M
Meemselle
Guest
Wherein Meemselle Visits Maimon…and More
Posted on October 23, 2019by meemselle
https://meemselle.wordpress.com
It’s been a long time coming, Darlinos. Something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while, and finally, another one of those Dominican fantasies came true.
I don’t mean blowing my nose into my hands or having sex with the uncircumsized.
Meemselle spent Sunday eating fish in Maimon.
For the uninitiated, Maimon is a town west of Puerto Plata that is famous for its fish. The entire main street is lined with pescadería after pescadería, and locals are as passionate about which one is better as Jews are about the best Chinese in New York.
It’s too far to go on a motorcycle, so a car was pressed into service and off we go. As I was traveling with two Dominicans, it took a while before both the A/C and the music were adjusted to comfortable levels for me. And of course, no trip can proceed without a bottle of rum. I sat in the back with my seat belt on, because this rum-in-one-hand-steering-wheel-in-the-other doesn’t really work for me……
We arrive safely in Maimon, and my guides make a beeline for what seems to be the most crowded restaurant on the strip. There were vats—I mean, vats!—of different kinds and sizes of fish and guys with paper hats and mouth covery things and surgical gloves picking up fish, slapping them with some kind of spice mixture, and slapping them back down. You choose your fish (or you fish chooses you, if you want to get all metaphorical), decide how you want it prepared, choose side dishes, and then get a table and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, a waitress came over to take our drink order. I opted for a Presidente, which arrived nice and cold, except that I am not a very fast beer drinker and by the time the fish arrived, the beer had gotten to the place which is why I don’t like beer.
But soldiering on, we tucked into the food and it was delicious. I got a small fried fish and it was superlative. With some tostones on the side, because I was going all Dominican. The tables have these bottles of homemade vinegar with bitter orange and garlic and oregano and surprise, surprise because it is not a Dominican thing: some hot(tish) pepper and you douse it on the fish and it is to die. Do you want the recipe? PM me.
I ate until I thought I was going to explode and still had eaten only one side of the fish. I finally threw up my hands and said, “Enough!” The Dominicans looked at me like I was insane. They may have a point. They were still methodically working their way through plates of vegetables and potatoes and much bigger fish than mine, done in some kind of sauce. I was offered tastes, but one more bite and I was going to have to be rolled to the car.
This break in the festivities allowed me, Gentle Readers, to look around and make mental notes. The kind of trenchant observations that you have come to expect in these Few Words, so henceforth:
I was the only gringa. There were a few overt stares, but mostly from children. Maybe the adults stared but are better at not getting caught.
We were on a little riser, and there was a very nice family just below us. Several sisters, it looked like, a boy of about 9, a girl of about 6, and a grandfather. Their food came before ours. (Everybody’s food came before ours…..) I was watching the table, to check out what they got, and became entranced, but in the most gruesome way, because the little boy had THE most execrable table manners I have ever seen….and I raised a child who was/is very into immediate delivery of food into his piehole at the highest possible speed. This one was popping french fries (and I do mean PLURAL) into his gob and leave the ends hanging out while he chewed the other ends, with his mouth open. I kept waiting for somebody to slap him upside the head, while willing myself to stay in my seat so I didn’t do it. Then I realized the entire family ate that way.
Is this cultural? Maybe in a country where it is possible not have quite enough to eat, niceties like chewing with one’s mouth closed are not a priority. But I know plenty of Dominicans who manage to chew with their mouths closed and who don’t laugh and talk with mashed up food spilling onto their chins or spraying out at the rest of the table.
Am I a snob? Are table manners important? I’m going to go out on a First World limb here, and say yes. To both questions. But not my circus; not my monkey.
Then the inevitable. I had to go to the bathroom, and of course, could not find my way back to my table. A leeetle beeeet embarrassing, but it’s not the first time this has happened to me, and I’m relatively certain it will not be the last, and so probably the Dominicans had the same reaction to my social error, as in, “Look at that gringa who can’t find her table!” so I guess it all balances out.
After the obligatory toothpick rolling, we headed back to the car for the journey home. Another styrofoam cup of rum was poured, and I’m sitting in the back, trying to digest and feeling pretty replete and contented.
I expect that this is it for the day, but oh no. It’s a Sunday on the North Coast, so we are not even half done.
