Entries about aqua bistro

As longtime readers of this blog already know, Angel and I are experienced Caribbean travelers. And as such, we have endured our share of only-in-the-islands hardships. There was that warm Chardonnay served in plastic cups in Abaco. The private beach dinner in Anguilla sans the tiny decorative pineapples I'd requested. And, probably most horrific of all, that Christmas Day on Tortola when I almost didn't get to eat lunch.

But none of these prior calamities could have prepared us for our pre-Covid visit to St. John.

Beautiful St. John, with its striking green mountains and stunning beaches. Peaceful St. John, with its chill vibe and charming people. Scenic St. John, with its steep switchbacks and sweeping overlooks.

And utterly terrifying St. John, with spiders the size of saucers and billipedes (that is not a typo) the size of hot dogs and bumblebees so huge they look like flying avocados. St. John, with its nightly cacophony of frogs? howler monkeys? Tasmanian devils? that sound like an angry flock of seagulls fighting over a single French fry. St. John, where the charming cottage we rented featured a screen door that never managed to bang around the same way twice, leaving us unwitting participants in a nightly guessing game of "Is it just the wind...or is it a masked intruder hoping to find more than just the 16 pairs of shoes I brought?"

There is an old adage that a particularly bad scare can so startle a person's heart as to shave one year off their life expectancy. After surprises on St. John ranging from finding an enormous waterbug on my face towel (apparently it's possible to scream so loud that you startle them) to an unidentified creepy-crawly in my hair (more screaming, plus some wild Elaine Benes-style thrashing) to taking a pitch-black outdoor shower at night during a blackout (in the interest of preserving my few remaining shreds of sanity, I refuse to even speculate) . . . I am pleased to announce that I am inexplicably still alive given that, according to the old adage, I should have died approximately nine years ago.

Our nightly Battle of the Bugs began on the Sunday before Christmas, when we foolishly arrived with suitcases full of clothes and brightly wrapped presents instead of cans of Bop and beekeeper suits.

None of this, of course, was the fault of Sago Cottage, a charming, spotless West Indian style cottage in Calabash Boom.

We didn't want to venture too far on our first night on island, so we headed down to Coral Bay just in time for sunset at Aqua Bistro.

What beats fried calamari, tacos, rum punch, and a Bushwacker for dinner?

Obviously that was a rhetorical question.

Angel awoke bright and early the next morning, while I planned ahead for a cottage with no window blinds.

Finally I roused myself enough to get dressed and take in our fragrant surroundings.

Soon it was time for lunch, so we headed down the mountain to Skinny Legs.

Skinny Legs is proudly blender-free, but that didn't stop us from ordering up a Painkiller, a rum punch, and then the deadly Melee -- a blend of all six Cruzan rum flavors and a thimble full of fruit juice.

After lunch we decided on a swim at Cinnamon Bay or, as we were calling it after that Melee, Cimmaninn.

After that, things got wild.

That evening we dressed casually for dinner at The Longboard, only to find that the wait was more than an hour. Too hungry to hang on, we instead somehow managed to luck into an outdoor table at one of the best -- and most popular -- restaurants on the island, Extra Virgin.

Although we had reservations for later in the week and hate to repeat a restaurant on vacation, Extra Virgin's gracious service, fabulous drinks, and excellent food definitely warrant doubling or even tripling up.

_{Holiday Horchata with fig and vanilla infused bourbon, coconut, almond horchata, and cimmaninn. I mean cinnamon.}

^{Grapefruit margarita with house-made grapefruit sour...swoon}

^{Gnocchi with tomato cream and basil}

^{To-die-for housemade ricotta with mushroom and sweet corn saute}

^{Fettucine with colossal king crab and shrimp}

^{Apple crisp with homemade vanilla bean ice cream and just a smidge of whipped cream.}

The next morning we awoke to a gorgeous sunrise. Not on purpose, of course. We're not psychos.

We do sometimes dress alike, though, which I guess is close enough.

For lunch, we decided to drive into town to check out the Banana Deck.

