Of breakfast and intercultural cuisine

As a rule, I am the one in the galley sweating in front of the stove to produce all those delicious meals for our guests and even sometimes for my captain, but there is one thing he has not once let me prepare since we started working together: his beloved grits. Some explanation is probably required for anyone who has never been to the South of the US. Grits are a highly popular breakfast where my dear captain comes from - that is Charleston, South Carolina. As far as I understand, it is corn meal cooked in boiling water, which can be topped with cheese, butter, sour cream, shrimp, hot sauce, etc. The taste and aspect resembles polenta.

Passing St John on the way to St Martin

Last time we went to visit Bill's family, we brought back on the boat a few pounds of yellow grits of the highest quality. On Saturday morning, Bill decided that it was time for him to make some grits for breakfast - and for me to take a cooking lesson. He started by giving me the key to great grits:
 Bill: Pour some grits into boiling water. Most common proportions are about 3 to 1.
 Me: The package says 4 to 1...
 Bill (starting to look slightly upset): Lesson number one: avoid the most common beginner's mistake. NEVER follow the instructions on the package.
 Me: Oh, sorry. So how do I know when the proportions are right?
  Bill: You have to feel it. 4 to 1 would be too runny. We like them thicker, like porridge. (Who is that mysterious "we"? Southerners? People of Charleston? His family? Bill, me and my great knowledge of grits? - I let that one pass without asking)
At this point I understood that "feeling it" probably meant "you have to be from the South". So my attention slightly shifted to the scrambled eggs I was getting ready to prepare.
  Bill (having added several extra ingredients, and after 5 minutes of turning the preparation): I forgot the butter! Quick, give me some butter! (those words could actually have been said by any French chef). It is ready. We have to eat them right now, otherwise they will get cold and dry.

When my captain gives an order, I obey without discussing. So I forgot about the eggs and sat at the breakfast table, ready to have a Southern breakfast, and almost certain I would never master the delicate art of preparing grits. Oh well, I guess I will stick to the sweet orange blossom flavoured brioche and the salted butter, brown sugar and lemon crepes I am planning to make for our next charter guests...

After the Southern breakfast on Saturday in the US Virgin Islands, we celebrated our return in French St Martin by going to our favorite breakfast place: Sarafina's, on the waterfront in Marigot. There of course no trace of grits, but croissants, baguette, fresh orange juice, crepes, cappuccinos and quiche...

Welcome back to France!