As is the case with most of the small islands in the Caribbean, the Virgin Islands depend on imports for the bulk of their food, despite the abundance of seafood and native foods like pumpkins and sweet potatoes.
As is the case with most of the small islands in the Caribbean, the Virgin Islands depend on imports for the bulk of their food, despite the abundance of seafood and native foods like pumpkins and sweet potatoes.
After a few corporate personality tests and phone interviews, I found myself on a plane en route to a tropical paradise. The plane departed after pushing back from an air-conditioned jet way, only to pull up, after arriving, to a “sophisticated” disembarking tool: a metal push ladder. The baggage carousel operated on a completely different speed than what I was accustomed to; thank god Vincent was there to welcome me with a freshly-poured rum punch! Remember Vincent? He was one of the Charleston instigators who bailed on Mission Maya and ultimately ended up catching a slow boat to the Caribbean. The next thing I knew, I was looking down at my left hand to see my stack of three, empty, plastic cups. I finally began to hear the clanking sounds of the moving baggage belt. It was no surprise I was going to have to make a few adjustments—the first being to my watch. I am certain most of us have heard of the term “island time” but for me, with my new position as sous-chef in St. Thomas, I found that I didn’t just need to reset hours and minutes; I needed to remove my watch entirely!
My first evening on island was spent at Sid’s, on the heavily-vegetated north side of Hull Bay. There was no surprise when we walked in; the eye-catching bartender already had the blender spinning with the ingredients identified by George Soule, inventor the of banana Daiquiri: ripe bananas, crushed ice, Cruzan rum, sugar, and banana liqueur. Vincent had taken me to one of his local watering holes to help me absorb my new surroundings and to provide me with a crash course on “island life.” The three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views atop Crown Mountain were as stunning as the young lady who kept our banana daiquiris topped off. That night was full of colorful stories from the past year, mine from Buckhead, and Vincent’s from this thirty-two-square-mile rock. The most repeated bit of advice that evening was, “Just remember you never lose the girl, only your turn.” Maybe that wasn’t the best advice, just more like his mental dose of penicillin.
There was never a need to read between the lines with Vincent; as he always said, “Tell it like it is!” My head turned casually upward, however, not to signal for another frozen drink but to take a hesitant glance in disbelief at the striking, tan brunette. I had to do a quick double-take at the phone number she wrote on the inside of my forearm. The darkening circular view began to feel more like a spinning roulette wheel, so before I became the ball and slipped into the wrong slot, it was time to call it a night.
I shook off the potassium overdose from the previous evening and met the Executive Chef for sunrise coffee in the Café restaurant. After we blew through the formalities, he welcomed me into the kitchen. He introduced me to my new immediate boss. This was not typical protocol by the Buckhead Chef’s book. The new arrival of a sous-chef always involved an external dinner and endless bottles of French wine. I was more or less dropped off at the front of the worn-out breakfast line and left with the all-seeing, crossed eyes of a twenty-eight year-old Englishman. We extended right hands to shake—which he nearly missed!—and he proceeded to tell me about his background, with a passing mention that he was a twin. I guess the other sibling got all the good looks. I strained to understand him, but his speech was like making out the lyrics to a stretched audio cassette tape. Were my ears still blocked from the cabin pressure on the flight? Or, was he just naturally “mushed-mouthed?” I concluded the latter as I watched the veteran local staff, led by Julia (a.k.a. “Big Mama”), lead the pack while pushing out morning rations to the hungry resort guests.
Once the rush was over, the Englishman walked me through his morning rituals. As I poked around my new surroundings I couldn’t help but hone-in like a piranha at feeding time. All around me was unlabeled food, crusty rubber seals, splashed remnants of spilled sauces, and a sheer lack of respect for the work environment—in abundance. Great! This is what I was faced with. I wanted to know why the line was left in this condition and his response was, “I work eighteen hours a day and can’t see everything.” That’s for damn sure! I thought to myself. There were no excuses to justify the filth and unprofessionalism. Obviously, our standards and views on sanitation were different. It was a lot to digest on my first day. All I could think about was the phrase, “If the fish stinks, it’s from the head down.”
