A Trip to the Beach (3 page)

“We were thinking more like a thousand,” I said.

Amazingly, it was Bennie who chimed in next. “Five thousand's pretty steep, James,” he said.

James glared at Bennie, then returned to examining his feet. The silence that followed was the longest so far. I was sure that everyone in the room could hear my heart pounding. Then James mumbled, “Three thousand U.S. dollars for five years, then five thousand.”

Bennie bowed graciously, as if to say, “I have just saved you two thousand dollars a month.”
I
was wondering whether he'd
cost
us two thousand. Then he grandly swept his arm from James to us, which I took to mean that the ball was in our court.

Bob asked for a minute to talk things over, and Bennie said, “Come, James.” He and his cousin stepped out onto the balcony, leaving us alone.

“There goes the beach bar idea” was the first thing Bob said. “We can't pay that kind of rent selling rum drinks and burgers. We'd have to make it a serious restaurant. Waiters, a wine list, fancy desserts . . .”

“That's not what we had in mind,” I said.

Bob shrugged. “Do you want to move to Anguilla?” he asked.

Over the years we'd often made sweeping last-minute changes, and they had mainly worked out well. Mainly. But Anguilla was a world apart. And a barefoot beach bar was a world apart from a fine dining establishment. It was out of the question.

“Let's do it,” I said. “Let's live happily ever after in paradise.”

So that was it. We agreed to the rent, we thanked Bennie for his help, and we got our handshake. Bennie smiled graciously and said to call him the instant the lease was typed.

“Nice to meet you, James,” said Bob.

“Cool,” said James, and lumbered out the door.

Back at the hotel, after calls to Mac and Joshua, who were waiting to hear how our meeting went, we celebrated with fish soup, crayfish-and-bacon salad, and crème caramel. Then we walked down the beach to our site, only minutes from Malliouhana. The momentousness of this decision hit us; what would it be like to live permanently on a tiny Caribbean island, thousands of miles away from friends, family, and all that was familiar? We tried to imagine a world without bagels, shopping, movies, bookstores, and snowstorms as we walked around our crumbling $3,000-a-month shack. We would come back in the morning to take measurements, said Bob, and then start on the drawings when we got the site plans from Lands and Surveys. With Bob's love of building, he was clearly in his element.

We took pictures, wanting always to remember that day. The sea grape leaves that bordered the beach were spectacular. But the building was in a state of extreme disrepair. Could it even be salvaged? It didn't matter. This close to one of the world's most breathtaking beaches, we'd make do. We batted around names for our restaurant until the day's events and our big lunch finally hit us. It was time, we agreed, for a nap.

On the way to dinner we discussed the fact that eating wouldn't be so straightforward anymore—it would fall into the category of research. What, we wondered, was our competition? What did our restaurant need to do to fit in—or stand out? What kind of ingredients were the island's chefs using, and where did they come from? And what did people feel like eating after a hard day of swimming, lugging around hardcover best-sellers, and sunbathing? We had to eat everywhere in Anguilla. We had to do
serious
research.

Pimms, the restaurant at Cap Juluca, is built on a rocky point where the waves lap against the side of the dining room. Spotlights fell on the water, which was clear enough to see silvery fish as they shot along the bottom. The waiters tossed rolls into the sea and the fish leapt up and devoured them as if performing for the crowd. “We can't top that,” I said.

“You can forget about the dog-and-pony show,” said Bob. “I'm not even sure you'll see the water from our dining room.”

No question, Pimms—with its fabulous Moroccan arches and fabrics that billowed from the ceiling—was exotic. “Our place should give you a stronger sense of being in the islands,” I said. I reminded Bob of Reid's and Raffle's in Barbados, two of our favorite restaurants, neither on the beach. “The trick,” I ventured, “is to have incredible gardens visible from every table. Palm trees, bougainvillea, allamanda, maybe even lime trees. The building should echo the old Caribbean cottages with happy, colorful shutters and a peaked, shingled roof—it should radiate charm.”

The idea set Bob off. As we waited for our table he talked of plants and lights and even a couple of gentle fountains—the sound of water would be transporting. “People are on the beach all day,” he said. “At night they might prefer to relax in a tropical garden. It could be a nice change.”

We waylaid a passing waiter and nabbed a menu from him. Every dish was seriously French—the same as at Malliouhana. “It's not that I don't love French food, but how much salmon mousse and foie gras can you eat?” I murmured.

“And trying to fit into a bathing suit the next day,” said Bob. “Only the French can pull that off.”

Farther up the island were restaurants with simpler fare—chicken and ribs and plastic tables. But in West End, near the hotels, the field was wide open for something more contemporary. We would have no cream sauces. Lots of tropical ingredients. Pineapple and citrus bases instead of heavy reductions and beurre blanc and meat stocks. Nothing would be sautéed in butter; almost everything would be grilled.

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 station. 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?