In Search of the Locals’ Breakfast
How a sign led to a culinary adventure
It was seven and we were on the hunt for breakfast.
For our first morning in Saint Lucia, My husband Drew and I got up at daybreak at our lodging on Hummingbird Beach. We admired Petit Piton, a towering landmark to the southeast, against the soft orange glow of the sky.
We strolled down the beach until we could no longer go further, then set off in search of food. Not just any breakfast, but the kind eaten by locals.
The little seaside town of Soufrière was just minutes’ walk away and for a change, it wasn’t raining. Not that we would have minded terribly. The temperatures were in the eighties (Fahrenheit). Back home in northern Utah, the temperatures were below freezing and they’d reportedly had nearly a half foot of new snow.
Dressed in my swimsuit and a wrap dress, I found it hard to believe that cold temperatures could exist somewhere else in the world. We walked down a steep little hill carefully avoiding the smattering of vehicles, past pastel-colored houses and a picturesque cemetery.
We passed a restaurant or two that I’d seen highly recommended on social media, but they were closed. Some of them wouldn’t open for another hour.
Further down the main thoroughfare, men and women congregated under a covered bus terminal. Vendors were starting to set up their wares for market. At the terminal, there were burgers and snacks, but none of that sounded good at the moment.
Turning left on a street down by the waterfront, we beheld a plaza leading up to a church. People ambled about — adults dressed for work, children in school uniforms, young adults dressed for leisure.
That was when I noticed these same people entering a doorway halfway down the street. I caught a whiff of something delicious. I beckoned for my husband to follow me as I went to investigate.
To the right of the doorway was the sign, “Hippo’s Pizza”.
Through the doorway down this alley stood a long line of people holding empty paper sacks. My husband and I seemed to be the only tourists there. I reached the end of the line and, chuckling, asked a woman in a white blouse and black slacks, her hair in a chignon, “What are we lining up for?”
She turned and smiled at me. “Fresh bread.”
My husband and I gathered, as we stood there observing, that the business served pizza later in the day, and sold freshly baked bread early in the morning. Judging from the long lines, this was a routine to many.
On the wall was a poster spelling out the choices available to us : plain bread or bread with butter, cheese, or meat cuts. The filled ones cost roughly 3 EC (Eastern Caribbean) dollars each, the buttered one half that. They came in regular or large sizes. You had to pay 25 EC cents for paper sacks, which explained why everyone was reusing theirs.
The store front consisted of a three-foot squared window, behind which a woman in a white apron rang up the purchases. To customers, she handed out the bread rolls, the regular size of which was about six inches in length. Behind her was a large work surface where a man was kneading dough and where covered batches were rising.
Two girls in school uniforms jumped the line and were scolded good-naturedly. They grabbed their stash and left with self-conscious grins. When it came our turn, we picked bread with butter and cheese, respectively, carefully counted out and paid our EC change, then made our way out of the alley.
The bread smelled fragrant in the paper sack I clutched loosely to my chest. We wandered the waterfront and sat on an empty bench where a half-dozen roosters pecked by our feet, one of which lustily crowed at us.
My buttered bread was delicious — soft and warm — but my husband’s with the sticks of soft white cheddar cheese, was even better. We polished off each roll to the very last bite, our rooster friend crowing in indignation as we left none for him.
It started to drizzle again, but rain couldn’t dampen our spirits. Smiling, we leaned back on the bench and gazed at Petit Piton.
Thank you for reading!
I wrote this piece in response to this month’s “Signs” challenge on Globetrotters. Check out a couple of my favorites:
Recycle Signs by Rhonda Carrier made me smile.
After reading Tara Torres’ moving piece, The Signs of the Troubles, I understand a little bit more about the Northern Ireland conflict.
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