The Englishman was more like an inexperienced first mate aboard a deep-sea fishing vessel, never delegating work to the crew. My “superior” ran the restaurant and proudly worked his eighteen-hour days. He spent the afternoons mumbling to himself and completing the prep work for the cooks that were to be my new team. To my way of thinking, this was the equivalent of learning how to boil water by skipping the first step of putting the water in the pot. In order to understand the situation I had to go back to my teenage years, where I spent my days and nights always looking for an easy way out. After all, who can blame the cooks for not meeting my expectations when there were very few placed on them? The person clearly responsible for this, who I could not help but hold in low esteem, was like a fish that swam on the ocean floor; for me, his private nickname became Flounder. He and I never saw eye to eye.
I did my very best to get along with Flounder, but it wasn’t uncommon for us to butt heads. We were like what everyone supposed about the Clinton’s marriage: coexisting together with nothing to talk about. Or only about his third-grade mise en place sheets and “inadequate performance.” Yet I had to keep my deep frustrations grounded and find a way to work with him. A blessing came twelve weeks later. I was called into the Chef’s office and informed I was no longer needed to use my pocket-sized language translator in my relationship with Flounder, because I would be the new first mate. My life on “The Rock” became grand, according to my way of thinking; he quit after three months of my arrival and moved his plodding ass back to England.
Flounder, this would be a good time to apologize for being so insubordinate to you.
With Flounder out of the way, I was hungry for more; it was time to get this team in order. I created proper food preparation and cleaning checklists in “English”—someone had to do it! I got rid of the third-grade art projects he had littered about the kitchen. A new set of standards were put in place for the cooks, from grinding fresh peppercorns to managing their habit of setting up their own “rods and reels” of mise en place on their stations before they were able to go “deep sea fishing,” come service time, when hungry guests would arrive. Change came at a conch’s pace in Saint Thomas and I was faced with instant pushback when I tried to hold the cooks accountable. This mentality was far-removed from anything I had ever experienced in any previous kitchen. After weeks of frustration, I saw why Flounder just gave up and found it easier to accept the situation instead of change it. The cooks were simply not trained. There was no way I was going to follow in his bottom-dwelling footsteps.
This cast of local employees had reeled in many chefs, forcing them to conform to their ways, but I was not going to become another flopping fish on the sun drenched deck of their boat, or allow their laziness when they could not even bait their own hooks. I realized they were smart enough to fight me in numbers. With little support from above, I had to strap myself into the chair as the boat was moving forward. This also went beyond the local crew, as I had one mainland American cook (from the uppity neighborhood of Scottsdale, Arizona) who had been on the island for quite some time—long enough he put beeswax in his hair, pretended to eat vegetarian, and become a self-proclaimed Rastafarian. His cloudy, short-term memory cost him his job at the end, when he tried to pull a coup but forgot to erase a message that said: “Let’s unite together to replace this mainlander new chef” on the kitchen’s dry erase board. I had enough of this mentality and my pen was running out of ink from the disciplinary reports I was handing to human resources. It was time to visit with the Executive Chef for a change.
The Chef spent most of his days in meetings and camped out in his cramped, kitchen office, behind what was known amongst us as the “velvet curtain.” I entered the closed, one-window, darkened shoebox where the blinds were always drawn shut, and felt intrusive. I just wanted to talk openly and for him to act as a sounding board. What started as an inexperienced approach led to the best lesson of my life.
I began with a tone of frustration, and continued to go as far as saying, “These people don’t want to work! THEY’RE SLOW! They can’t even follow simple directions! In my own experience in restaurants, I never talked back! The only words I learned were ‘YES, CHEF!’” He just stared at me with a typical French gaze, saying nothing. That fueled my internal fire; I said, “I am so sick of this bullshit! No matter what I do, they don’t get terminated by human resources. I think it’s better if I just go back to Buckhead where these Mickey Mouse issues don’t exist!” I wanted to cut off my tongue after that last comment, but had no choice but to accept my less than “corporate statement.” Thankfully, reflecting the Ritz Carlton credo, I was not sent to the unemployment line myself, for being so inappropriate and not approaching it in a gentle manner. When I ran out of hot air, and allotted a moment of silence, the great OZ had a chance to speak.
