After five-and-a-half years of classes en français, I still do not speak French very well. Things I do well include: eating, drinking, tanning and reading obtuse novels in beach chairs. When my mother told me we would be traveling to St. Maarten/St. Martin (Dutch/French West Indies aka THE CARIBBEAN) during Winter Break, I happily started planning my four activities. “You can order for us on the French side!” my mother exclaimed, referring to the St. Martin “side” of the tiny island. “Oui,” I replied, exhausting my French vocabulary.
Our first night on St. Maarten, we stumbled upon L’Escargot. L’Escargot is a French restaurant that specializes in l’escargot. Which means, and I’m almost certain about this, snails. So I ate snails. They were chewy and rich in flavor and texture. I think their thick garlic-and-something-else sauce helped me with the whole enjoying the slimy marsh creature experience. The wine helped, too.
I like the Caribbean’s weather and beaches and metro European males. I really like the Caribbean’s drinking age. I could probably get away with ordering a beer if I were 13, but it felt sort of empowering to legally and easily order alcohol whenever and wherever I wanted. Feigning sophistication, I ordered wine with dinner and Bloody Marys with brunch. Have you ever had a Bloody Mary? If not, I can accurately describe it for you: pulpy tomato juice with pepper and celery salt and vodka. I deemed it a loser slushy and traded up for a margarita.
After a number of mixed drinks, beers and wine, I still hadn’t spoken any French. I would wake up in the morning, go for a 10-minute run up painfully mountainous terrain, deem myself super athletic and worthy of Dutch bread and fried plantains, and finally collapse at whatever beach my mother had chosen in her meticulously planned day trips. I was way too busy to communicate with the locals or the topless French women lounging by the shore.
Frenchies, though, were not too busy to communicate with me. The ease of our waiter at a beach bar — with our feet in the sand and sand in our eyes — shocked me. He spoke English with a thick accent and took several minutes to write down our orders, yet he didn’t seem to mind the awkward nods and eager smiles that defined what I perceived to be a language barrier. “Tweens?” he asked looking at first my sister’s face, then mine. The universal twin question broke down any barriers I’d used as an excuse. Nodding, I offered, “Oui, jumelles.” My new French best friend beamed, “Parle francais!” And I had spoken French.
This breakthrough led to my ravenous intake of grilled shrimp and “rice and peas.” Peas are black beans and the rice is similar to dark Mexican rice. This side dish comes with most meals, especially at restaurants that specialize in local fare. There was also a mound of creamy potato salad atop “vegetables,” (a mixed greens salad with shredded carrots). Next time you’re trying to mix up your traditional potato salad recipe, add hardboiled eggs.
Fancy restaurants are fun enough. Lolos, though, are the best way to taste the Caribbean. A lolo is an upgraded beach shack with picnic tables and food in big tin vats in the center of the “restaurant.” Ribs and chicken legs and fish are cooked on big grills and smoke adds to the heat of the midday sun. I had Mahi Mahi while my brother crooned in my ear, “the fish so nice they named it twice.” This mild fish is so nice. Lightly seasoned with grilled vegetables, it’s a simple dish that could probably be whipped up in 10 minutes. Add that to some hardboiled egg potato salad and you’ve got a full-blown Caribbean feast.
By the time I was gnawing on ribs and Creole shrimp — an action representative of family food snatching — I felt more comfortable in the French environment. Mumbling “petit bateau” at a French woman’s painting of the island and “très belle” at necklaces in a souvenir shop, I attempted to channel the ease and confidence of the Europeans and locals around me. I found that everyone spoke the common language of food. Just as a French waiter would naturally ask if my sister and I were twins, so would a Dutch waiter expect his patrons to enjoy their specially prepared dishes.
Loosening up the tight tie of expectations I had wound around my neck, I slouched in my chair at restaurants and laughingly shouted out broken French with my sister. I do not view vacations as most people do. It probably has something to do with the obtuse novels I like to curl up with in beach chairs. Instead of fixating on my inability to speak French or obsessing about my body in a bathing suit or timing my front and back tanning sessions, I kind of adopted “island time.” Smiling with a fellow diner at the never-ending baskets of French bread, I knew I’d had more than a language breakthrough.
From the Caribbean, I did not only bring back a refreshing new perspective on life (I get those a lot); I also brought back a recipe. I do not know how to make Dutch bread but I can whip up a mad batch of fried plantains. Plantains are just big bitter bananas. They do not taste very good by themselves, so frying them is your best option. Yes, you can have fried plantains in Charlottesville! They sell them at the grocery store in my rural county, and so I can confidently assume that they are readily available everywhere. Plantain recipe: slice plantain into 2-inch circles/ellipses, jauntily throw into pan, add enough oil to cover slices, cook over heat until browned on both sides. Voilà (another French word I know).
Connelly’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.