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!