He looked right at me and just said, “Your team doesn’t respect you.” My juvenile reaction was, “I don’t care! They don’t need to respect me. I’m trying to move things forward. They think I need to conform to their ways but my standards are higher!”
Yes, I sounded like a petulant child and it is embarrassing to recall as I write this. Chef calmly replied, “You have a lot to learn and the best thing you can do is build a relationship with them. If you are not interested, then I can send you back to Buckhead and you will only be doing yourself a disservice.” Typical Frenchman move, give advice but leave it up to the recipient to read between the lines. I told him I needed to think it over and would give him my response when I returned from my day off. The trip to Emerald City wasn’t a complete waste. I had options and also was able to blow off steam and vent my displeasure about the working conditions. Was I going to pay attention to the man behind the velvet curtain? I wasn’t sure. I felt it was important to consult my counterpart, the Chef de Cuisine, for some advice.
My mind went from a rigorous boil to a subtle poach after my conversation. The Chef left me with plenty to think about, but I was going to push it to the side, since I was completing my PADI, advanced, open-water certification the following morning with my “mates” at Blue Island Divers.
I arrived at the upscale Crown Bay Marina to be greeted by the good-humored “geezer-gassed” crew, who were just as excited as I was to see me take my love for SCUBA diving to the next level. I had no anxiety completing my thirty-foot, inverted descent through the tubular, vertical stairwell into the sunken WIT Shoal II’s (Landing Ship Tank 467) silt-covered engine room. Just like in training, we used the reel as a guide in the event of a cloudy assent and were brought out through the ship’s galley for a celebratory photo.
Unlike my improved diving techniques, I was not making the most skilled decisions at work and realized my approach had to change or my kitchen would all fall apart and end up just like this sunken ship.
That afternoon I was treated to tall chalices of cold beer and Teaser’s famous tuna-fish sandwich by the entire dive crew. They could only talk about when I would be ready to start the Rescue Course; meanwhile I had other things on my mind. I placed a call to my friend and counterpart, who may have been French-born, but never lived by that European mentality. Our friendship truly began to evolve once Flounder had returned to England, surely serving up bangers and mash for his countrymen. Frenchy, the gastronomic genius, had spent ten years going through the ranks at three-star Michelin restaurants; however, he never adopted their arrogant behavior. I admired his culinary skills, but even more so, his mindset of working less than the daily twelve hours expected of all of us. He came to work when he felt like waking up, and typically strolled in with blurred eyes and dusty sniffles. We ate lunch together nearly every day and he was never shy about lending mentoring words of wisdom. Somehow he managed to beat the Chef’s system and master the art of doing the least amount of work and still come out the fucking hero. EVERY TIME!
He agreed to meet me at our favorite local bar, located down an unmarked mountain road in Red Hook, not far from the hotel. This secret hideaway was the perfect spot, because we had the calming sounds of the inner coastal marina and no tourists to contend with. We were greeted by the ex-pat chef-owner of Latitude 18, our Houston-born and Jerusalem-raised buddy, Alex. He always said, “This is nothing but an extension of my living room, so make sure you feel at home.” That hospitality was genuine and reminded me of my own family’s home. It wasn’t uncommon for us to walk into the kitchen and put together some food ourselves, then just ask for the bill later; it was that kind of place. We looked out at the docked sailboats that took up residence and said a few hellos to familiar faces that also called Alex’s living room “home” at the Vessup Marina
Frenchy had numerous years of Caribbean work experience and somehow managed to play the game pretty well, even with his frequent six-hour “work” days. I shared the conversation I had with the Executive Chef and presented my options, and to my surprise he agreed with his nemesis. That night he was as open as he ever was with me, obviously feeling my rookie-leadership pain. I got encouraging pointers over countless Bushwacker cocktails that were as straight-forward and precise as his plating techniques. When we stood up from the plastic chairs, he left me with this challenging thought: “If you can build a team in the Caribbean you will be successful anywhere.” I was now determined to engage my team with a whole new approach and take a few steps back. It was time to teach them how to bait their own hooks for pier fishing, before venturing into deeper waters.
