St. Barts is my kind of place

ST. BARTHELEMY, FWI-- "Nous attendons le poissonier," I said, looking out over the Baie d'Orient on the northern side of St. Barthelemy, scanning the horizon for the tiny boat that would bring dinner.

"Nous sommes attendons le poissonier," I was cheerfully corrected, changing the tense to the present perfect. Yes, we were waiting for the fisherman. My effort to speak as much French as possible brought appreciative smiles and friendly assistance everywhere on the island, that is, until the boat actually arrived and serious business began back at the blue fish shack on the main road.

"How many lobsters did you want?" asked Axil, the fellow I had met an hour before as he was leaving the fish stand to meet the boat across the street down a narrow road. No sooner than I could say "Quatre," hands dove into the basket containing five beautiful lobsters fresh from Fourchue, an islet between St. Barths and St. Martin. Axil rescued three for me before, winking, "Hey, I warned you about this."

Another day in culinary paradise begins. Forget Paris, les gourmandes Americaines can be sitting at a café in Gustavia in half the time-- soaking up all the unpasteurized cheese, fresh foie gras, and duck confit ever dreamed of. Thanks to Delta's nonstop from Hartsfield to Princess Julianna (on the Dutch side of Saint Maarten), the only thing standing between you and a Francophile's nirvana is a breathless 15-minute puddle jump to St. Jean. St. Barths is not meant or priced for everyone. Suffice to say the fought-over lobsters were the cheapest meal we had in St. Barths. At the fish stand's nonnegotiable 16 Euros per Kilogram, all three langoustes cost about $50 US. Any one of them would go for $75 US apiece in any one of the 60+ fabulous restaurants that adorn this tiny island. Excellent food is highly prized and extremely important to native and visitor alike. And most significantly, there are no cordoned-off secret caches of lower-priced stores hidden from view by poverty (which does not exist here), meaning the cost of living is just as high for long-term residents and natives as it is for the vacationer.

Thank God, because nobody wants tout le monde to show up here and ruin the place. One writes about St. Barths in dread that the wrong sort of people will be attracted to its many pleasures and charms, but fortunately it's a self-selecting island whose basic characteristics weed-out the unwashed. For starters, no cruise ships except the very small expensive ones can unload here; the island is too small to absorb more than a few itinerants at a time. There's no casino, no timeshares, and absolutely nothing is given away free except the beauty of the islands 20-odd coves and beaches. Folks looking for a "deal" are flatly scoffed at, even in the off-season when hotel rates fall almost 50%, yet still remain out of reach to the budget-conscious.

At one point, my nine year-old daughter overheard someone say something to the effect only the "rich and famous" come to St. Barths, news that made her very quiet for a very long time wondering how we were let in. The short answer, of course, is wretched splurging. But once you decide to splurge here, as indeed we did, there is practically no way to go wrong. While prices are out of the ordinary, the risk of disappointment is as slim as the French sales clerks adorning the boutiques along St. Jean beach.

Take for example, a modest New Year's dinner at Le Gaillac, the open-air dining room of the 15-room hotel Le Toiny. Le Toiny is perhaps the island's most famous small hotel for the fact Brad Pitt was once photographed in his birthday suit by paparazzi during his stay a few years back. Fully clothed, we were greeted more tastefully by coupes champagne drawn from a quadruple magnum of Taittanger and escorted to a smallish table covered with essentials for the night: toys, horns, hats, spit-wad shooters (yes, with plenty of colorful ammo), and masks for those wishing to remain anonymous to any lurking paparazzi.

