If We Cook It, Will They Come?

Tyrell Bay is a nice large, deep bay, light in wind and waves, and with lots of boats. The boats that are here seem to all be the older variety, with older people, small dinghys and small motors. There are no charter boats.

We went ashore yesterday, and walked all the way back to the beach that looks north to Sandy Island, the island where we were last anchored. The beach is appropriately called Paradise Beach. It is as beautiful as the nearby island, but with some beach bars, and accommodations. A local, Curtis, told us that we could easily anchor Cat Tales within swimming distance of the beautiful beach. We found a place with rooms starting at $35 US, and a two bedroom house at $70 US per night. We toured the house, thinking it would be a nice place if some of our friends wanted to spend time here some day. It was a lovely hike, with a picnic of beer and barracuda sandwiches, and the discovery of a lovely bakery with whole wheat bread and numerous economical treats. It was a nice, slow day.

We got up today, and saw that the stalk of bananas in our fruit hammock were all black; meaning any breakfast not rich in bananas would be totally wasteful. This ties in to our main story. I’ve always been intrigued by the special difficulties that must be paramount in the management of a restaurant. The managers must buy all the food and even do some preliminary preparations to it without being sure how many patrons might arrive for a meal if any, and what from the menu they might want to eat. Profits can be hard to come by, and wiped out when the food is wasted by a bad guess.

Last night, I convinced Dawn that I wanted to eat in a restaurant for supper for a change. A vendor had swung by our boat from one restaurant when we first arrived, and provided us with an overview of the wonderful menu and prices. Most meals were only $30 EC, or $15 CAN. Yesterday, we were further enticed by another visitor with a menu including a meal with chicken cooked any way we wanted for only $25 EC, at the restaurant known as “Lambi Queen”. He also said that meals were served after $6:30, and the happy hour rum punches were the best. Wee, we’re going out for sundowners and dinner!

We arrived at the Lambi Queen at 5:45, with ony 15 minutes of happy hour. I acquire 4 rum punches for two of us for only $20 EC. They really are the best – large glasses, significant ice, beautiful colour, wonderful taste, appropriate bite, and fresh nutmeg on top. They are lovely, and we stare over the bay, also being entertained by the street, with the odd dog, goat, child, cat, chicken, and other traffic. Some of this traffic often saunters up to you in restaurants for a pat, a word, a bite, or a sniff, and it is no exception tonight. The sun goes down while we chat up another patron, an ex-military from Toronto who probably has been “out here” too long (another story), and we move to order another round and our meals, at 6:40. The young, attractive British girl who is tending bar tells us that, in spite of what we were told on the water, the cook would not be there until 8:00, and food could be served some time after that. She was honest, helpful, and sweet; and recommended two other places where we might get food served. She appreciated that most people don’t want to sit and drink for two or three hours when the primary objective was a meal. Interestingly, most of the other patrons were finishing up their sundowners, and were also exiting the establishment.

We sauntered down to the “Rum Shop”, where our new Toronto friend was already sipping on rum and waiting for his dinner. We ask about the food, and get some information, and look around for other options. Finally, we settle on the Rum Shop, and sit down to give them our business. We make ourselves quite comfortable in the best chairs, and at the best table, but a long wait brings no service. We notice that some young man is just starting to get the charcoal barbecue ready, and no one is taking orders for drinks or food. There is a baby in a carriage, soundly sleeping until the young man, obviously the father, stops work on the barbecue and sits the kid up for no reason but to be reminded of his good effort in her creation. As the kid bawls herself into awareness, a second child grabs the carriage and starts winging it around. The “father” gives her such a slap on her wrist (somebody should have slapped him – he started the mess) that my eyes water from the consideration of the sting of the blow. However the little girl doesn’t even wince, and ignores the father and the yelling mother (who we expected to be taking our order) and continues to wheel the child around. She settles the “bawling machine” at a table of British cruisers, and attempts to entertain them by lifting the confused bundle of baby and swinging her.

Dawn and I look at the clock (7:40) our bare table, no sign of refreshments, no burning charcoal, no service, no potential in letup with the children, and instantly start thinking about a fabulous meal of Kraft Dinner, marinated carrots, and red wine on the splendid back deck of our beautiful, airy, quiet yacht, Cat Tales. We left, and thoroughly enjoyed our late supper on the flat water of the bay.

Now, we aren’t fussy. We are used to having our food stolen by the dogs, cats, and blackbirds; we don’t mind the goats, as they don’t smell as much as most people say; we like the sweet little children, although we often remark when they are overtired and ought to be in bed; we are entertained by the cats and the mangy dogs that wander around us, usually only wishing to be acknowledged; we sometimes smile while trying to ignore young couples wooing each other in the corner with big eyes; and we attempt to ignore the guys who in our minds are telling the big lies to the girls so they will bear them a child to ignore. But dagnabit, there ought to be some hope of getting fed.

Interestingly, by about 9:30, we look into the establishments, and they are all barely lit and most are empty. We don’t know if anybody got fed anywhere but on Cat Tales. We might try another meal ashore, but I think it might be a lunch.