Tag Archives: George Town

Vegan Tips for Grand Cayman

*the trip was six months ago, but better late than never, right?

View from Sunset House

I wasn’t sure how vegan-friendly Grand Cayman would be and was pleasantly surprised. We tend to rent places with kitchenettes and this trip was no different. We stayed at Eldemire’s Tropical Island Inn, a lovely spot south of George Town. I’ve gotten adept at cooking with a couple of stove burners and a microwave. Plus, we got to repeatedly dine with the local chickens who lived right outside the room.

Our first night on the island, we had dinner at Sunset House,  a short walk from the inn. There was a large open-air bar/restaurant overlooking the water. After a day of travel, it was a lovely spot to drink cider and eat some curry. They had a bunch of vegetarian and vegan menu options clearly marked on the menu.

Our first stop the next morning was the local supermarket to stock up on staples and a few meals. We went to Kirk Market. A few paces inside the store we found vegan haggis flavored chips. A strange, but auspicious start. Their selection rivaled any grocery store at home. We found plenty and enjoyed many meals at the picnic table outside our room.

Bread and Chocolate is an all-vegan café in George Town. We went there after our first scuba lesson. The menu was almost overwhelming. It all sounded delicious. Patrick got the French toast. I ordered the tacos because I wanted to try the scotch bonnet aioli. They were quite good. Looking at the menu now, six months later, I am still second-guessing my choices and want to go back.

We arrived at Caymans Spirits before the doors opened. Thankfully, we were on vacation and doing a tasting and tour at 9am is thus magically acceptable. We enjoyed a variety of rum, vodka, and other spirits. Their Seven Fathoms Rum is aged just offshore, 42 feet below the surface. Travel tip – instead of always going out to drink, get a decent bottle of something local and enjoy it at your leisure.

Rackam’s is a great spot to sit by the water and drink (cider again) and eat homemade chips.  Diners can also snorkel right off their ladder and swim out to see the wreck of the Cali.

We only went out for dinner twice and the second time was at Southern Spice, an Indian restaurant in George Town. It was quietly elegant and the wait staff was knowledgeable about what dishes were vegan. I’m pretty sure I had a spicy channa masala. It sounds like something I’d do.

Overall, it was one of the most vegan-friendly spots we’ve found the Caribbean.

PS  – We still haven’t actually tried the haggis chips yet.

Nevermind Nirvana

Cayman2019-0653

It was mid-day and Dave Grohl was slamming back his third or fourth miniature and the boat hadn’t even left the dock.

At least, he said he was Dave Grohl – from Park City, Utah – as he introduced himself and his wife to the newlyweds seated next to them. For the third time. He looked a hard 50, with thinning, shoulder-length hair draped over his vintage Pearl Jam t-shirt that, when juxtaposed with a scattering of sunbaked tattoos, that added to an overall lack of mystique. My guess was that they really did hail from Park City, and that his name may have even been Dave Grohl, though he was the only one who seemed convinced that he had once laid down the backbeat as one-third of Nirvana.

He was most certainly drinking Fireball, though, and too much, too fast; the expression on his wife’s face confirmed it, as her failing efforts to sequester Dave from the rest of the passengers and crew were matched only by her own interest in fading into the farthest nook possible.

“I used to own a bar,” said Dave. “That didn’t work out so well.” He said it without a hint of irony.

The charter’s captain fired up the engine, and after the obligatory briefing about lifejackets and the delicate mechanics of the marine head, the deckhands cast off the mooring lines and we slowly made our way out of the lagoon, past mangroves full of iguanas basking listlessly in the tropical sun.

We and perhaps two dozen others were bound for Stingray City, cited as a must-see attraction by virtually every Top-10-Things-to-Do-on-Grand-Cayman list we had read. And for good reason. On any given day, scores of southern stingrays converge on the warm, impossibly blue shallows of this series of sandbars near the mouth of the island’s North Sound. At one time, they were drawn to the spot by fishermen who cast the unwanted scraps from their catches overboard. Today, the rays still gather on the bank to feed, but now at the hands of the dozens of charter boats – including Captain Marvin’s, one of Grand Cayman’s oldest and most reputable snorkel charters, which operates several boats daily, including the one we now found ourselves aboard.