All TEN courses were spectacular, served at perfect intervals, and ideally proportioned: enough for a man to feel fed, but not enough to get full. On a night internationally known for rip-offs, New Years Eve at Le Gaillac was worth every cent. We started with an assortment of tasty crudites of caviar, shrimps, and foie-gras, and ended with a generous plate of petit-fours-- miniature madeleines, napoleans, chocolate truffles, and dipped, brandied cherries. What went on in between made me imagine a carefully supervised regatta among the sous-chefs in the kitchen, with each stupendous plate stealing the succulent breeze from its successor. The Warm Atlantic oysters from “Marenne d’Oléron” set upon chanterelle mushrooms took my breath away, only to be outflanked by the aromas presented by the sautéed lobster pieces meditating on a quenelle of poultry meat swimming among stuffed morille mushrooms.

What struck me (apart from my palate) was the proportion of each perfect course. In contemplating a TEN-course dinner, I had no expectation of generosity, yet the tranche of homemade, black truffle-stuffed foie gras was Parisian in size. And the two contrasting desserts that followed the main course (roasted breast of Scottish grouse encased in hazelnut and gingerbread) were stand-alone wonders. It was an awe-inspiring way to welcome the New Year, as each dish came to symbolize one great expectation cleverly surpassed by the next.

To say the evening was flawless, however, would be to overlook the French chauvinism that peppers St. Barths' otherwise informal atmosphere. When at first we were seated behind sliding glass panels that protect Le Gaillac during hurricane season, our requests for a better table were surprisingly met. Other Americans, we could see, had lesser tables, too, than say the French customers. And among les Americaines were three- and five-year returning guests of this annual event. At Le Gaillac, owing to the attentive and genuinely friendly service, nobody seemed to fuss or fret in the least.

But at Grand Cul-du-Sac's once-celebrated Lafayette Club, wealthy Americans can discover how Rosa Parks felt in Montgomery. This well-regarded lunch spot, famous for grilled lobsters delivered fresh from its own traps and its clientele of celebrities and fashion moguls, is nothing if not consistent when it comes to putting Americans close to the kitchen door. The owner's piling up of American customers as far from his empty beachfront tables as possible darkened an otherwise sunny repast. Were it not for the fact we reserved six weeks ahead and were the first party to be seated that day, I might not have noticed the slight quite as immediately, but every last Yankee in earshot sure had. I cringe to admit the food (yes, the $75 version of lobster) was fantastic, seasoned however by each waiter apologizing under his or her breath for the owner's suicidal manners.

"If you don't like Americans, you should leave St. Bart immediately," wisely notes Fabrice Fontanez, aka "Fafa," an island legend and champion kite surfer. A man of many chapeaux, Fafa runs snorkeling charters from Le Guanahani, the island's only "large" resort hotel (a whopping 84 rooms!), and as also happens, is the island's pyrotechnics guy-- responsible for igniting the New Year's Eve fireworks in Gustavia Harbor. A practical St. Barths native, born in France, Fafa has seen the tourist trade evolve from mostly continental Europeans to a growing number of Brits and Americans. Whether the French entrepreneurs like it or not, the Americans are liking St. Barths plenty, regardless of the occasional slight.

Most fitting, any sintering resentment of the American influx has manifested itself in the kitchens here. A union of the island's small hotels that have pledged their allegiance to French haute cuisine was formed to resist the growing influence of Caribbean and hybrid-island cooking in their midst's. And their challenge may be formidable. On our last night we dined at Eddy's garden in Gustavia, where the formality of reservations is taboo and the food is a veloute of Creole, Thai, and so-called Caribbean. Taking advantage of all the fresh seafood St. Barths has to offer, Eddy creates a funky mix that packs them in and Americans are seated as favorably as his many, many longtime island friends. Over papaya salad and lobster bisque, an Italian guitar player sings "O Solo Mio," between impromptu sets of "If I had a hammer," and "Puff the Magic Dragon." Over-proof pepper-oil is defiantly sprinkled on some curried prawns in coconut milk while the champagne flows.

It matters not to me who wins the culinary grudge match so long as it continues. Like my prized langoustes acquired at near-physical risk, no appreciable measure of culinary ecstasy is won without some pain. In this, St. Barths retains two vital ingredients-- the required financial sacrifice being one, and a passion for food bordering on zealotry the other. Throw in the island's unique characters like Eddy and Fafa, even the nameless owner of the La Fayette Club, add a few movie stars, CEOs and investment bankers on holiday, and stir. Now that's bouillabaisse!

