Thursday, February 16, 2012.
Cozumel Number Five. Carlos & Charlie's.
Breakfast for the two of us in the main dining room, where for the first and only time on this voyage the people whose table we shared had almost nothing to say about anything. We can thank them for getting is off to an early start to this day in Cozumel.
What we would do with the day was up in the air. This was my fifth visit to the island off the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. So far, the only thing I've done twice here is have lunch at Café Denis, the oldest restaurant in the town of San Miguel de Cozumel and a very good one at that. We've been to Chankanaab, a natural water park; to Tulum, the arresting Mayan ruin on mainland; and done too much shopping in the duty-free shops just off the boat.
This time, Mary Ann thought it would be a good idea to rent a Jeep and drive around the island. The $100 price seemed reasonable. We later learned that there was a better option--one agency was renting old-style Volkswagen Beetles with sunroofs. That wouldn't have got us around any more effectively than the Jeep did, but it would have been well charged with nostalgia for me. My first three cars were Bugs--1959, 1960, and 1968 models. I haven't driven one since the latter was stolen in 1971.
Cozumel's highways have taken repeated tolls from hurricanes. Wilma--which hit the Yucatan the same year Katrina hit New Orleans--destroyed much of the main highway around the island. The old road was semi-abandoned, replaced by a much wider, higher road. We found, however, that the old road was tolerable, and took us to more interesting places.
Mary Ann found the resorts very interesting. We stopped to look around two of them. In the first--called Sabor--the guests were still having breakfast from their buffet, not far away from the beach. Very sleek place. The second was an outpost of the luxurious Iberoamericana chain of resorts, and even bigger than Sabor. The rooms were in thatched-roof, stucco two-story structures painted in colors bright enough to give the feeling of the region but so effectively used to make a pleasing architectural statement. between the sections of rooms was a pool hosting some ten flamingos. The song named for the dramatic birds began playing in my brain, as it still is.
The Iberoamericana had a buffet going on, to, but its outdoor grill was getting cranked up to grill tacos, fish, and the unavoidable hamburguesas. We didn't eat here, either, but by the time we made it to the beach I was thirsty. Although it was only nine-thirty, it was open. I asked whether I could pay cash for a drink, since I didn't have a room account. The bartender said that I shouldn't worry, because the drinks were all complimentary. The guys in wet suits who joined us apparently knew this, and just threw tips in the jar. Like me, all of them had alcohol-free drinks--which makes sense for people about to go scuba diving. With a frozen virgin pina colada, I tried to make up for last night's over-intake aboard the ship. (One must be careful at a Royal Caribbean bar. They make the biggest drinks I've ever encountered on a cruise, and deceptively low prices.)
The drive south was fascinating. Except for these well-spaced resorts and a few small clusters of locally-owned eateries, the southwest coast of Cozumel is almost entirely wild. The old road followed the coast, its interior side filled with palmettos the size of trees and other thick greenery. The shoreside scenery changed dramatically as we rounded the southernmost punta. The waves now rose much higher, crashing onto a mix of sandy beaches and rocks. We stopped and took a closer look. These swells were coming in from the Caribbean, not just the strait of Cozumel. Just thinking of what kind of undertow might exist here sent a frisson of excitement and vicarious fear down my spine.
We stopped here and there along this dramatic coast to dig it close up. The little cafes and bars appeared every mile or two. The most interesting of these had a Rastafarian theme, complete with a little chapel for the worship of Jah. We agreed that all of this was one of the most enchanting, least-spoiled places ever to show itself on our cruises.
Halfway up the east coast of the island, we could go no farther without the likes of a dune buggy. The traffic--what little there was of it--shifted to an east-west highway that would return us to San Miguel. However, halfway there was a rough road that led to San Gervasio, a concentration of Mayan ruins from eight hundred years ago. A short, weathered old man named Ramon--an official guide--offered to give us a private tour.
San Gervasio is not in the same league with Tulum or Chichen Itza, but it's important to the story of the Maya. Ramon was proud to say that in his veins coursed the blood not only of the Spanish invaders but also the Maya and other natives of Yucatan. He translated almost everything he brought up not only into English but also the languages of his ancestors.
He had much to talk about. In San Gervasio, the science and engineering of the Maya could be seen at work. The construction methods involved in the numerous large structures were highly advanced. Windows lined up to capture solar apparitions important to the Mayan calendar. An intricate system of cisterns and tunnels collected and distributed water to the city.
