A Trip to the Beach (8 page)

Grilled Tuna with Coconut Rice Cakes

My love of Asian food prompted me to come up with an easy marinade for grilled tuna served with crispy coconut rice cakes. For two recipes so easy, the contrast of flavors and texture was a great discovery.

Make the rice cakes first. You will need a jelly-roll pan approximately 10 by 15 inches. In a saucepan, bring 7H cups water and 1H cups unsweetened coconut milk to a boil. Add 1 1/2 teaspoons salt and 4 1/2 cups Agatha rice. Cover and reduce heat to very low. Cook for 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Transfer rice to a bowl and stir in 4 minced scallions and 1/4 cup toasted sesame seeds. Press mixture firmly into jelly-roll pan. I cover it with plastic wrap and use a rolling pin to make it even and compact. Chill well. When ready to serve, cut into 3-inch squares and then in half into triangles. Brush with olive oil, dust with bread crumbs, and sauté until golden brown on both sides. Makes 30 triangles.

Have 6 tuna steaks cut 2 inches thick so it's easy to cook them rare. Marinate the fish for about an hour in 1 1/4 cups teriyaki sauce, 1/3 cup cooking sherry, 1 tablespoon minced ginger, 4 minced scallions, 1 teaspoon minced garlic, 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper, 1/2 teaspoon black pepper, and 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice. Grill quickly over hot coals and serve immediately. Serves six.

Grilled whole snapper on a bed of sauteed corn and spinach with Thai curry sauce; smoked salmon bundles filled with crab salad and a lemon-chive crème fraîche; crispy coconut prawns with homemade apricot chutney; lemon-buttermilk pound cake topped with homemade vanilla bean ice cream and fresh berries; mangoes and cream with cinnamon and a little brown sugar . . . relentless trial and error. Bob and Jesse eagerly sampled everything, arriving nightly with ambitious appetites, ready to evaluate my latest experiments.

I took a break one afternoon to give Betsy and Gary an update. I longed for our weekly dinners together in Vermont and thought a letter might help assuage my homesickness.

Greetings from paradise,

Thanks for the water balloons. I'm using them for a dessert we dubbed “cracked coconut.” I make a mold by rolling the bottom half of the balloon around in melted chocolate, cover it with toasted coconut, and let it harden. Then I pop the balloon and the remaining chocolate shell looks exactly like half a coconut. I fill it with coconut ice cream and surround it with Kahlúa custard sauce and another shell is propped on top, so it looks like it was just cracked open. Lots of work—sometimes I think
I've
cracked—but the end result is so much fun I couldn't pass it up.

Today I'm trying to thicken some corn chowder without using cream. I think I'll try pureeing some of the corn and see if it's the right consistency. Last night we grilled local lobsters with olive oil and Cajun spices—also, grilled pineapple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. Wish you could have joined us!

My biggest problem is getting ingredients. Luckily, the French side of St. Martin has some wonderful gourmet shops, but I have trouble translating words like
sesame
and
beets
into French. I'm in pretty good shape now, but if you could send some Chinese dumpling wrappers, that would be great. Don't forget to include a receipt for customs. Otherwise I'll never get them out of the warehouse.

Don't forget about us down here—keep in touch!

Love,

Mel

Bob, Jesse, and I tasted for weeks. We brushed grilled bananas with Myers's rum, compared the virtues of regular chicken to free-range, and one night, we sampled fourteen flavors of ice cream and sorbet. We had regular discussions about how many spicy dishes we should serve, and whether or not pasta was too mundane.

Rum Punch

We tasted rum punches around the island and worked together to create the perfect mixture. Some, we agreed, were too sweet and bright red with grenadine. Others didn't have the fresh taste we were looking for. Guava juice, we discovered, was the missing ingredient from most we tried, and freshly squeezed orange juice was a must. Still, our final recipe was simple.

Combine equal amounts of pineapple juice, guava juice, freshly squeezed orange juice, and Mt. Gay rum. Add just a dash of grenadine and another of Angostura bitters. Pour over ice and top with a sprinkle of nutmeg.

