, and dozens of plates covered every surface as we worked our way in assembly-line fashion through each of the six courses. Just before midnight Bob pulled the kitchen clock off the wall and carried it into the dining room for the countdown. Lowell, Miguel, and Alwyn passed out noisemakers and hats, and palm-tree confetti flew through the air. The Happy Hits played “Auld Lang Syne” with a calypso beat. I led the kitchen staff out to the bar to join the festivities, and everyone danced and toasted the new year.

  “That went pretty okay,” Miguel said as the last guest left. “They drank us out of the Chassagne Montrachet, though. Those people could dri
nk some serious wine, man.”

  “Miguel,” I said, “that was more than pretty okay. That was a great evening. Everything was perfect. We did it!”

  “And we even serve a little breakfast in the middle,” Clinton added.

  Bug’s three-bay sink had developed a small leak. It began as an intermittent drip but was becoming more persistent. He stood cheerfully in the new pond, as he called it, unaffected, and continued to wash his dishes, though his feet were a little soggy.

  “I bringin’ my bathin’ suit to work tomorrow,” Bug announced. He watched with delight as Bob and the rest of the waiters slid, skated, and sloshed past him. Carrying bowls of hot corn chowder on a dry floor takes practice; on a wet, slippery floor, it becomes acrobatic. “Shabby, you best bring in yo’ lasso sticks tomorrow, ’cause I think we got lobsters to catch under this sink.”

  Several near collisions resulted in dinners having to be replated, as snapper slid and tuna shifted. I looked up for a split second from arranging raspberries around a chocolate birthday cake and saw Bob teetering on one foot, desperately trying to steady a tray of cappuccino. Just as he was about to tip over, Lowell came from the other direction with an armload of dishes. As they collided, conversation in the dining room came to a halt with the sound of breaking china and clattering silver. Bob and Lowell were both covered with cappuccino, though luckily neither was burned.

  “Mel, you better buy some bibs if they can’ keep theyselves clean,” Bug chirped. “They lucky they ain’ all mash up.”

  “I’ll call Charles the plumber first thing tomorrow,” Bob said.

  Sunday morning Jesse, Bob, and I bounced up the road to Island Harbor to spend our day off at Scilly Cay. Jesse was determined to go back to school tanned, and we always loved a day on this teeny island. Scilly Cay is an outcropping of volcanic rock covered with sand and lush vegetation that sits in the center of the bay in Island Harbor.

  We parked the Suzuki in the sand next to a row of beached fishing boats, their bright colors dazzling against the sapphire water. Two fishermen tinkered with an outboard motor lying on a lobster crate, its wooden slats covered in drying seaweed and barnacles from months of being submerged in the bay.

  We sat down on the dock and waited for the motorboat that shuttles customers the few hundred yards out to Scilly Cay. Three young boys in their underwear were doing somersaults off the end of the pier, and with our arrival, their fun became a performance. They jumped high into the air, sometimes spinning head over heels and landing feetfirst, sometimes diving in headfirst. As each scrambled back up the ladder onto the pier, he’d glance our way to make sure we were paying attention. The littlest one, no more than five, tried hard to keep up. He needed help getting back up the ladder and often got a boost from an older boy; as soon as he was up, he plunged back into the water. They laughed and jumped, showing off for their audience, until the boat arrived to carry us off on vacation for a day.

  Scilly Cay is only about the size of a big backyard. Covered in palm trees, bougainvillea, cactus, and scattered thatched roofs, it’s as much an escape from Anguilla as Anguilla is from the rest of the world. The sand was hot, so we walked quickly to the tiny island’s bar and ordered two lobsters and a grilled crayfish, and then stretched out on lounge chairs to bake in the sun. Actually, Jesse and I baked and Bob snoozed under an umbrella.

  The sun began to work on my muscles, and I felt as if I didn’t have a bone in my body. I stared at the puffy white clouds floating over us and watched a pelican swoop down in a kamikaze dive, then bounce back to the surface to devour its catch. The prehistoric-looking bird bobbed along on the waves, tipping back its large floppy beak to swallow. Then, in a burst of energy, it became airborne again, searching for dessert. Gliding effortlessly back downward, its wings tapped the water as it skimmed along the calm surface.

  A small lizard poked its head around the edge of the low conch shell wall that kept the water from washing over Scilly Cay in a storm. It scurried under Jesse’s chair, craning its neck from side to side, looking for insects or crumbs, and eventually made its way back into the cracks of the wall.

  Along with a group of tourists, Jesse and I watched a man remove live lobsters from a wooden box anchored just offshore. Enjoying the attention, the man held up the lobsters for everyone to see, and people snapped pictures as we all waited for lunch to be served.

  “Aren’t you from Blanchard’s?” one woman asked.

  “Yes,” I said meekly, not knowing what she was about to say.