Once moored, the boat’s crew ushered us into the water, where we were free to swim with the rays. They are magnificent, utterly singular creatures that appear almost alien as they “fly” past you. There were plenty of photo ops, and even the chance to kiss a stingray “for good luck” before we weighed anchor and headed for the nearby “Coral Gardens” for a bit of snorkeling amidst the fire corals, sea fans, and fish. There, for the second time in our roughly 15 years of snorkeling together, we witnessed a moray eel, who with silent precision wriggled all six feet of his bright green body into a well-suited nook at the base of a coral head. The coral on Grand Cayman was the healthiest of any we had seen in years, vibrant and teeming with life. No wonder many of the locals we spoke with voiced concerned dismay over the environmental impact of a proposed cruise ship terminal.

Snorkeling is a revelatory experience, providing the terrestrial biped a “bird’s eye view” of a strange and silent world to which the very best aquarium cannot remotely compare. Never forsake an opportunity to behold wildlife in its natural setting, whether on land or at sea – even aboard a hotel shuttle bus.

Truth was, we had such a great experience with Captain Marvin’s that I had totally forgotten about Dave Grohl from Park City – at least until we returned to port, where we found ourselves two seats removed from Mr. Fireball aboard the hotel shuttle bus. We watched as polite passengers tried to disengage him in mute horror. From the other side of the bus his wife made half-hearted attempts to discourage his efforts to engage the lone middle-aged woman seated between us in conversation. The woman’s accent, poise, and improbable tolerance for drunken Americans suggested that she was European and a professional, perhaps associated with George Town’s renowned banking industry.

“Where are you from? We’re from Park City, Utah.”

“St. Helena,” she replied. “I’m the attorney general.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Grohl. “My husband is a recovering lawyer.”

“I’m not a recovering anything,” slurred Dave. “Saint what?”

“St. Helena,” the woman said. “It’s a little island in the middle of the South Atlantic, where Napoleon Bonaparte died in exile.”

“We’re from Park City,” he said, again.

“Utah,” noted Mrs. Grohl. The bus pulled up to its first stop, freeing several from the group before resuming its route.

“And where is your husband?” asked Dave.

Without flinching, the woman politely replied, “He’s dead.”

Mrs. Grohl closed her eyes and sank back into her seat as even Dave himself seemed to realize he’d overplayed his hand, if not exactly how.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Grohl.

The woman smiled. “It’s alright, thank you.”

“We’re going to Rackam’s for dinner and drinks,” said Dave. “You should join us.”

“I would love to, but I simply cahnt,” replied the woman, mother Britain manifest in her speech.

Dave perked up. “Cahnts? I just love cahnts!” Mrs. Grohl sank ever further into her seat.

“Next stop, Comfort Suites,” the driver announced.

“Keith Richards,” blurted Dave.

Both women looked at him incredulously. “What?”

“Keith Richards,” he reiterated. “You ever want a husband who won’t die on you, you should marry Keith Richards. He’s gonna live forever.”

The bus pulled to a stop. “Comfort Suites,” announced the driver.

“Who the hell stays at Comfort Suites?” Dave wondered aloud, just as St. Helena rose from her seat, gathered her things, and headed for the bus door.

Now, it was Dave who was incredulous. “Wait – you’re staying at Comfort Suites?” But she was already gone.

Mrs. Grohl sighed with relief, but then Dave closed the gap by sliding into the now-vacant seat next to me. We had done our best to remain expressionless throughout the bus ride, intent on bearing witness without actively participating, unable to look at one another for fear of releasing the pent up laughter. Mrs. Grohl, too, had preferred it that way, seeming to fear what we, above all others, might do if Dave attempted to interact, which was just fine by us.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve got some hairy legs,” Dave said, stroking my calf. “Like a damned yeti.”