The menu evolved into a collection of foods we fancied, impossible to categorize—no simple label would describe our cuisine. This, in the weeks to come, became a sore point. “What kind of food will you serve? French? Italian?” everyone asked. I had no choice but to list everything on the menu.

Working at a table on our porch, I created a complete ingredient list of produce, meat, fish, and dairy, detailing one recipe at a time. The number of items needed was formidable. Shading my eyes from the blinding sun, I watched a barefoot man walking by carrying a machete and eating a banana. If his pace were any slower, he would have been standing still. No hurry. No stress.
That man couldn't care less about portobello mushrooms and goat cheese,
I thought. Beyond him, I heard the sound of dominos slapping down on the table at the gas station. Had I been on vacation, it might be a charming neighborhood scene. Instead, it sent a wave of terror right through me.
Look where we are, for God's sake! How on earth are we going to get what we need to run this restaurant? I can't continue running to St. Martin and paying gourmet shop prices.
Shaking my head, I went back inside, plopped down on the couch, and called Bob.

“Hi. We're sanding the floor in the bar. How's it going there?”

I could tell he wanted to get back to the bar floor, but I needed to talk. “Bob, I'm afraid we might be in trouble. I can't imagine where we're going to get these ingredients. I think we might have really lost our heads this time.”

Bob assured me we'd figure it out. I told him I was going into The Valley to see what I could find, and we agreed to have lunch at Cap Juluca when I was done.

It was a magnificent day—the sky was a brilliant blue, all the windows were down in the car, and the air temperature felt neither hot nor cold. My first stop was going to be easy. Following directions to Glenford's Dairy, I parked in front of a building that looked like it
used
to be Glenford's. The painted sign on the building had faded from the sun, and the yard was empty except for a family of goats dining on scattered trash.

A man poked his head out the door. “Good morning,” I began. “My husband and I are opening a restaurant and I was hoping to get a price list—”

“Price list finish,” he interrupted.

“Well,” I said calmly, “when do you think you might have another price list?”

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

I showed him my list and he said he could special-order anything I wanted from St. Thomas. “I gonna back-check my supplier and see what he say.” But he was pretty sure it would take two to three weeks for all my special requests. Right now, though, all he had was milk.

The rest of the morning continued in the same manner. I tried all the grocery stores in search of ingredients. They actually had a few things I needed, some shredded coconut and basics, like salt and sugar, but the prices were prohibitive in small retail packages. And the meat was not even a consideration. There was no beef or lamb, and the chicken was in yellow cardboard boxes labeled GRADE C.

I went to see Joshua and Evelyn, which turned out to be my most successful stop. They had gallons of extra-virgin olive oil, canned juices for the bar, huge packages of paper towels, and a surprising number of the odds and ends on my list. I loved spending time with them, so I sat for a while and gave them an update on our progress and listened to their latest news.

“Gloria big, you know,” said Evelyn. “She makin' a baby.”

“How many grandchildren will you have then?” I asked.

“Over forty,” she said, and began counting with her fingers in her lap. “Carroll the mechanic, he have six by his wife and four out of the marriage. Lincoln, the one at the airport, he have two. Bernice, she have two, and Vernal, he have a next one.”

Just then, two of the forty came racing out of the kitchen. Amalia and Kim-Misha were chasing each other, laughing hysterically, and interrupted Evelyn's tally. “Them disgusting li'l childrens,” she said with undeniable affection. “Them keepin' me full speed.”

Three generations filled her house with energy and love. She couldn't fathom my life as an only child, visiting grandparents on occasional weekends and holidays. She hugged me with her large black arms. Joshua called out as I was leaving, “Daughter, don't work too hard. Even the Lord rested on the seventh day.”

I stopped at the market on the way back. Envisioning cartloads of tropical fruits and vegetables, I expected to become friendly with the local women selling produce and spend time learning about things such as guava and breadfruit. Dreamland. A few robust women were surrounded by piles of boxes filled with mangoes, lemons, pineapples, squash, and potatoes. But there were no peppers, tomatoes, onions, lettuce, berries, or papayas. One woman explained their produce came by boat from Santo Domingo every two weeks and I should come back on Thursday for a better selection.
If the restaurant was open now,
I thought,
how could I wait for produce until next Thursday?

