We had been invited to an old country estate in Martinique for Sunday dinner. It was well worth the trip.
Martinique still has many of the original estate houses built by the French Colonists in a time when slave ownership was universal and Carib Indian raids were common.
This was the home of the patriarch of one of the eleven original families of power in this province of France. Although the architecture of the main house is based on French Regency it was not elaborate or noteworthy except for its place in the history of the island. Placed on a rise, as most of these old places were, its original gardens were beautiful copies of lovely European designs. Early crops of sugar, and later pineapples, have given way to the commercial growing of flowers. The original gardens have, in a sense, been expanded to incorporate the many hectors that make up the estate.
The estate had become known for lavish Sunday dinners of banquet proportions. The dining room was at the north end of the large main room, which was enclosed by two-foot thick walls of ancient masonry and two story high ceilings, vaulted with native hardwoods hewn to rafter shape.
The dining table was eight meters or more long and sat two dozen people; our host at one end, his wife at the other.
Petit Punches, a Martinique favorite, made with old rum, sugar, and “Petite citron”, or lime, on the rocks, preceded the meal. As a savory, hard-boiled tiny domesticated Chinese quail eggs, exquisitely seasoned, were offered. The quail were kept in an out-building in dozens of cages designed like chicken cage-egg-operations cages, but a quarter the size.
When we sat down for the meal a large baked Amberjack, on a larger platter, was produced for each end of the table. At the center of the table, among many other things, was a small platter of various types of fresh hot peppers. The guests, all from Martinique except for Margie and me, each took one or two of the peppers and as I watched each diner began to slice small slivers of the hot pepper to place on the fork with the bite of fish. The smell of the peppers was enticing so I dutifully sliced the end off of a rather large light green pepper, then cut a very thin sliver and placed it on my fork with my next designated bite of fish.
I was anticipating this gastronomic delight when our host suddenly raised his hand in my direction and said, “No, no, Pete! You are not accustomed to our Pima. Let me show you.”
I watched as he took a pepper like the one I had taken and sliced the end off of it just as I had. However, he then took a wedge of lime, squeezed it into the open end of the pepper after which he tipped the pepper so that the limejuice poured back out onto the fish. “That will be enough for you,” he smiled.
I did as I was instructed, grateful to have been saved from scorched tonsils, but when I took that next bite, with just the “seasoned” lime juice I felt my whole mouth steam from the heat of that pepper. The burning spread through my mouth like a large sip of sulfuric acid. I dove for the ice water and looked up to see true sympathy on my host’s face.
“I’m so sorry, Pete. Maybe you should forego the Pima; you think?’
I nodded, yes, smiling. My eyes were watering and I had a large chunk of ice in my mouth, which made speech difficult at the moment.