January 30, 2003
You know how there's places you're supposed
to go when you go to new cities? Like the Lourve in Paris,
or the Empire State Building in New York? Well, apparently,
when you're in the Virgin Islands you're supposed to go this
place called Foxy's. It's more or less a bar and restaurant-
but I guess on some other level it represents something more.
It's a bit of a badge of notoriety around the rest of the
world to be seen with a Foxy's tee shirt around a yacht club,
or Luau Larry's in Avalon. As if to say you're cool enough
to have sailed in the Virgins without having to really say
it. Kind of like a yachtie secret club. Anyway, Foxy's is
a beach shack of sorts, owned by a black guy named, what else
but Foxy. I'm not sure how the whole thing started- but the
schtick is that he strums a ukulele and improvises little
tongue in cheek ditties about the tourists from under the
shade of his palm shack with his dreadlocks swaying as he
sits perched on a barstool wearing a "down on his luck"
type uniform (which I assure you, he's not). I'm not sure
where the sailor connection came in- but nonetheless, everyone
said we just had to go there.
Now it's grown to be a full blown operation
ala Hard Rock Café or Planet Hollywood. They've even
got a line of private label Foxy's beer goin'. You can see
that at some point pre-exploitation, this could have been
a great thing. The floor is sand and there are yacht club
pennants and flags from different countries hanging from the
ceiling. Hammocks are swinging from the palm trees out front.
It's almost hard to say where the beach ends and Foxy's begins,
since from your position on the sand, you're drawn in by the
beguiling sounds of a blender humming away as it turns out
froo froo drinks to the barbecued tourists. But by the time
we visited- the wait staff was all in matching Hawaiian shirts
with crisp khaki shorts. The menu was full of things like
burgers and steak- with a few "island" items like
chicken roti and conch chowder. Or, "Oooh! Mango hot
sauce! How exotic!" Puh-lease. In Trinidad we paid about
$2US for a kick ass roti, and Foxy was pulling in about $20US
for something that pretty much stunk in comparison. The bartenders
and waiters were all totally stoned out of their minds, and
seemed to find us nothing more but in the way of their naptime.
The place was empty when we sat down, and the hostess made
a big stink, saying she had to make sure she didn't have a
reservation for that table
for this one table of about
25 that were empty.
So anyway- our impression was that it
was pretty lame. Aside from Foxy himself. He actually seemed
sitting solo atop his barstool- strumming
his guitar and doing his ditties with a smirk across his mug
as he teased the tourists. Of course, with the bankroll he's
got going, he must be happy as a clam. But as we sipped our
Painkillers from the shade of a palm tree, we were glad he didn't
pick us out of the crowd to poke a little fun at. As he ribbed
at the swollen and red mid-westerners sitting in front of us
with zinc-oxide on their noses, I was glad at least this once
to be passed over.