This place serves greasy cheeseburgers, extra-cheesy fried mozzarella sticks, and Caesar dressing with enough mayonnaise in it to choke a wild donkey. In other words, I loved it.

For his part, Angel had the grilled fish sammie with a spicy BBQ sauce that damn near melted his face off . . . which means he loved it, too.

After that lunch, we thought it best to sequester ourselves at one of the more private beaches to avoid prying questions like, "Mommy, did that lady swallow a beach ball?" So we headed off to Oppenheimer Beach in hopes of snagging one of the very few parking spots.

Success! Oppenheimer turned out to be one of our very favorites of the trip.

It certainly didn't hurt that we had it all to ourselves.

When we'd finally had our fill of the sea, we headed back to Sago Cottage, stopping along the way to sample a Tropical Whiskey Punch at the Danforth and dodge some goats before cozying up in the hot tub in time for sunset.

That night was Christmas Eve, and we'd booked dinner at Rhumb Lines.

The wait for our food was a long one thanks to the holiday, but eventually we feasted on potstickers, Szechuan tuna with "Puff Daddy" noodles, and a delicious shrimp Pad Thai.

The next morning, I opened my Christmas presents, thanked Angel for his thoughtfulness, and then ran off with another man. Well, motored, actually. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants, and what mine wants is pizza.

We showed up at the dock ready to jam.

^{That mask was supposed to look like Santa's beard. This guy was ahead of his time.}

We spent most of the morning on the slide, even reenacting "A Christmas Story," since it was Christmas day.

Soon it was time for one of the catamaran crew members to make the run over the to the floating pizza shop, Pizza Pi, to pick up lunch. They don't normally take passengers with them, of course, but I can be very persuasive. Or pathetic. Whatever.

At first Angel had no idea where I'd gone, but it didn't take him long to figure out that where there's a pizza, there's a Tracey.

There might even be some rum punch.

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Never promise to go on a trip after an afternoon of drinking margaritas.

Or, just eight months later, you might find yourself -- as I did -- careering around an ancient city with 4-foot-wide cobblestone streets in a 6-foot-wide car with a 72-year-old man wearing a hearing aid and yelling at the top of his lungs, "Beep! BEEP! BEEEEEPPPPPPP!!!!" as a polite way to let you know that you just took out yet another road sign / mailbox / bicyclist with your Zippy Starfire, as he charmingly refers to the Opel Zafira you rented.

Of course, it's a miracle that Dad even made it to Ireland. I'd booked him a flight from Pittsburgh to New York, where we planned to meet up at the airport and then travel together (on a different airline) to Dublin. When travel day arrived, it was a gorgeous April afternoon, and the sky was a vivid shade of blue, which I remember very clearly because I'd looked up to it and wailed, "Why, God, WHY???" when his flight out of Pittsburgh was abruptly cancelled due to high winds -- forcing him to lose a day of his vacation and forcing me to set off for Dublin without him, but not before re-booking him on the next available flight . . . for the bargain price of ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS.

[Side note: He's offered countless times to pay me back. Naturally I've refused, not because I don't need the money, but because if he pays me back, then I cannot bring up that ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS every. single. time. I speak to him for the rest of my natural life or until I pay off the credit card, whichever comes first.]

Anyway. I arrived in Dublin, picked up my not-so-little red Zippy, and set off for the apartment I'd rented in trendy Temple Bar. I've driven on the left countless times in the Caribbean, but this was my first attempt at driving on the left with the steering wheel on the right. It was also my first time trying to navigate a tangle of tiny, one-way streets -- not a single one of which has a street sign larger than 12-point type, all conveniently placed on the sides of buildings roughly three stories up -- using a GPS that gave all directions in meters and had a severe case of Tourette's: "Turn left on--- Turn right on Fishamble--- turn left on Fish--- turn left--- right! left!--- Turn left on Whitefriar--- Make a u-turn--- Fishamb--- Turn--- Turn right on Whitefr--- Golden--- left on Whitefri-- U-tur---Goldfriar--" All while the map spun wildly in circles and while I was on the phone with the owner of the apartment, who was trying to guide me as I helpfully hollered into the phone, "I'm near a pub! No, a church! And now another church! And now a pub!" Eventually I'd spent so much time driving around in circles that things actually started to look familiar but, unfortunately, none of those now-familiar sights was the apartment I was searching for. Finally, defeated and near tears, I found not the apartment, but the owner of the apartment, Ruth, standing on the sidewalk (near both a church and a pub, I might add), and begged her to slide into the driver's seat.