That unexpectedly sobering evening, I found myself up late with a vertically-divided legal pad and a new pen, writing out the challenges I found and plotting new approaches to correcting them. The left side was for the issues and the right for solutions. Before I realized it, there was another piece of paper Scotch-taped to the bottom of the original page. My pad began to look more like a general ledger and I had to prioritize my obsessive compulsions. With a new plan of attack, my goal was to start working through each change together with the team, but starting first with tying the basic slip knot before even considering putting our line in the water. It took me a while, but I finally understood I had to wind my own clock back not just hours, but several years, to focus on the basics. This had to start with heating a hot pan before searing, as well as fundamental cooking lessons on various fat-smoke points. The stress and tension that came from the previously tangled fishing rods all loosened when I took the team away from the rogue waves and into shallower waters.
I never revisited my conversation with the Executive Chef because I knew he was always preoccupied with other office work; my actions would speak louder than words. One member of the kitchen team was a former goat farmer from Haiti, who landscaped during the day and moonlighted at the hotel in the evenings to support his family. I know he started off as a dishwasher and, surely, by default, became a line cook because he didn’t know the first thing about cooking; however, when the boat was turned back to calmer waters he became a model deckhand. Charles couldn’t read or speak much English, which reminded me of my arrival in Chef Katz’s kitchen. I spent countless hours with Charles, training him with visuals on the basics. By the end, he took so much pride in his work he even seasoned his oil before cooking. When I told him to season everything, he took it to a whole new level. I learned you just have to let go. The kitchen team became a unified fishing vessel that was getting ready to leave calm waters. Frenchy saw the progress and growth and it not only built our relationship too, but he kindly nicknamed me the “Smurf” (not sure about that one), which he still calls me to this day.
I had been living an ex-pat lifestyle outside of the kitchen, for the most part hanging with other English speakers and frequenting familiar local beach bars. One night that all changed, thanks to my new found approach. The work relationships and trust built among the team opened many new local doors. I was extended an invitation to a cook’s house for a traditional Sunday, Caribbean meal. The situation was rather uncomfortable at first, as I had spent so much effort earning the teams respect, but I agreed, after considering all the local food I was missing. I was so thankful I accepted the invitation. This reinforced our new relationship: I had taught the techniques in the kitchen, and in return I was educated in Caribbean culture and cuisine. I wasn’t sure what to bring as a gesture of hospitality, but showed up with a nice bouquet of flowers and a few lobsters I pulled out from the water on my morning dive.
Beatrice and her husband had spent all day preparing a meal that spread across their rectangular, plastic kitchen table. He went through each dish, describing the ingredients and cooking techniques; most were boiled using their only aluminum pot. The array of dishes began with callaloo (a stewed, spinach-like leaves), pigeon peas and rice, fungi (fun-gee) with salt fish, boiled chunks of backyard yams, goat stew, fish head soup, and my personal favorite, Beatrice’s homemade Johnny Cakes. Caribbean traditions had certainly put their mark on the buffet-style dishes placed in front of my eager taste buds. The various flag changes and West African influences created an evolving and now influential genre called Virgin Island cuisine.
This incredible meal was served with “bush tea,” which varied from house to house but always included the long, jagged, saw grass-toothed leaves from local lemongrass. We ate on their outdoor patio looking over the wrought-iron and dried-coral gate that surrounded their nine-hundred-square-foot bungalow-style home. It was shocking to see Beatrice delegating cleaning tasks to her well-mannered young children, as her husband shared his heroic stories from hurricane Hugo.
The night only got better when dessert arrived on their presumably home-made waddle-and-daub outdoor table, next to the hard, concrete, seashell steps. The finishing element of the meal was a traditional Caribbean spread of fresh fruit, most which came from the trees on the north side of the property. Beatrice’s children followed her out in a single file, with freshly puréed soursop drinks. They handed one glass to each adult, then, like a graduating class from boot camp, ran off in relief. This was an incredible experience and my presence that night allowed Beatrice to share with me a piece of herself and her family’s deep-rooted Caribbean heritage.