Over lunch at Cap Juluca I recounted the morning's events to Bob. “So basically,” I said, “I found no fish, no dairy, no meat, and no produce. Oh, actually, I did have a little luck. Joshua had olive oil and vinegar,” I added.

“Great,” he said sarcastically. “We can make salad dressings again.”

“At least this time,” I said, “we have a view. Look where we are.
This
is the place for a board meeting.” We were fifty feet from the water, surrounded by tanned people in bathing suits, sitting under a Moroccan-style tent. We ordered a salad with shrimp and avocado and a grilled swordfish sandwich and wondered where the ingredients came from. Our spirited waiter, whose name tag introduced him as Wayne, was extremely accommodating when we asked about the food. He brought George, the chef, out to meet us. George was delightful—a young Anguillian eager to make great food and just as willing to share his purchasing secrets with us. “You gotta go off island for this stuff, man,” he said, so I made a list. He gave us names of suppliers in St. Martin and Miami, and we left feeling as though we had finally broken some sort of code. The puzzle was not solved, but at least the pieces were coming together.

Leaving Cap Juluca, we followed a truck haphazardly loaded with used air conditioners and cardboard boxes. Three men were in the back of the truck holding on for dear life, arms stretched wide to keep their cargo in place. A box of nails tumbled onto the road, immediately giving us a flat tire next to a salt pond. Bob and I got out of the car to change the tire.

“It's fluffing,” I said. “It's like a gigantic outdoor bubble bath.”

“What?” said Bob distractedly as he searched for the jack.

“It's fluffing,” I repeated. “The pond is fluffing.” Bob looked at me like I was crazy, and while he loosened the lug nuts, I tried to figure out why all the white balls were blowing off the pond. A family of ducks swam in circles, and dozens of orange-legged birds darted in and out of the tangled roots against the shore. Large, sudsy balls were breezing past us, but Bob didn't appreciate my jokes about being in the middle of a Caribbean snowstorm. He was hot and sweaty from changing the tire and anxious to get back to work.

Clinton and Shabby were building shelves in the coffee area when we returned and I told them about the “fluffing.”

“Mel,” Shabby said. “That's salt.”

“Salt?”

“Haven't you seen salt ponds all over the island?” Clinton asked. “Until 'bout fifteen years ago, they harvest salt outta the ponds and ship it all over the Caribbean—even England. It was how everybody earn a living here before we had tourists. When you see the foam it mean the pond ripe for pickin. It mean there's plenty of salt.”

“What did they do, collect all these bubbles and dry them out?”

“Mel. You wanna hear about pickin' the ponds, you gotta talk to Mammy. She work in the ponds for years, and she love to talk.”

Just then Mac stopped by in his taxi to ask if we could find a job at the restaurant for his girlfriend, Garrilin. When I told him to bring her by, he said, “She right outside in the van.”

My first “interview” thus took place on a pile of lumber. Garrilin and I talked easily—more about our families than work experience or references. I could tell by her stories that she had the gift of gab—in a matter of minutes, I learned her sister was about to get married in Nevis and her little niece was getting straight A's in school. I showed her the menu. “I ain' know what most a this stuff is,” she said, “but if you show me what to do, I can do it.”

Still curious about the salt ponds, I asked Garrilin if she knew Mammy.

“Yeah, man. Everyone know Mammy. You wanna meet her? We go see Mammy together. The onliest thing is I can't go today. How tomorrow?”

Garrilin gave me directions to Mammy's house and told me to meet her there at ten o'clock the next day.

Clinton stopped hammering and stroked his chin as if deep in thought when I asked where we could find fresh fish. “Mel,” he said, “Island Harbor. That where the fish be.” He chugged some water out of a nearby Evian bottle. “The fishermen all be up there every afternoon. You go Island Harbor four o'clock and there be all kinds a fish. Ask for Cleve—he a big-time fisherman. He caught the big fish you see hangin' in the airport.”