Coming through that stretch somewhere in Cangrejo or somewhere, we pull off the road and into the parking lot of….how do I describe it? Some kind of club. A Sunday afternoon club for music and dancing and heaven help me, more rum.
A Sunday afternoon club with music, because what’s a Dominican Sunday without some music and dancing?
When I tell you that the music in this place was loud, I am not describing it adequately.
Music so loud, so effin’ LOUD that I swear that the road, the parking lot, the club, and all the cars were vibrating.
This is not exactly my scene.
But in the interest of having an authentic Dominican day, I suspended my fright/flight instinct and hung on. Like the good sport that I am.
We brought in our own rum. As one does. I guess. And then bought more.
We were joined by assorted and sundry others, who I gathered were family members, but I couldn’t tell you, because I couldn’t hear any introductions because my ears were bleeding.
Once again, I fell into my job, which is, after all, to report all the details to you.
In my experience, Dominicans are the kindest, most hospitable people ever. Point in fact, nobody pointed and snickered when I got one of my escorts to dance with me. I don’t especially like to dance. It makes you sweaty. And I had a lot of nerve getting up to dance in a place like that with my white girl moves and my non-Spandex pants and little yellow shirt that showed a.) zero cleavage; and was b.) the correct size so that I didn’t have the obligatory gap in the buttons over the bust. But as a friend of mine has always told me, “Meems, if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right.”
One dance was enough.
For me, and probably for the assemblage.
So I sat back to review the festivities, and it occurred to me that in a country where most people work six days a week at jobs that are probably not terrifically stimulating, this is a way to let one’s hair down, let off steam, and just revel in music and activity that is deeply satisfying and relaxing.
However, being a good sport has its limits, and as I was reaching the point where my eyes were about to roll out of my head because of the VC-10-like volume of the music, I finally had to say “¡Suficiente por hoy!” and bid a fond farewell to the assemblage at our table, which had now grown to rather alarming numbers.
If there was conversation in the car on the way back to Sosúa, I couldn’t tell you about it, because my head was ringing and my heart was still pounding from the onslaught of bachata. I do not do well with supersonic noise. Ask anybody who’s ever gone to a concert, or for that matter, a movie, with me.
So I have done it. Cross one more off the Dominican To Do List. And definitely, go to Maimon!
Soy dominicana.
Posted on October 23, 2019by meemselle
https://meemselle.wordpress.com
It’s been a long time coming, Darlinos. Something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while, and finally, another one of those Dominican fantasies came true.
I don’t mean blowing my nose into my hands or having sex with the uncircumsized.
Meemselle spent Sunday eating fish in Maimon.
For the uninitiated, Maimon is a town west of Puerto Plata that is famous for its fish. The entire main street is lined with pescadería after pescadería, and locals are as passionate about which one is better as Jews are about the best Chinese in New York.
It’s too far to go on a motorcycle, so a car was pressed into service and off we go. As I was traveling with two Dominicans, it took a while before both the A/C and the music were adjusted to comfortable levels for me. And of course, no trip can proceed without a bottle of rum. I sat in the back with my seat belt on, because this rum-in-one-hand-steering-wheel-in-the-other doesn’t really work for me……
We arrive safely in Maimon, and my guides make a beeline for what seems to be the most crowded restaurant on the strip. There were vats—I mean, vats!—of different kinds and sizes of fish and guys with paper hats and mouth covery things and surgical gloves picking up fish, slapping them with some kind of spice mixture, and slapping them back down. You choose your fish (or you fish chooses you, if you want to get all metaphorical), decide how you want it prepared, choose side dishes, and then get a table and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, a waitress came over to take our drink order. I opted for a Presidente, which arrived nice and cold, except that I am not a very fast beer drinker and by the time the fish arrived, the beer had gotten to the place which is why I don’t like beer.
But soldiering on, we tucked into the food and it was delicious. I got a small fried fish and it was superlative. With some tostones on the side, because I was going all Dominican. The tables have these bottles of homemade vinegar with bitter orange and garlic and oregano and surprise, surprise because it is not a Dominican thing: some hot(tish) pepper and you douse it on the fish and it is to die. Do you want the recipe? PM me.
I ate until I thought I was going to explode and still had eaten only one side of the fish. I finally threw up my hands and said, “Enough!” The Dominicans looked at me like I was insane. They may have a point. They were still methodically working their way through plates of vegetables and potatoes and much bigger fish than mine, done in some kind of sauce. I was offered tastes, but one more bite and I was going to have to be rolled to the car.
