Cap Juluca

The entrance to Jacala on Anguilla. Photo by David Lansing.

Luscious and I have arrived early to Cap Juluca. Our other bandmates—Bail-Out, T-Bone, Mrs. Pookie, and The Man—will wander in sometime in the next couple of days. Then we’ll settle down to the hard work of figuring out just what sort of band we are and, more importantly, what our album cover is going to look like.

But for now it’s just me and Luscious. Who suggests that, since we don’t really have any plans, maybe we should go eat.

I like her thinking.

Luscious suggests Jacala, a newish restaurant somewhere on the other side of the island (I haven’t quite got my bearings yet so as far as I’m concerned, everything on Anguilla is “on the other side of the island,” even if it’s just down the road. Like Jacala.)

We’ve commissioned Mr. Glennis Connor, Anguilla’s Patron Saint of Lost Luggage, to be the band’s driver on this trip and he picks us up at seven from the resort to take us to the other side of the island. Three, maybe four minutes later, we’re there.

“We could have walked,” I say as we get out of the car.

“You could’ve,” agrees Glennis.

Jacques and his bucket of crayfish. Photo by David Lansing.

Jacala is owned by two ex-pats from France, Jacques Borderon and Alain Laurent (from whence comes the Jac-Ala). Alain is the chef. Jacques runs the front of the house. And that’s exactly what it looks like: someone’s house. A house on the beach. In Anguilla.

Jacques is one of those guys of indeterminate age (could be 50, could be 70) who looks very hip. He’s sporting a little bippy on his chin, a Mr. Clean dome, and thick black glasses that frame his dark eyes in such a way as to make him look very, very serious. In short, he has an air of authority about him that suggests “Don’t mess with me.”

The first thing Jacques does is bring a tub of just-caught crayfish to our table. Which makes it very easy to decide what I’m having for dinner. Luscious was thinking the same thing but she’s one of those gals who doesn’t like to get what someone else is getting. Don’t ask me why. Instead, she’s looking at the breaded breast of chicken or maybe the filet mignon. I tell her she can’t order either.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re on Anguilla. You don’t come to Anguilla to have steak or chicken.”

It’s not that I think I should tell people what to eat. It’s just that I hate to see anyone go to a restaurant and order chicken. Or salmon. I really hate it when they order salmon. Don’t people have any idea what sort of a markup restaurants make on chicken and salmon?

Besides, as the founder of our unnamed band, I feel a responsibility to set the tone. So no chicken. No steak.

Luscious asks Jacques about the mahi-mahi and the whole snapper. Jacques tells her to get the snapper.

“Okay. And I’ll have it grilled,” she says.

“No,” says Jacques. “Meunière.”

“I don’t like heavy sauces on fish,” says Luscious. “I’ll have it grilled.”

Jacques says nothing but does not write her order down. He simply stands beside the table glowering at her through his thick-framed glasses.

After what seems like 20 minutes, Luscious says, “You really think I should have it meunière?”

“This is the only way,” says Jacques.

“But the menu says it can also be grilled.”

“It can be. But it shouldn’t be. You can, of course, order it any way you wish. But the best is meunière.”

Luscious gives me a startled look. I say nothing. I don’t want to get into it with Jacques. I’m guessing in his free-time he’s a kick boxer or something.

Luscious sighs. “Fine. She says. The whole snapper meunière.”

Maybe I should have let her order the steak.

(More on Jacala tomorrow.)