Later that afternoon we drove the island from west to east, tip to tip. We always loved this little excursion. The eastern end was wilder, less developed. There were no hotels, no real landmarks, just an occasional sign denoting the tiny villages: Water Swamp, Little Dix, Shoal Bay, Canafist. Most villages had a church, and we passed an occasional grocery store and other home businesses where signs read LICENSE PLATES MADE HERE, ALTERATIONS, and the most popular, ISLAND TOURS. As unhurried as life was in our western end of the island, here it slowed even more.

Island Harbor is the quintessential fishing village: small boats painted bright primary colors and varnished to a glossy sheen, little boys helping their fathers unload the day's catch, women haggling over the price of snapper, clear green water ribboned with white foam where the coral reefs broke the surface.

There was much to see, though the scene was not a flurry of activity. The fishermen were calmly going about their routine, unaware of the romantic picture they painted. Cleve wore no shoes, only a hat and old shorts, and like the other fisherman, he was anchoring his boat for the night. When Bob asked him about fish, he introduced us immediately to his brother. Between the two of them, he assured us, they could supply us with all the fish we wanted. Wahoo, tuna, snapper, mahimahi—as soon as we gave them the word, they'd deliver fish to our door.

“Success,” I said as we drove back to the bustle of the west end. “Fresh fish anytime we want, and delivered to the restaurant.” I was eager to start cooking.

Garrilin and I pulled into the parking lot of the old clinic in South Hill just before ten o'clock. She nodded toward an older woman hanging shirts on a clothesline at the house next door and said, “That Mammy. She gonna tell you all about pickin' the pond.”

Mammy Garrilin and I sat on the porch. Soon Mammy's sister joined us, explaining that she too worked in the pond. I wasn't sure where to begin, so I asked how many years they had picked the salt.

“I mussa wen' in the pond from twelve years,” Mammy said. “Me and my mother, we used to get caps on our fingers. The salt done burn, ya know. It cut your hands. We tie pieces a old bicycle tubes on our fingers or sometimes we wrap our hands with cloth. Anything to keep the salt from burnin'.”

I winced at the description but by then Mammy and her sister were enjoying the memories.

“Me and my mother,” Mammy continued, “we walk down the hill to the pond at Sandy Ground. It too hot in the sun, so sometimes we go down from midnight and make day. We work all night long. I had love the fun of it. We walk out in the pond and the water come up over my hips when I was young.”

Mammy's sister continued. “We scoop up chunks of salt with our hands and puts 'em in a basket and carries 'em over to these big wooden boxes. We call 'em flats. Inside the flats they had maybe eighteen small barrels line up.”

Mammy interrupted. “We rinse off the chunks a salt in the water and a fella would liff me up so I can throw 'em in the barrels. Some flats have up to nine, ten, eleven people working on 'em, and we share up the shillings for the work when done. I remember when I make nineteen shillings for the week. The salt would cover my skin. And man, you couldn't sit down in the pond. If you fall down an' the salt get all through your body, it burn you up. Sometimes when we fall we have to run to the sea to freshen. If it real bad we run all the way home to wash it even more.

“Once the flats was full with salt, I done put a cutter on my head and carry the barrels out to the salt heap onshore.” Mammy's sister could see I had no idea what a cutter was and dashed into the house for a visual aid, returning with an old threadbare towel she twirled expertly into a series of concentric rings. It looked like a terry-cloth coil. She placed it on her head, demonstrating how they used to tie it on with string, and patted the top, showing me how it protected her from the weight of the barrels.

“The salt heap would get high, high, high, and we shovel it into bags and sew them closed. Then we put the bags on our heads and walk out into the sea. There was no wharf back then, and we had to take it out to the boat that would carry it away. Oh, yes, we had fun. Sometime we get no sleep a'tall. We walk back up the hill from Sandy Ground and jus' go home, rinse our clothes, bathe our skin, and walk to the pond in West End. Then we fill more flats the same way again.”