Do you know what happens when someone who's never driven an automatic in her life tries to drive one? Pretty much the same thing as when someone who's never driven a stick-shift before attempts to do so, only instead of a burned-out clutch, you end up with a burned-out brake pedal . . . and whiplash. For her part, Ruth just kept mumbling over and over, "There's wine at the house. There's wine at the house. There's wine at the house."

Finally, incredibly, we made it to the apartment in Adelaide Square, just steps from St. Patrick's Cathedral and St. Stephen's Green. I'd chosen the apartment because it had an attached garage for the car, so we could tour the countryside the during the day, as well as a central location so we could easily walk to dinner in the evenings after a long day of sightseeing.

By now I'd been travelling since the night before, so at long last I kicked off my shoes and sank into the comfy couch. After checking in with family and friends, I noted that the weather had deteriorated, culminating in an afternoon to match my mood.

Still, I needed to explore the neighborhood to get my bearings and, more importantly, I needed a stiff drink and a warm meal. The Swan was just a block away, and because the happy hour rush hadn't started yet, I had my choice of seats and was welcomed like an old friend.

An authentic Victorian pub that is descended from a medieval inn, there has been a continuous license on or close to the site of The Swan since 1661, when Sir Francis Aungier developed what was then Dublin’s widest street. (And still not wide enough to accommodate a car.)

There, I discovered my new favorite sandwich, the Irish toastie, which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich featuring four of Ireland's most famous ingredients -- Irish bread, Kerrygold butter, cheddar cheese, and traditional Irish ham -- all toasted to gooey perfection and usually served as a mid-day or late-night snack. That's right, a full-sized grilled ham and cheese sandwich as a snack. I knew I was going to like this country.

I also discovered that the Irish really know how to mix a drink . . . because they let you do it. Order, say, a gin & tonic or a Jack & Ginger, and you're served a glass of the spirit along with a small bottle of the mixer, so that you can mix the drink to your desired strength. As someone who routinely finds her drinks either too weak or nostril-searingly strong, this simple, practical way of serving cocktails allowed me to tailor my juniper berry-studded G&T to perfection.

The next morning it was time to return to the airport to pick up Dad. Unfortunately, however, after the harrowing drive from the airport into Dublin the day before, I never wanted to get behind the wheel again. I seriously contemplated paying a stranger to return the car (and me) to the airport, thinking Dad and I would just Uber back to the apartment (and, presumably, everywhere else we wanted to go). But if I am a bad European driver, I am an even more stubborn one, and so I steeled my nerves and set off for the airport, giving myself 1.5 hours for a 30-minute drive to allow for becoming hopelessly lost due to my stuttering GPS and the non-existence of legible street signs.

I used all 90 minutes.

Still, I arrived at the airport with all four limbs and all four tires, and I was still busy patting myself on the back when I realized I'd driven around the parking garage at least three times and still hadn't found a spot that I could maneuver the car into. I'd chosen the Zippy because it was a midsize four-door (better in the case of an accident, I figured), but the parking spots in Ireland seem to have been designed to accommodate three-quarters of the average-sized car, minus the side mirrors and assuming that you don't plan to actually exit the vehicle. Lest you think I'm just not great at parking, allow me to present Exhibit A:

After numerous unsuccessful attempts to maneuver into a spot, and even more unsuccessful attempts to find two empty side-by-side spots to make things easier, I'd finally rolled down my window to ask a stranger if he could park my car for me when I spotted it -- a spot roughly as wide as a doorway, wedged between a pole and a car . . . but a small car. I approached the spot, jumped out to tuck in both side mirrors, jumped back in, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best.

