A Trip to the Beach (13 page)

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 Christmas,” 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.

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.”