“Coconut custard pie. I’m sorry I missed it on Monday. It looked super!”
This was in response to the question, “What would you like for dessert at lunch?” The question was posed at 9:15 in the morning as I was tucking into perfect over easy eggs, plump sausages, lofty toast and a divine wedge of papaya. I loved the way the morning sun filled the small dinning room of the Desert Rat. Ten tables spaced nicely apart, and as long as the weather was hospitable, the glass doors to the patio were taken down to provide an uninterrupted view of the lagoon, the coral breakwater and the Caribbean Sea beyond. Ceiling fans moved the soft sea air. I was told by James that there was no need for air conditioning, even in the summer.
Summer? I am not sure that it is an important designation when you are a mere 15 degrees north of the Equator. My Father told me you could get a suntan in your room in Barbados. He got that right.
It was a brilliant morning. The sea breeze drifted into the room, as did Robbie… she who asked for my dessert preferences. Constance Robinson, Robbie to all who met her. She was the proprietor of the Dessert Rat, a small Inn in Saint Lawrence Gap, Christ Church Parish, about half way between Oistins Bay and Bridgetown.
Robbie and her husband Colonel Westerleigh “Westy” Robinson (now deceased) settled in Barbados after he had finished fighting the Hun in WWII. Colonel Robinson was the Commander of the 3rd Regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery, of the 7th Armoured Davison that served nobly at the gates of Al Alamein and relieved the siege of Tobruk.
Robbie sipped her Campari and soda making note of the other guests having breakfast. Choose any time of day and if you caught sight of Robbie there was always a glass in her hand. Campari and soda before noon, Pink Gin after lunch, Dry Vermouth on the rocks with a twist during the afternoon hours, a Gimlet before dinner and a good Claret for the balance of the waking hours. It was an amazing display of tolerance. Honestly I don’t know how she did it, and manage to run the Desert Rat.
I guess the secret (the open secret) to her success was the incredible staff in her employ. They ran the Desert Rat. James checked you in. Took your bags to one of the 12 guest rooms in the main house, or to one of the two suites in the bungalow. Mixed your Martini. Played the piano. And James was just one of a dozen souls who were responsible for taking care of the rooms, preparing their tremendous fare and serving the guests. And most important, they took care of Robbie.
Robbie’s lone responsibility was to drink all day and “supervise” the kitchen staff. This latter duty was also somewhat of “wink”. Chef Martin took care of the kitchen; but Robbie did put on an apron every day and made a cake and a pie for the dessert menu. This activity was done mid-morning after she had visited with the breakfast guests, and after she had two or three Campari’s. Don’t be fooled… even with the Campari’s, Robbie was a splendid baker… and I think that’s why Chef Martin accepted her into his domain.
I was told that it wasn’t Robbie’s habit to ask what a guest wanted for an upcoming dessert. James noted soto voce to me, as my coffee was topped up, “Miss Robbie makes what she wants to make. It’s her calling. On Monday Miss Robbie saw the disappointment on your face when you were told that we had no more coconut custard. I think she wanted to make another coconut custard today… she willed you to ask for that pie. You see, Mr. Jim… you may think otherwise; but you had no choice in the matter.”
Robbie continued to make the rounds, she visited the table of Fred Magrin and his Mother Margaret. They were yearly regulars of the Desert Rat. Fred was from Toronto, he never married. His Father had died years ago when Fred was still in College, and he had promised the Senior Magrin that he would always take care of his Mother. I can’t imagine that Fred’s Father meant for Fred to give up his life. But there you are, and Fred scored high marks with the other regulars for his tenderness with regard to his elderly Mother. Robbie smiled, made a brief comment, pointed her Campari to the sea, allowed a small laugh and then nodded in my direction. Maybe she did will it. I gave it no further thought; but I was certain that coconut custard pie would be on the dessert menu for lunch.
I am sure there were many things that could occupy one’s time between breakfast and lunch in Barbados. Call it my heritage. I come from parents who worshiped Ra. This was in the day before we identified over exposure to the sun with skin cancer. Let others patrol the sights of this island paradise, I would take my book, a plastic bottle of Coppertone, and a towel to the edge of the lagoon. I was there for the sun. I was there to get a tan. I spent my morning reading, applying a coat of Coppertone, swimming, drying out and repeating this sequence… numerous times, ’til the lunch hour neared.
On occasion I would catch sight of Robbie in the late morning. And if I did, there she would be on the “patio deck”: a broad picture hat of light straw to shield her face from the sun, a floral smock and espadrilles. And a glass of Campari. She looked into the brightness of the day. She would lift her head slightly, close her eyes, pivot to the direction of the sun to accentuate her majesty and then simply smile. No. It was not the Campari.