Success!

Pickup complete, Dad and I returned to the apartment mostly without incident (if you call one grazed curb, three wrong turns, and six bellows of "BEEEPPPPP!!!" to be "without incident"), where we realized that the spot I was assigned in the apartment's parking garage wasn't sized for an actual car, either. Herewith, Exhibit B:

Happier to have my feet on solid ground than Sandra Bullock at the end of "Gravity," we then set off -- on foot -- for lunch at the famous Temple Bar.

The place was mobbed -- as touristy spots always are -- but we managed to snag a cozy corner table and order up a Guinness and a whiskey sour, the latter being a surprising rarity in a country known for its whiskey.

I also introduced Dad to the joys of the Irish toastie.

We poked around Temple Bar for a bit after lunch, stopping to buy all things leprechaun and shamrock as we went.

Later, we found ourselves back at The Swan, where I introduced Dad to my bartender friend and we toasted to our first day in Dublin.

That evening, I'd planned for us to have a Dad-Daughter Burger Night at Bunsen, a cute spot in our neighborhood known for serving burgers, fries, and nothing else. Not only was Dad wholeheartedly on board, but he actually thought Dad-Daughter Burger Night was a real thing (rather than something I'd completely made up as an excuse to go eat burgers), which proves that the apple indeed does not fall far from the tree.

And if I'd ever wondered if maybe I was actually adopted, that suspicion was dispelled when we both bit into our burgers and four eyes simultaneously rolled back into our heads.

The next day, it was time to get into that blasted Zippy Starfire again. And it wasn't an easy process -- I'd get in the car while Dad waited outside (we couldn't open his door due to there being .25 inches between car and concrete wall), then we'd pop out the side mirrors, buckle ourselves in, don our helmets, and program the stuttering, spinning GPS, fingers and toes crossed for luck. (Next time, I'll rent a car with a sunroof for easy access in and out.)

I'd planned a day trip to Howth, a bustling fishing village on the Howth Peninsula east of central Dublin, where I'd booked an elegant waterfront lunch at Aqua, followed by a visit to the nearby Cliff Walk.

Dad had been having trouble walking for most of our trip -- a hip replacement and a heart valve stent will do that to you -- but as we approached the scenic Cliff Walk, the man took off running like there was a cheeseburger at the end of the rainbow.

It was a pretty arduous climb, but the views were well worth it.

We'd spent hours taking photos on the Cliff Walk, and by the time we returned to the car, my phone was nearly dead. Unable to get back to Dublin without Google Maps, we headed into Howth to find a pub with an iPhone charger. That required pulling into a bike-sized spot in the nearby parking lot , which resulted in the unfortunate loss of yet another piece of the Zippy.

(Apparently it's called a lower deflector, which is very misleading since it did absolutely nothing to deflect that curb I hit.)

Finally, iPhone fully charged, lower "deflector" ensconsed in the back seat for (hopeful) later reattachment, and safely back in Dublin, we headed out for pre-dinner drinks at the oldest pub in Dublin, the Brazen Head.

The Brazen Head dates back to 1198(!), when it served as a hostelry. An advertisement from the 1750’s reads, “Christopher Quinn of The Brazen Head in Bridge Street has fitted said house with neat accommodations and commodious cellars for said business.” Today, the owners have fitted said pub with neat whiskey and commodious amounts of Guinness.

As usual, Dad was a bit standoffish.

The weather had been steadily improving since my soggy solo arrival, and it was a beautiful night for a walk. We headed over to Al Vesuvio, a cozy Italian spot tucked away in an 18th-century vaulted stone wine cellar.

If the obsession with cheeseburgers wasn't enough of a giveaway, the fact that neither of us could go more than two days without some red sauce further cemented the fact that I am indeed my father's daughter.

In more ways than one.

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