Beach House (Are they still in business?)

MIAMI BEACH-- I downed another glass of Brouilly and figured I'd better buy the bottle before it was shared with another guest. Not that the pool bar was overflowing with thirsty sunbathers, I just wanted to save a few pennies and establish ownership of something so easy to achieve. The wine was to be joined momentarily by a bowl of fresh cherrystone clams steamed in the garlicky south-of-France broth I had been working to perfect at home. This entire inexact plan hatched on the firm but entirely thoughtful recommendation of Lucia, a 25ish expert in all things culinary, who happened, so it seemed, to be the bar hostess for the day.

So my stay at the Beach House Bal Harbour began. In five days I came to respect the precision with which the Rubell group honors its laid-back, homey beach house hotel concept-place. At first I maybe expected the well-taken-care-of feel familiar to Ritz resorts, and was disappointed when the pool attendant merely handed me three towels and a smile rather than making up a chaise for me. Likewise, the refrigerator in my junior suite was empty and the green apples sitting in a bowl atop the bar were fakes. Disappointed too I was by the size of the Holiday-Inn bathrooms, the worn painted furniture and water-stained lampshades in my Polo by Ralph Lauren linen-adorned room.

Having pre-paid the reservation at a nice discount, I imagined several things I could do, but took the path of least resistance and decided to make myself comfortable. This was easy. Humorous little signs and notes are everywhere urging you to succumb to the Beach House concept. There's a hotel directory entitled "How to Live at the Beach House" that instructs you to wear the provided honeycomb bathrobe EVERYWHERE. It quickly explains that the mini-bar has been outmoded here by a pantry store in the lobby, and your first order of business is to stock up on cookies, penny candies, juices, ice teas, and whatever fortified refreshments you like. Even the sticker on the in-room safe warns that failing to remember your secret code will cost you $200 and "a huge mess" if they need to drill-out the lock.

As I tried to open my window overlooking the pool, a passage under "W," in "How to Live" points out that I can't. "Press the fresh air button on your air conditioner if that's what you want," it says. No sooner than realizing the Sony CD-clock radio was too complicated to program, I saw the Rubell's devoted an entire schtick to telling you how.

If you haven't gotten the "Beach House IDEA" by the time you read through their little instruction manual, the latest Christie's magazine and coffee table books about mermaids and sea shells provide good hints. And it is the whole Beach House IDEA that works, even if my plumbing didn't.

After a night punctuated by a self-flushing commode, I took a lukewarm shower in my cramped bathroom. At first I thought the building had run out of hot water, but after about ten minutes of flow it reached a childproof temperature. I pulled the little thing on the snout to activate the showerhead and a trickle began. As I showered patiently it occurred to me that this, too, was just another element of the big IDEA…who ever heard of a beach house in such good repair that the water worked like home? Yes, I decided, this was authentic to the core, and quickly dried off on the smaller-than-expected Ralph Lauren bath towels. It was the IDEA I was getting, and that was the single most important thing I could get other than a warm weather cold.

One thing the Beach House isn't is cliché. There is no attempt to package the IDEA in tired phrases like, "casual elegance" or "understated ambience." Your keys are handed to you in a folder that says in plain blue and white, "What we are: Sincere, Low-Key, Unpretentious, Smiling, Human; What we're not: Arrogant, Formal, Intimidating, Robotic, Snobby." (So there!) It's clear they make no pretense of selling you, but like the foot-deep bowls full of fresh pistachio nuts laid about the Sea Horse Bar, the Rubells provide every ingredient for a guest to make their own vacation dream come true.

