Read Online Gone Bamboo by Anthony Bourdain - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Bourdain
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ice-filled cooler. When the coals were right, he lay them down on the grill. On the side, he lit a flame under a Coleman stove and began to heat a saucepan filled with oil. Producing a gleaming mandoline, he made paper-thin waffle slices of sweet potato on a cutting board, spirits visibly lifting with each slice.
"So you're from Jersey," he said, casually. "Whereabouts?"
"Englewood," said Henry, lying.
"You know the City, then."
"Yeah, fairly well," said Henry, choosing his words carefully. "I've had business there over the years. Been some time since I was there last. I imagine it's changed."
"Nahh . . . It stays the same," said Tommy, testing the oil with a fingertip. "What exactly is it you do? You don't mind my askin'."
"I don't mind," said Henry, innocently. "I'm in real estate. I own some property here, on a few other islands. Got a tiny office on Anguilla. Go over there now and again." This was true as far as it went.
"But you live in a hotel," said Tommy, proving he wasn't a moron. "I mean, if you own places, why live in a hotel? Ain't that kinda expensive?" He glanced over at the Oyster Pond's white walls, just peeking over the palm tops in the distance. "Must cost some bucks."
"Yeah." Henry smiled, flashing a lot of teeth. "It's where Frances and I came for our honeymoon. We didn't want to leave. Sentimental thing."
"Still . . ."
"We get a good rate 'cause we stay year-round. We like living in a hotel. You get used to the room service - having somebody turn your bed down, change the sheets every day. Plus, we like know everybody who works the hotel, the whole staff. We're growin' old with them. At this point, it's like staying with family."
"I guess," said Tommy. He picked up the fillets with a pair of tongs, moving them forty-five degrees on the grill to burn a checkerboard pattern into the white flesh.
"You really know what you're doing," observed Henry.
"Sometimes I wonder."
The air under the thatched roof began to fill with the smell from the grilling fish. Garlic, lime, cilantro in equal parts enticing Henry's empty stomach. He turned to watch Frances and Cheryl emerge from the wrater with their empty beer bottles. They looked like a Gauguin study - dark-skinned topless Polynesians. The two women stopped off at the blanket on the way back to the bar, Frances offering a corner of her kaffiyeh to Cheryl so she could dry her face.
Moments later the two of them, dripping wet and shivering, their skin rising in goose bumps, hopped grinning onto two barstools next to Henry, Frances's nipples standing up hard and angry, Cheryl's teeth chattering through laughter.
"Tommy," said Cheryl. "Can we have some of the tequila? We want tequila. We're cold."
Tommy dropped a handful of the sweet potato slices into the hot oil, turned the snapper fillets over on the grill, then reached under the bar, coming up with an unopened bottle of Herradura and four shot glasses.
"Now I know I like this place," said Henry, while Tommy filled the glasses to their rims. He raised his, careful not to spill, and invited the others to join him. "To new friends," he said. He tilted his head back and drained his shot. When he put the glass down, Cheryl was already holding the bottle, enthusiastically refilling. Things were working out.
9
H enry, fresh from the shower and wearing a ripped white dress shirt, sleeves rolled, faded blue jeans, and reef sandals, walked down the red terra-cotta steps from his rooms. Unlocking the scooter in the small parking lot, he could hear the whistling French chanteur at his microphone from the dining room of Captain Oliver's Restaurant across the pond.
The upstairs door slammed shut as he started up the engine, and a few seconds later he felt Frances slide onto the seat behind him, her left arm coming around to grasp him firmly by the midsection.
"Let's go," she said.
He turned the scooter around, and they whipped past the front desk of the hotel, giving a wave and a short beep to the
"So you're from Jersey," he said, casually. "Whereabouts?"
"Englewood," said Henry, lying.
"You know the City, then."
"Yeah, fairly well," said Henry, choosing his words carefully. "I've had business there over the years. Been some time since I was there last. I imagine it's changed."
"Nahh . . . It stays the same," said Tommy, testing the oil with a fingertip. "What exactly is it you do? You don't mind my askin'."
"I don't mind," said Henry, innocently. "I'm in real estate. I own some property here, on a few other islands. Got a tiny office on Anguilla. Go over there now and again." This was true as far as it went.
"But you live in a hotel," said Tommy, proving he wasn't a moron. "I mean, if you own places, why live in a hotel? Ain't that kinda expensive?" He glanced over at the Oyster Pond's white walls, just peeking over the palm tops in the distance. "Must cost some bucks."
"Yeah." Henry smiled, flashing a lot of teeth. "It's where Frances and I came for our honeymoon. We didn't want to leave. Sentimental thing."
"Still . . ."
"We get a good rate 'cause we stay year-round. We like living in a hotel. You get used to the room service - having somebody turn your bed down, change the sheets every day. Plus, we like know everybody who works the hotel, the whole staff. We're growin' old with them. At this point, it's like staying with family."
"I guess," said Tommy. He picked up the fillets with a pair of tongs, moving them forty-five degrees on the grill to burn a checkerboard pattern into the white flesh.
"You really know what you're doing," observed Henry.
"Sometimes I wonder."
The air under the thatched roof began to fill with the smell from the grilling fish. Garlic, lime, cilantro in equal parts enticing Henry's empty stomach. He turned to watch Frances and Cheryl emerge from the wrater with their empty beer bottles. They looked like a Gauguin study - dark-skinned topless Polynesians. The two women stopped off at the blanket on the way back to the bar, Frances offering a corner of her kaffiyeh to Cheryl so she could dry her face.
Moments later the two of them, dripping wet and shivering, their skin rising in goose bumps, hopped grinning onto two barstools next to Henry, Frances's nipples standing up hard and angry, Cheryl's teeth chattering through laughter.
"Tommy," said Cheryl. "Can we have some of the tequila? We want tequila. We're cold."
Tommy dropped a handful of the sweet potato slices into the hot oil, turned the snapper fillets over on the grill, then reached under the bar, coming up with an unopened bottle of Herradura and four shot glasses.
"Now I know I like this place," said Henry, while Tommy filled the glasses to their rims. He raised his, careful not to spill, and invited the others to join him. "To new friends," he said. He tilted his head back and drained his shot. When he put the glass down, Cheryl was already holding the bottle, enthusiastically refilling. Things were working out.
9
H enry, fresh from the shower and wearing a ripped white dress shirt, sleeves rolled, faded blue jeans, and reef sandals, walked down the red terra-cotta steps from his rooms. Unlocking the scooter in the small parking lot, he could hear the whistling French chanteur at his microphone from the dining room of Captain Oliver's Restaurant across the pond.
The upstairs door slammed shut as he started up the engine, and a few seconds later he felt Frances slide onto the seat behind him, her left arm coming around to grasp him firmly by the midsection.
"Let's go," she said.
He turned the scooter around, and they whipped past the front desk of the hotel, giving a wave and a short beep to the
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