Surf and Turf...and eyeballs

A beach vacation for us means three things: surf, sand and surf and turf.

We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).

Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.

After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.

Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.

Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.

Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.

Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.

Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.

You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).

However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).

The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).

At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.

Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?

Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).

This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.

We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.