In keeping with the IDEA, the front desk is aptly named the "help desk." They're there to help and they do, but not in the "I'm doing you a favor" sort of way. I think by my second day I had gotten the IDEA so good I just though it would be a nuisance to tell 'em about the plumbing. Other people might have taken my situation as inattentive service in a somewhat run-down property, but since I was determined to get the IDEA, I wasn't going to let that get in the way of another great day doing absolutely nothing at the Beach House pool.

Lucia (pronounced LOO-CHEE-A) greeted me when I scouted out the chaise lounges, and we immediately began talking about the food she knew so much about. The day before (those fantastic clams!) she rather quickly confided she was finishing grad school and would be looking for a new career, but as the conversation wended back to her innate expertise in foods and wines, I advised her to pursue her obvious passion. She advised the mussels. Strongly, and with again with the Brouilly, only this time slightly chilled. Insightful again: They were PLUMP, HUGE and wonderfully tasty. "They're from Prince Edward Island," she knew of course, "and nothing like any you've had before," she somehow knew, too.

Whatever shortcomings I might note about the Beach House and the terrifying thought that other guests might be either resistant the IDEA, or worse, be accustomed to the brand of quality and service expected at these prices, the food and the people here make up for EVERYTHING. As the week went on, I sampled the peppercorn crusted fatty Tuna filet, which I was told by Selena, (the bar hostess inside) was the best piece of fish the chef had seen in a long, long time. From what I had eaten so far, the Chef and Selena had to know what they were talking about and I bit. The triangular medals of tuna, floating in a rich brown green peppercorn sauce, were maniacally fresh and tasty as if to make their own stand against the sauce. This is not to say they were fighting, only boasting to one another. Which brings me to their guests on the plate, fresh steamed haricot verts and a potato whatchimacallit that was out of this world. I believe the menu gives this puree-filled cheese-crusted beignet a name, but forks of it were most pleasing as mops for the zesty peppercorn sauce.

How many times I can remember the sugar-sweet friendly waitress or waiter, a Suzy or a Chad, who just never knew anything no matter what we asked about, who couldn't say what their favorite thing on the menu was, but cheerily insisted everything was good. However the Rubells train their staffs (they own two other hotels in Miami on South Beach) they don't seem welcome to stick around long without learning a lot about everything they, the Rubells, and Miami Beach, have to offer their guests. The are confident as facilitators of their guests wishes, including in my case, intelligent conversation.

This is a razor-sharp tightrope to walk in the hospitality business, which beckons friendly, people-oriented folk to serve at the risk they'll get either too friendly for their guests' liking or grow solicitous for tips, two big turnoffs you can find when the help pours it on. At the same time, if you leave the guests alone, unguided, and under-served in this perfectly laid-back environment you've created, the risk is losing those added sales of goods and services won by more just slightly more eager help. For instance, the Beach House cleverly stands up its spa facilities outside in colorful tents by the pool, where I spent most my time in residence. No promises here, but I just might have gone for a rub or a manicure if only asked if or when I'd like it. As one who got the IDEA, it actually felt inimical for me to inquire about these services.

As I pondered these thoughts over the remains of my second bottle of Brouilly and a Caesar Salad by the pool, I was treated to another model photo-shoot for People en Espanol. Conversing with Andy, the third extremely engaging and knowledgeable member of the Rubell family to treat me like a visiting cousin, I was once again astonished by thoughtful candor and sincerity on every topic from the stock market to the pre-construction boom in condo sales to renaissance painting. The shoot was a wonderful accompaniment to this sunny repast, as the model, a Spanish actress I could not know to appreciate, beamed perfect smiles at the Hasselblads, while a half-dozen grips paraded around, teetering on the edge of the pool, holding reflectors, checking light levels and videotaping the scene. So impressed I was by her effortless glam, I ordered the warm chocolate pudding topped by vanilla Hagen-Daz ice cream. The pudding was so hot and its cocoa level so high, I again congratulated myself on having gotten the IDEA and treasured the realization there would not be another afternoon like this any time soon.