A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard Page B

plastic dishes, an inexpensive set of pots and pans, some glasses, and cheap silverware, allowing us to set up housekeeping until our things arrived from Vermont. I bought an ice cream machine for $19.95, thinking it would be fun to start testing ice cream and sorbet recipes for the restaurant. Our search for building materials, however, was hopeless. After four frustrating stops at overpriced and understocked lumberyards, Miami felt closer and closer.
    The high point of St. Martin was lunch. Though the Dutch may be excellent merchants, there was no doubt in our minds that the French side was the place to eat. We drove back over the hill, then raced down the autobahn and back to Marigot.
    Walking along the narrow streets, we wandered into a marina filled with sailboats and powerboats. Their gangplanks rested on the dock, affording their owners easy access to the dozens of restaurants and shops along the water. Menus were posted on easels, and we moved from one to the next, pausing at a small café called Tropicana. All twelve of its little cloth-covered tables were full, but the charming maître d’ assured us that his best table in front was about to become vacant; if we could wait five minutes, he would get it ready. Just being around this tanned, gorgeous young Frenchman made us feel exotic and foreign. We turned and leaned on the railing to watch the boats. Our stomachs growled.
    A bronzed boy with shoulder-length straw-colored hair climbed down from the pier into a rubber dinghy. No more than twelve or thirteen years old, he untied his little boat, started the engine, and sped out of the marina. As we watched, I thought how different Jesse’s life of ski racing would have been had he grown up by the sea instead of in the mountains.
    â€œI wonder if that boy goes to school or just lives on a boat,” I contemplated out loud.
    â€œMadame, monsieur, s’il vous plaît,”
we heard from behind, and gratefully settled in at the promised front table.
    We shared a salad of well-chilled baby greens topped with warm, slightly melted rounds of goat cheese; the contrast of temperatures elevated the word
salad
to a new level. The sun glistened on the white sailboats and the heat blazed on the sidewalk just beyond our table, but we remained cool under our little awning. As we mopped up the last crumbles of cheese and drizzles of vinaigrette, our host presented us each with a daily special. The roast chicken was an entire half a bird, brown, crispy, and smothered with shallots sautéed in red wine. A huge bowl of
pommes frites
was placed in the center of the table, and to this day, I believe Tropicana makes the best in the universe. Deep golden brown and slightly crispy on the outside, they have a center of velvety potato that tastes as earthy as the ground from which they were dug. They were perfect.
    â€œI feel like we’re living in heaven,” I replied. “Let’s come for lunch once a week.”
    â€œI hope we find some restaurant equipment at PDG,” Bob said, remembering we weren’t on vacation. “We also need to buy a bed so we can move out of the hotel.” We shared a
tarte tatin
piping hot from the oven for dessert, the apples rich with fragrance, their perfume almost ethereal. Ready for a nap, we reluctantly went in search of PDG.
    The directions were a little sketchy. We had a map of St. Martin, but Cole Bay is a maze of roads that wind their way between warehouses and auto dealerships, around boatyards and little houses. Agatha and Rosalind had tried to tell us how to find PDG, but Anguillians have their own terminology for direction. The word
above
means east and
below
means west. So our directions read something like this: “Drive below till you reach an upstairs building with motorcycles. Turn and go up to the bakery. Go above at the bakery, then below where the old tamarind tree was. PDG right there.”
    We found the motorcycle building (a