It’s the classic date; first dinner under the stars then dancing under the influence.
 
Granted, it’s a loose interpretation of dancing, in my case. Other people might call it ‘consistently nearly, but not quite, falling over’. But that’s other people, and you shouldn’t take notice of them.
 
First things first, it’s a fantastic meal at the Cracked Conch. After a pineapplicious, swift and sweet Conch-Tini in the mahogany-and-water-feature cocktail bar, we make our way outside.
A light, fruity-fizzed Fantinel Prosecco is the choice to accompany the meal, choosing from a menu that is mostly, but not exclusively, seafood-based. To disprove my point, my partner-in-crime heads for an intriguing-looking short rib ravioli with mushrooms, truffle and a parmesan foam. She declares it delicious. No tinned ravioli-mush this; the rib meat is love-me tender and the sauce brilliantly executed.
 
Slightly envious, I rather unimaginatively plough my way through a has-to-be-done Cracked Conch. The pickled fennel and curried tartar sauce lift the conch meat up considerably thanks to their relative punchiness and complexity.

Happy vibe
As we chat about life, lies and all beneath the skies, the soft shimmy of the waves intermingles with the laughter and music of the adjoining Macabuca Tiki Bar downstairs. The happy vibe of the salsa music only adds to the ambience – the food, service and layout of Cracked Conch may be that of a high quality restaurant, but this is a welcome reminder that life really is about fun.
No time for such deep thoughts, though – the main courses have arrived. Again I’m gazing lovingly across the table... at my partner’s plate, which has the pleasure of being underneath a generously-plump set of seared diver scallops.
 
They’re sweet, and spectacular, and served with gnocchi, micro watercress, capers, an oozing brown butter and – a brilliant touch, this – peas. It’s an outstanding dish, and one that is entirely matched if not arguably surpassed by my spectacularly-cooked roasted Caribbean lobster.
 
Resplendent in its succulence, the tail meat is caressed by a gorgeous sweet-but-earthy mango and white truffle sauce and perched atop fingerling potatoes and lettuce. It’s a special dish.
 
The night unfolds in front of us; though satisfied, we know there’s more to come if we can only find a second gear – something that’s even more difficult after a rich chocolate dessert or my bread and butter pudding. It’s too good not to eat, particularly washed down with a glass of ruby port.

Latino sonics
No time for lazing about letting the gout grow under our feet though: downstairs in Macabuca the salsa night is just beginning. Bidding the Cracked Conch farewell – ‘til the inevitable next time – we wander toward the enticing Latino sonics that are already making our hips shiver in anticipation. Of course, it could merely be the effect of the Mojito, but either way we line up, along with a dozen other brave souls, and are taught the first basic step.
 
It involves stepping to the right, then to the centre, then to the left, then back again.
 
Pfft, I think, there ain’t nothing to it… until instead of the floor I manage to tread on a foot. And I’m almost certain it’s not one of mine.
 
So I do the only thing possible and shoot the offending party a dirty look for having the temerity to start dancing underneath one of my left hooves.
 
Still with patient teachers, a great atmosphere and soul-sustaining music that’s demanding our participation, salsa night at Macabuca is great fun no matter how rhythmically inept you turn out to be.
 
Pondering this, my gaze wanders. The disco lights wink through blues, greens and reds and my partner’s eyes sparkle diamonds, emeralds and rubies.
With a shared smile, we concentrate on finding the same beat. ‘Cause she knows, and I know, that if you start and finish together, the rest is just down to
technique.   WH