Ramon related all this to the way things are in his family today, especially as regards the way the wife and the kids don't give enough time to making tortillas the way they used to. I took this cue to ask about what these people ate. Ramon had very strong opinions about food. Corn, pumpkins, tomatoes, chili peppers--all these were the indigenous ingredients of the culture. He ticked off at least a dozen dishes and how they should be made, as opposed to the way they're made now.
From the back of my brain came a word I remember seeing on the menu at Castillo's, the extinct restaurant on Conti at Exchange Alley. For about forty years Carlos Castillo served food more directly connected with Mexico than any restaurant in New Orleans, before or since. The word was "sicli-pac," a dish Castillo identified as a true Mayan appetizer. I never tried it, because by the time I got to Castillo's in the middle 1970s, it had been scratched off the menu--although the description was still there. Sicli-pac is a dish I've never seen on any other menu--not even in Rick Bayless's well-researched restaurants in Chicago. It's not in any book I've checked. Web searches for it come up with nothing. I suspected this might be something only Castillo knew about.
When I asked Ramon about it, he stopped dead in his tracks, and turned around to face me. "Sicli-PAC!" he almost shouted. "Now that is the real food of this place!" He didn't seem surprised that I'd heard of it, although I was proud of pronouncing it correctly. He described a kind of tortilla made with corn and lime (from limestone, a very common ingredient in Mayan cooking) and ground pumpkin seeds, grilled on hot rocks.
I think we impressed Ramon that we cared about his people and his place. If we hadn't stopped him, I think he would have gone on for hours. He had the material: the Mayan stone roads and structures went on for miles.
We hit the rood and soon enough were on the inland outskirts of San Miguel. We had never been on this newer, suburban part of the town, and I couldn't believe how well developed it was. Cozumel is now the second-busiest cruise port in the world (after Miami), and it appears to have done well with tourism.
I had a notion to succumb to a Cozumel tourist icon that I keep hearing and reading about. I first heard about Carlos & Charlie's on the radio show about twenty years ago. It's a chain with locations throughout Mexico and the Caribbean, along with its associated hangout Senor Frog's. Peeks inside Carlos & Charlie's didn't especially invite me in. The music is very loud, conga lines snake through the tables, waiters and waitresses feed customers consecutive shots while blowing loud whistles. Other shenanigans--many of very dubious taste--go on. What happens in Cozumel stays in Cozumel, seems to be the theme.
I had a melon ball cocktail after attempting to get something else (the waiter strongly suggested I change my mind). It came in a two-foot-tall plastic glass, most of which is neck, with a sphere at the bottom and a flare at the top. I don't think it was especially bigger than a standard Polynesian-style rum drink, but it may have been a bit stronger. You also have the option of getting the yard-long version. Also here is a tall tube about three inches in diameter. It's filled with beer, which you serve yourself from a spigot on the side.
A table adjacent to ours wrung all the offensiveness possible out of Carlos & Charlie's. The men wore no shirts, and were smoking cigars. One of the women received repeated double shots with a ministration from the waitress that made Mary Ann say, "I wouldn't have her job for any amount of money." We would see these customers later that day, back on the ship. But not talk with them.
The food was nothing special but not bad. The Mariachi platter for two included chicken and beef fajitas, quesadillas that were more like grilled cheese sandwiches on tortillas, pico de gallo, guacamole, tortillas both fried and steamed, black beans, rice, salad, lettuce and tomatoes. No chips and salsa, except at extra cost. The salsa was a bright orange and strangely good.
Mary Ann couldn't wait to get out of this place, so we did. We heard later that we should have gone next door to Senor Frog's, which was alleged to have a more genteel style. (This is all highly relative, of course.)
On board the ship a half-hour early at four, I took a thorough shower with lots of soap and hot water, then a pleasant nap. Mary Ann, of course, needed to do a little more shopping, to get some Mexican vanilla and maybe another T-shirt for Mary Leigh. It would not have a Carlos & Charlie's logo.
It's Lobster Night in the dining room. The lobster involved was neither from Maine nor the Caribbean, but those cold-water tails from South Africa or Australia. You can always spot these by the way the meat is pushed up and out of the tail shell. And by the complete absence of any kind of head or appendages. The reason for this is that this kind of lobster hardly has a head at all. It looks like a walking tail. Not only is it just okay in flavor, but it can be very expensive, although who knows why.
In the karaoke lounge, I gave my best performance of the trip: Come Fly With Me, the title song from an album Sinatra put out in 1957. It was on the charts for two years. You can always impress a karaoke crowd by singing something without having to look at the lyrics.
It's over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