Westy Robinson was a hero. Commander of a regiment whose history stretched back to the Napoleonic Wars. You do your job. His job took him to North Africa. His job took him to help stop the Axis advance in the Mediterranean. Which he did. With distinction. And with the loss of one eye. While Colonel Robinson dealt with the Afrika Corps, Constance Robinson supported the war effort in the Nursing Corps. You do your best. Which she did. Sometimes your best is not enough. Why does your child die? Not to the bombs of the blitz. She died to a sickness. The stink of death was all around… in the North African Desert, in the London streets; but why the child? The answer was not understood to Westy outside of Tobruk, nor to Constance in the Cambridge Military Hospital. To lose a child?
The calm in Robbie’s face did not betray her continued sense of absence. The sun reflected off the water, sand and stucco walls of the Desert Rat and she gloried in it. Maybe she came from a line of Ra worshippers, too? She caught sight of me, raised her Campari in salute and retreated back into the Main House.
Her rooms were in a small wing on the first floor adjacent to the kitchen. From the sitting room there was a door to a closed courtyard, a six foot high brick wall served to separate her from the rest of the world. If you didn’t see Robbie, and if it wasn’t baking time, it was a good chance that she was in her garden sanctuary. In 1947 the Robinson’s purchased the Sugar Cane House, fixed it up and renamed it the Desert Rat (the nickname for the members of the 7th Armoured Division). The Colonel added the private wing and closed garden to the first floor of the Inn, and in 1960 they added the bungalow suites to the far side of the Shade Patio.
I could tell it was nearing lunch. Yvette of the kitchen staff emerged from the Main House, crossed the beach and waved to one of the fishermen who brought his low slung boat into the lagoon. He tied up to a stake a short distance off shore, and without much fanfare, Yvonne hitched up her skirt and waded out to the bobbing boat. A brief negotiation ensued and when she returned back to land she had a string of six good sized fish. Lunch. Time for one more good swim out to the coral breakwater to work up an appetite. A re-baste with Coppertone, small snooze then time to move to the patio deck.
I think it was a tribute to the marvelous kitchen of the Desert Rat that kept guests from wondering off to find other places to dine. No need. The preparation was fastidious. The food the freshest… witness the fish brought from the lagoon minutes before it appeared on your table. And the people you saw at breakfast, you saw at lunch, saw at tea (if you took it), at cocktails and then at dinner. It was like being on a ship.
James would always seat Fred and his Mother first. The table farthest from the open patio. Fred thought that Mrs. Magrin might get a chill from the breeze. I looked for Robbie; but she was nowhere to be seen. She must been in her garden, or taking her lunch in the seclusion of her private dinning room. Occasionally I would see a tray going back to the private wing, simply prepared fish… and a Campari, or a Pink Gin if it was that time of the day.
The far wall of the dinning room was filled with photographs. The Colonel, lean and fit, stripped to the waist leaning against a lorry in the blazing desert sun. Westy and Robbie in a sailing ketch. Westy and Robbie in tennis whites. Robbie sitting on a piano, legs crossed showing some “cheesecake.” The original Sugar Cane House. Westy and Robbie at Ascot (this was my favorite… she is wearing this marvelous hat. She is stunning. What a handsome couple). Westy and Robbie on horseback. Westy and Robbie with the original staff of the Desert Rat. Robbie with Chef Martin in the kitchen.
Then, one photograph in the far corner of the wall at perfect eye level (at least for Robbie). Westy, Robbie and a small girl of about 6 or 7, I’d judge. They are on a beach, fitted out for a swim, a large umbrella casts a partial shadow. Westy’s right arm rests around Robbie, his head close to hers. Robbie is holding the little girl on her lap, arms surrounding the little girl, squeezing her close. The little girl’s head is lifted up, eyes sparkling, dimples, mouth open to a laugh or a giggle. Maybe Robbie had just tickled her, or said something silly? The little girl, enclosed in the arms of her Mother, a strong and vigorous Father adding to the sense of safety, what could be better?
I tried to remember if I had ever had coconut custard pie before. My Mother must have made it, too… a pretty good baker in her own right. I hope that she wouldn’t consider my love of Robbie’s version a betrayal.
“Mr. Jim, Miss Robbie wanted me to ask you if you enjoyed the coconut custard pie this afternoon.”
“James, I’m not sure. I think I’ll reserve judgment ’til I try a second slice. That is… if there is any left.”