The time I spent mentoring and building relationships in the kitchen allotted me more freedom to enjoy my island surroundings. It did not take long before the cooks were calling the tickets and actually helping one another with their prep. I had nearly worked myself out of the daily operation, just like Frenchy had done with his own team. My mornings were now spent underwater, pursuing my PADI Rescue certification, hitting golf balls, soaking up the Caribbean sunshine, and generally enjoying life beyond the kitchen. My casual, afternoon arrival was refreshing after months of long days and discovering newly graying hair.
The normal afternoon always began with Frenchy and me loading up a few pushcarts with the necessary small wares, pots, pans, and plating spoons, as another, more efficient way to manage the overall production. Then it was off to lunch for an hour, then on the loading dock for another thirty minutes, and then joining the crew for some slicing and dicing. I was often kicked off the hot line by the start of service —out of their pride—and asked to expedite the rush for the team. By God, they had finally made it! It wasn’t even uncommon for a few of the sous-chefs to grab the nearby ferry to St. John and catch the last part of happy hour at Woody’s in Cruz Bay, but this only happened when the Executive Chef was out of town!
It was sad to say good-bye, but I was ready to wind my watch forward for the next challenge and apply all I had learned from my Caribbean work experience. With the infancy of online ordering, the limited professional resources—the island bookstore only held space for twenty cookbooks—I felt like “the rock” was eroding under my feet. My last day was full of happiness and tears from the entire kitchen team, mostly while I was given the task to clean out the kitchen’s lobster tank! What a going away present from my Chef! That night finished with an “island time,” salty, sea breeze in my face while I reflected on my shipwrecked past and on the newly discovered treasures from the eighteen months on the rock. I was confident that the new restaurant chef would not have to wind his watch back years, since the team was now capable of rigging their own tackle and deep-sea fishing on their own, with the right captain navigating their course. It may have taken me some growing pains, but I couldn’t thank Frenchy and Chef Cruchet enough for making me understand how important it is to earn RESPECT.
There are times when winding your watch back isn’t such a bad thing! The experiences and people that touched my life in the Virgin Islands were more impactful than the countless bushwacker cocktails consumed on the white powder sands of Saint Thomas.
That year my parents and other close family friends enjoyed a Caribbean vacation under the pretense of “paying me a visit”.
I picked everyone up after they disembarked one of those enormous floating-steel cities, docked just outside Crown Bay Marina in Charlotte Amalie. After a few warming hugs, the ladies were off for duty free shopping and the men to Mahogany Run gold course. Between playing island chauffeur and pretending I was interested in either activity—I needed to relax—it was time to introduce everyone to the island’s famous libation, the bushwacker!
I advised everyone they go down smooth—like a coffee-butterscotch candy—but to consume with caution. I collected my sun-burned parents and close family friends and brought them to Iggie’s Beach Bar in Bolongo Bay. I made a few quick introductions to my friends behind the bar and before I had the chance to order, conch fritters hit the table with a round of “the usual.” The first round calmed my island visitors and they quickly forgot about their strawberry-colored, sun-burnt skin. The second round of frozen drinks was sent out—with just a nod of the head—and before I knew it, Doc. G. became captivated by the cocktail. Anytime I am back in Dallas visiting my parents he always ensures the blender is out and that the spirits are chilled!
6 oz. aged Cruzan rum
6 oz. Kahlua
6 oz. dark crème de cocao
12 oz. cream of coconut
12 oz. whole milk
6 cups of ice
Make in two batches.
Dump ½ of the ingredients into a high-speed blender and purée on high until the ice is broken down. Pour into your favorite plastic cup and garnish with freshly shaved nutmeg. Repeat.
The sun is now in clear sight, making its slow path towards the west. I can feel the change taking place around me. The morning tourists are re-applying another layer of sunscreen on their children; the local vendors have made it all the way to the other end of the beach and are now merely a few feet away from me, having completed a lap. What’s next? As I feel the various textures in my mouth and hear the crunch of the roasted peanuts between my molars, I lean up from my last bite and notice little crabs racing back to the surf at the water’s edge. Flipping my sunglasses up to my forehead to get a better view of the crab races, it also occurs to me that there are durian and banana trees camouflaged by the canopy of green beach umbrellas behind me. What is going on here? “Jet, paat, gow, sib …” (seven, eight, nine, ten…)
