Storm

Exhausted by the pervasive heat, our family decides to eat dinner in one of our hotel’s four restaurants. After some debate (some are weary of Asian cuisine, while others have a predisposition against buttery, saucy French dishes), a majority decision points us toward the French restaurant.

There, we are told, our party is too large, and that squeezing eight of us around one table will result in an uncomfortable and ill-advised bumping of elbows. The staff, eager to accommodate us, offers to seat us at two adjacent tables. We agree to this … and discover, to our surprise, that this places us at one table for six … and one table for two.

Seats are taken quickly, and, to our chagrin, Clyde and I find ourselves sitting at the table for two, segregated from the rest of the group. Our isolation weighs heavily on my mind — so much so, that I cannot concentrate on the menu the waiter passes me. The options (printed in an odd cursive script in both French and English) blur together. Beef or lobster? Cheese plate or paté? Water or wine? And which wine? I can’t decide.

Suddenly, the prices, too, strike me as particularly offensive. Fifty dollars for the set menu? Outrageous! A chicken breast in sauce for $27.95? Ridiculous! A paltry handful of boiled shrimp for thirty-five dollars? Obscene!

As one of several service people provides us with a chilly towel — a nice touch, here in the tropics — it occurs to me that we are sitting alone, in a restaurant we would not choose, about to order a hundred dollars worth of food that neither of us are inclined to enjoy. “Let’s just go to the Vietnamese restaurant,” I say.

Clyde hesitates, and I can tell he is worried that the change in plans will come across as rude or ungrateful. But now, in my mind, I am picturing heaping plates of irresistible Vietnamese delicacies, so I remind him that, since we are sitting alone anyway, we are not, strictly speaking, deserting the family.

And so we leave. During the walk to the Vietnamese restaurant, there is a spring in my step, and the evening, suddenly, strikes me as fresh and new. As we enter the eatery, the attendant seats us at a poolside table, where we are greeted with a special tidbit from the chef: a bit of crabmeat wrapped in parchment, along with a particularly fishy seafood soup.

The menu, in both French and English, is filled with “traditional dishes” and “innovations,” none of which strike me as particularly attractive. The prices, especially for noodle soup and stir fry, strike me as insultingly high. It occurs to me that we are about to pay forty dollars or more for a meal that can be had, just down the street, at any number of eateries, for about four American dollars.

I am on the verge of suggesting that we leave the hotel in search of cheap and adventurous eats when, without warning, a sudden summer storm breaks. The sky is riddled with violent lightning; the thunder is constant. Just outside the window beside our table, potted plants tip over and roll across the patio. Cushions, ripped from poolside furniture, tumble in all directions. Torches crash to the ground, and hotel employees scramble to right them before the flames can spread. When the rain comes, it falls in hard, thick sheets, filling the fountain to overflowing and causing the pool to disappear under a thick skin of shimmering water.

We keep out seats. We say little. We eat our spring rolls. We down a bowl of beef-laced noodles. We drink our Cokes.

After dinner, we follow a covered walkway back to our side of the hotel. The air is heavy with moisture, and a cool breeze — the first of the day — infuses the evening air. Once inside, we pause at the doorway of the French restaurant. There, we spy our family, still seated at the table for six and pouring over dessert menus. The discussion is lively, and their sense of anticipation is obvious, even from a distance.