Dining At The Lounge? First, Grab A Snack At Home

The Lounge

     Word has just come that our beloved Harbour Lounge at the foot of the long dock on Saint James to which we come and from which we go each year has been sold and will become a private house. After nearly fourteen years-worth of visits, I'm beginning to know how the real old timers feel, when they speak to me about the "old" island's life and its passing.

     Truth is that The Lounge had a few extra years beyond the owner's desire to sell it; and that, on many nights, we were nearly by ourselves there, waiting as patiently as visitors can wait for our food, or drinks, or perhaps just a passing glimpse of our waitress. On too many other nights, while riding home in our cart from another island dining place, maybe Valentine's or, only occasionally due to its prices and own patented brand of waiting The Landing, The Lounge had already been closed for an hour, the girls gone back to Eleuthera by water taxi, Ritchie, Spooner and the guys gone from evening vespers at the bar.

     The Lounge was our place of choice for our first island night and our last, from the first visit to the one we made last year. One did not seek out The Lounge for its fine cuisine, although I never tired of its grilled or baked grouper, the mahi-mahi, the conch fritters or the grouper fingers. On two occasions, we had Bill bake our own wahoo, caught on Jeff Fox's boat or that of another ocean-rig guide.

Sip-Sip

     It was never fashionable, nor did its chefs have the talent and training of those at The Landing, Rock House, or out at the beach at Coral or Pink Sands, where the expectations of global luxury ran high, and where service would never, ever quite rise to the occasion. It did not have the casual island homey feel as Sip Sip does; and, besides, Sip-Sip, on the whole, is the best restaurant on the island (and the smartest, being open for lunch only).

     The Lounge did not have a single dish to win a prize, as Queen Conch's fresh salads might very well do in competition; that is, if the Queen went in of that sort of thing, which she does not, could not, will not. Hers is more of a spiritual quest for perfection, filled with the grace of the conch itself and in every small movement as she chops her peppers, tomatoes, onions; squeezes the juice of many limes and, not least, performs a wristy-shake of her own hot sauce.

     None of The Lounge's desserts, including its key lime pie, could measure up to the delicate donuts at Mr. Arthur's Bakery, or, indeed, of his own key lime pie, best frozen for a day and served that way.  I say this even if the Lounge, unbeknownst to me all these years has been serving Arthur's pie, which I doubt.

     And yet, The Lounge retained a kind of allure for us, much like Les Deux Magots has done for legions of Hemingway fans. I do not exaggerate in this, I assure you. We were there for something that probably had not been there for many, many years, but made us feel pretty good that it had, at least, once been there.

Bay Str

     We are already negotiating where we will go on arrival night and on departure eve this year. Opinions vary.

Maybe Valentine's and sit out by the bar (for some strange reason, even by island standards, service is faster out there than inside near to the kitchen). Or, perhaps the new place that replaced Hammerhead's over at the Marina that many people like. Not Angela's Starfish; I love her, although not so much her cats or her unruly grandchildren, and even, on occasion, am amused by the loud preaching emanating from nearby speakers. We'll savor Angela's chicken and slaw another night.

     Brian's barbecue? No, we need to stop by his house and order in advance for that. On other nights we may cook Chico's lobsters or grouper at home, but not first or last nights; while I admire many fine qualities in Chico's possession, promptness is not one of them; casual more closely describes his scheduling technique.

In The Flats/Low Tide

     This cuisine crisis is, as they say, a good problem to have, and, by the time we deplane on the Big Island, find Captain Ed and his six-seat (a generous description) Comanche, land on the other island, alight from the taxi at a dock, descend the stairs to the water taxi with all of our baggage and foodstuffs, and receive a welcome hug from Reggie on the dock on the island, near The Lounge itself, it and other things will no longer be crises.

     That is how islands transcend these relatively minor changes and why we are drawn to them. It is also why we will not actually tell anyone precisely where they are or their real names.