Distractions From The Perfect Lunch
I’ve finally found it, the holy Grail of midday bourgeois gastronomy, the star-crossed pursuit of many a bygone gourmond, the perfect lunch. The secret? Location, location, location. I’ve had better food, but the subtle comination of wind rustling through palm trees, distant surf crashing over a barrier reef, sunshine glinting off the bright blue waters of the nearby pool and green waters of the flats stretching out nearly to the horizon, together these factors take a burger that is merely good—albeit long-awaited—and elevate it to the level of the sublime.
The brightness and brilliance of this, my moment of perfection in consumption and leisure, is enough even to distract me from the sad, searching gazes of the beach boys (the impoverished locals who will try desperately, aggressively to sell you anything and everything from a joint or a nigt with an “African Mama” to a woodcarving or a snorkeling expedition) standing just on the other side of the fence that separates this outpost of luxury and affluence from their threadbare, impoverished existence. It’s only after the meal is over, the last bite savored, that the spell is broken and I am once again aware of the sad reminder of the vast gulf that separates my fortunes from those of the locals.