  “We had a great meal at your place last night. That was the best tuna I’ve ever had. Honey,” she called to her husband, “these are the people from Blanchard’s.”

  Jesse and I enjoyed the feeling of minor celebrity as we answered dozens of questions about what it was like to live in paradise. It was starting to hit me that our restaurant was a success. We were telling visitors what it was like to live in Anguilla.

  We joined Bob in a thatched hut for our lunch of grilled lobsters and crayfish surrounded by piles of fresh fruit and pasta salad. After lunch we napped in the sun, and by the time we drove home we felt as though we had been on a tropical holiday.

  Blanchard’s kitchen staff was never dull. I was charmed by Ozzie’s ability to chop vegetables and dance at the same time, his gyrating movements emanating from his hips and spreading rhythmically out through every little muscle in his body. His internal metronome was subtler than Clinton’s, who also sang as he moved. Ozzie’s moves were more subliminal—they were just a part of his being, and his work improved noticeably when he was in motion.

  Shabby loved his position at the grill but often said it was “too mucha heat.” Even for someone with a frame like Superman and arms like an octopus, his was a grueling job. He’d stand as far back from the grill as he could and still reach the food with his extra-long tongs. But he solved the heat problem one day when he cut a piece of heavy cardboard in the shape of a shield and slid it up under his shirt. That ingenious extra barrier protected his chest from the fire; it became a prized possession and was carefully hidden for safekeeping each night.

  Garrilin worked with me behind the line, decorating desserts, building salads, and keeping me fully informed on island news, scandalous or otherwise. She had a firm underpinning, as Bob’s mother used to say, and her strong presence provided me with a welcomed sense of security. On Saturday nights she would sometimes come to work wearing green hair curlers neatly covered with a scarf in preparation for church the next day. She had moved to a new church recently, the pink one with a sign that read one stop for all your spiritual needs, and wanted to look her best.

  Bug had the worst job and the best attitude. He washed dishes nonstop in scalding water and told jokes the whole time, gnawing on empty lobster shells whenever he had a chance. When his soap bubbles climbed to eye level, he’d scoop up the excess with his arms, filling huge trash cans with suds. “You go in here now,” he’d say in the kind of voice usually reserved for babies. “I have no room for you in the sink anymore. Go now. Go.”

  Austin the taxi driver lived just up the road from Blanchard’s and was therefore a frequent visitor. The way taxis work in Anguilla is that whoever picks you up at the airport usually drives you around for the rest of the week. The drivers hand out stacks of business cards, and tourists just call anytime they need a ride during their stay. Austin was an entrepreneur extraordinaire and could juggle more customers in one night than seemed possible; he defied our theory that everyone in Anguilla moved on island time. All the drivers have cell phones, but Austin’s rang continually. When he dropped off a guest for dinner, we’d invite him in for a drink at the bar. More often than not he’d take a couple of sips and rush off to get his next fare. Luckily his next fare often brought him right back to Blanchard’s. Guests would tell us that on the way over to dinner, Austin gave them the history of how Bob and I came to Anguilla. It was his way of launching their evening with us. “He told us how you used to make salad dressings in Vermont,” the
y’d say, “and that Blanchard’s was written up as the best restaurant in the Caribbean. He’s a big fan, you know.”

  Since Austin lived nearby, we’d also see him at the domino table outside Christine’s shop in Long Bay. Christine’s domino games would often go until four in the morning. She thrived on the excitement of those late nights of action, and the next day she would have stories to tell when I came into the shop.

  “Oh, Mrs. Blanchard,” she’d say—Christine never called me by my first name—“last night was a lulu. We play dominos till the wee hours,” and then in a whisper, she’d add, “I sell plenty Heinekens too. What a night!”

  One day she recalled for me the wild nights of her youth. “Mrs. Blanchard, when I was young—I was much smaller then, you know—I use to dance all night long. Even when I was a child, back when we still use pounds, shillings, an’ pence, my mum would give me a coin to go to the shop. I’d keep the change and save up to go to the—well, these days you’d call it a disco.”

  “When did Anguilla stop using pounds, shillings, and pence?” I asked.

  “Oh, I guess sometime ’round 1954 or 1955. I love to dance since I was a little girl,” Christine went on, anxious to continue her story. “And when I was working in England, oh, how we’d rumble.” Perhaps she could see I was having a hard time envisioning such a large person rumbling, so she stood up and demonstrated. Even in her sixties, Christine could shimmy and shake better than I—that was certain. “Mrs. Blanchard, I tell you. We’d be rockin’ an’ rollin’. I could rhumba, I could jive, I even waltz.” Christine danced, and her three-year-old niece Kadeshya shadowed her every move. “She got the moves,” Christine told me proudly. “Kadeshya got the moves.”