Anyone who’s been to the Caribbean will tell you that the island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin is known for more than just its white sandy beaches, snorkeling and diving.

St. Martin has been shared by the French and Dutch ( and occupied by many others, including the Spanish, British and Arawak Indians from South America) as far back as the 1600s, but it’s the French side that has made this tiny island, just a stone’s throw from Anguilla, famous for its cuisine.

Oddly, I didn’t really know much about that when I decided to head there for vacation. I was looking for a way to relax — a hectic year had left me a little battered and all I really wanted was a tan and a pina colada. Some stressless face time time with my family. For the first time in years, I wanted a vacation that was more carefree than cultural, and I figured an island in the Caribbean would provide it.

I got so much more than that, of course. We stayed on the French side of the island, venturing to the Dutch side only to head to and from the airport. A little town called Grand Case became our home for the week. Grand Case is very French, and the restaurants — mostly French — reflect a desire for the kind of stylish cuisine that makes tourists feel pampered. It’s very expensive, and offers little if nothing in the way of providing a cultural bite of local food and lifestyles. The island lacks a fresh water source, so most of the produce and foodstuffs are imported — many, like strawberries, cheeses and meats — from France. Most of these restaurants don’t even take advantage of island fruits like mangoes and plantains, or the local sea grape that ripens in August.

On our second night we dined at an Italian restaurant called Spiga, which has been written up locally and recently heralded as one of the best in the Caribbean. But what came to our table was what I could get just about anywhere: Insalata Caprese with hot house tomatoes and a Balsamic reduction (which I hate), a lovely snapper with lemon, butter and capers and a swanky chocolate lava cake with broiled bananas for dessert. Yawn. The food here is perfectly lovely, but there is nothing about it that tells me who cooked it. Or perhaps more to the point, why they cooked it.

Our second night brought character in droves. On our first drive into this former fishing village, we stopped a man in the street to ask for directions. He was friendly and helpful, and it wasn’t until later that I realized he was wearing chefs’ pants. Walking back to our resort from our dinner at Spiga, we saw him again, eating a late dinner in the window of his restaurant, Le Ti Coin Creole. His name is Carl Phillips, and he was born and raised on St. Martin.

Carl’s food delighted us: a sweetly spicy shrimp in Creole sauce was served with brown rice and lentils, plus fried plantains; pan-seared chicken in a sweet-and-sour tamarind sauce that I swear will be in heaven along with Orange Crush soda and Moon Pies. He offered a sweet coconut pie for dessert, encased in a lattice-topped crust.

He also offered us Bernard, his maitre ‘d, so to speak. Bernard stood next to our table almost the entire night — we were the sole customers on a Monday evening — swatting away the mosquitoes with an electric swatter with the accuracy of an ace bomber pilot. He talked to us of his home, in Senegal, and philosophized about the education of the “youngs,” his word for children. He told us of the time he spent in Paris when he was young, and how he had wanted to go to university there. From time to time he would call out to potential customers on the street — all in a hurry to get to another, fancier, restaurant. An American couple would pass by, and he would call, “but madame, what am I to do with your shrimps?” to which there would come no reply. Carl and Bernard became fast friends, and each night we would pass by, we would stop in to see them and say hello.

Along the main strip, Grand Case Boulevard, the locals all eat at a series of stalls along the beach called the “lolos.” Huge outdoor grills are fired up early in the morning, and keep cooking barbecued ribs (the local favorite) and local lobster (which is really an overgrown crawfish), as well as sweetly fried johnny cakes (a doughy fried cake that looks like a doughnut but isn’t quite as sweet) until late in the evening. At one, called Sky’s the Limit (the other really good one is called Talk of the Town), a gentle man with dreadlocks dressed in linen will wine and dine you through one of the best meals you’ll have on the island. Safari is a salesman, showman and emcee all in one — sliding next to my daughter at one of the restaurant’s outdoor booths, he looked up with pen in hand and said, “My family! What wouldja be eatin’ tonight?” in an accent that can only be heard in this part of the world.

Huge slabs of tender ribs, lobster in butter, fried plantains and johnny cakes come, and we feast. After, he gets my daughter up to dance to the music that is rumbling through the restaurant and spilling into the street. Later, an icy bit of cream comes to the table, tasting a little like chocolate and a little like dulce de leche. Its sweetness readies us for the walk home — back to our hotel, but eventually back to our lives.

I went to St. Martin to escape for a week, but it was impossible to get away from what I love most about this world: its people, and the food they share with me. They share it with all of us, if only we give them the chance. I wouldn’t trade these experiences for all the fine dining in the world. Because when you take the heart out of cooking, it leaves you with no soul.

Le Ti Coin Creole, Grand Case Blvd., Route de Petite Plage, St. Martin, French West Indies, 0590-87-92-09.

Sky’s the Limit and Talk of the Town are both located on Grand Case Blvd., St. Martin, French West Indies.