This break in the festivities allowed me, Gentle Readers, to look around and make mental notes. The kind of trenchant observations that you have come to expect in these Few Words, so henceforth:
I was the only gringa. There were a few overt stares, but mostly from children. Maybe the adults stared but are better at not getting caught.
We were on a little riser, and there was a very nice family just below us. Several sisters, it looked like, a boy of about 9, a girl of about 6, and a grandfather. Their food came before ours. (Everybody’s food came before ours…..) I was watching the table, to check out what they got, and became entranced, but in the most gruesome way, because the little boy had THE most execrable table manners I have ever seen….and I raised a child who was/is very into immediate delivery of food into his piehole at the highest possible speed. This one was popping french fries (and I do mean PLURAL) into his gob and leave the ends hanging out while he chewed the other ends, with his mouth open. I kept waiting for somebody to slap him upside the head, while willing myself to stay in my seat so I didn’t do it. Then I realized the entire family ate that way.
Is this cultural? Maybe in a country where it is possible not have quite enough to eat, niceties like chewing with one’s mouth closed are not a priority. But I know plenty of Dominicans who manage to chew with their mouths closed and who don’t laugh and talk with mashed up food spilling onto their chins or spraying out at the rest of the table.
Am I a snob? Are table manners important? I’m going to go out on a First World limb here, and say yes. To both questions. But not my circus; not my monkey.
Then the inevitable. I had to go to the bathroom, and of course, could not find my way back to my table. A leeetle beeeet embarrassing, but it’s not the first time this has happened to me, and I’m relatively certain it will not be the last, and so probably the Dominicans had the same reaction to my social error, as in, “Look at that gringa who can’t find her table!” so I guess it all balances out.
After the obligatory toothpick rolling, we headed back to the car for the journey home. Another styrofoam cup of rum was poured, and I’m sitting in the back, trying to digest and feeling pretty replete and contented.
I expect that this is it for the day, but oh no. It’s a Sunday on the North Coast, so we are not even half done.
Coming through that stretch somewhere in Cangrejo or somewhere, we pull off the road and into the parking lot of….how do I describe it? Some kind of club. A Sunday afternoon club for music and dancing and heaven help me, more rum.
A Sunday afternoon club with music, because what’s a Dominican Sunday without some music and dancing?
When I tell you that the music in this place was loud, I am not describing it adequately.
Music so loud, so effin’ LOUD that I swear that the road, the parking lot, the club, and all the cars were vibrating.
This is not exactly my scene.
But in the interest of having an authentic Dominican day, I suspended my fright/flight instinct and hung on. Like the good sport that I am.
We brought in our own rum. As one does. I guess. And then bought more.
We were joined by assorted and sundry others, who I gathered were family members, but I couldn’t tell you, because I couldn’t hear any introductions because my ears were bleeding.
Once again, I fell into my job, which is, after all, to report all the details to you.
In my experience, Dominicans are the kindest, most hospitable people ever. Point in fact, nobody pointed and snickered when I got one of my escorts to dance with me. I don’t especially like to dance. It makes you sweaty. And I had a lot of nerve getting up to dance in a place like that with my white girl moves and my non-Spandex pants and little yellow shirt that showed a.) zero cleavage; and was b.) the correct size so that I didn’t have the obligatory gap in the buttons over the bust. But as a friend of mine has always told me, “Meems, if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right.”
One dance was enough.
For me, and probably for the assemblage.
So I sat back to review the festivities, and it occurred to me that in a country where most people work six days a week at jobs that are probably not terrifically stimulating, this is a way to let one’s hair down, let off steam, and just revel in music and activity that is deeply satisfying and relaxing.
However, being a good sport has its limits, and as I was reaching the point where my eyes were about to roll out of my head because of the VC-10-like volume of the music, I finally had to say “¡Suficiente por hoy!” and bid a fond farewell to the assemblage at our table, which had now grown to rather alarming numbers.
If there was conversation in the car on the way back to Sosúa, I couldn’t tell you about it, because my head was ringing and my heart was still pounding from the onslaught of bachata. I do not do well with supersonic noise. Ask anybody who’s ever gone to a concert, or for that matter, a movie, with me.
So I have done it. Cross one more off the Dominican To Do List. And definitely, go to Maimon!
Soy dominicana.