"Never trust a skinny chef". It may be good advice, but in Rogers's case, it has been proven like a mathematical theory. Roger is the reason for the creation of this culinary advice. A famous chef on the tiny island of Caye Caulker, Belize, Roger is a robust, tanned friendly fellow, looking the part in island-friendly flip-flops and with a glisten on his brow as he mans the grill overflowing with the day's catch : lobster. We smelled his cooking--mainly due to the generous helping of garlic on the potatoes, bread, and butter sauce which he drizzled on the lobster --from blocks away. It was difficult to tell where the smell was coming from at first because we saw no restaurant with a queue, nor a parking lot overflowing with traffic. But as we followed our noses like hungry Bloodhounds and walked north from our cabaña on a dirt road no wider than 5 meters, Caye Caulker's main "road", we stumbled upon the magic: Roger's Seafood Shack, better known simply as "Roger's". His fresh catch from nearby Caribbean waters was being prepared on a grill as the sun set and as hungry patrons waited patiently in a little wooden, three-walled hut nearby, packed with picnic tables. Roger, standing on the side of the road, spatula in hand, said with Belizean-accented English, "You hungry? Tonite we have lobster with garlic bread, garlic mashed potatoes, and my mom's homemade cake for dessert. And 3 rounds of 'Pantirippa' to wash it down, all for 25 dollars ($25 Belizean dollars is US $12.50). Just come back in half an hour because I'm kinda full right now." It took us one second to say "Done-see you in half an hour!" We were glad that we had eaten just a taco for lunch and our hostel's continental breakfast of coffee, juice and toast because we were going to be able to bring our appetites in full effect. Now what's this 'Pantirippa' all about? Well, the name is pretty self-explanatory, but that doesn't describe the island's signature drink deliciousness. It goes down as easily as mandarin-mango-orange juice but will cause you to slur your words a little more than 3 days of no sleep, thanks to the rum.

With our mouths watering, we strolled to the end of the 'Split' and back (a split in the land at the north end of the island which was caused by erosion over the years, though Hurricane Hattie gave it the first boost in the 1960s). After 5 minutes of waiting (though an hour of waiting would NOT have been too much to ask!), we squeezed in between some Italian and French patrons then were promptly served by Rogers's helpful family members. The lobster in front of me, my first very-own lobster, was the size of my forearm. The potatoes alone could have filled my stomach, and the generous garlic bread needed to be picked up with 2 hands. Chris said, "My father would flip if he could be teleported to this meal. My mom would too, actually. This is insane." We documented the lobster with a quick picture then dove in, taking a breather now and then to chit-chat with the other travelers whom we were sitting half an inch away from. Most adults appreciate some personal space, or at least like to be far enough away from someone that their eyes can actually focus on who they are talking to (which is impossible when they are as close as we were), but the deliciousness of this meal quickly dissolved any and all need for personal space. Everyone was jovial and thankful for the food in their hands and stomachs as the sun set, as bellies filled, and as sunburns began to slowly show up on tourists' over-exposed skin.

Forty-five minutes later with round, happy bellies, we stumbled out of the hut with a food-induced coma, thanking Roger and his mother and sister for their excellent meal. We took a walk and allowed our food to digest, but could speak of nothing but the amazing, delicious, sublime, ridiculous meal we had just consumed, arguing only about who cleaned their plate the most. We both decided that, for once, the phrase "we are all winners!" made sense because we were lucky enough to experience Rogers' cooking. It was the perfect way to end a sun-filled day on a lazy island where the motto is "Go Slow", where locals will remind you if you forget and start moving faster than a snail to just slow down and take it easy; pull up a chair, kick off your flip-flops, and sip a cold Belikin.

If while on this tiny, Caribbean island you start to get wrapped up with "checking in" and can't seem to break your habit of checking your phone every few minutes and hurriedly sending an email to something that probably can wait, you need look as only far as the name on an old wooden boat at the Split that reads "Go Slow" or ask the Coconut Man what the name of his dog is, the dog who is too comfortable and relaxed to bother picking his head up as you walk by, so just lazes around in the shade of a palm tree, surrounded by coconuts strewn about on the sand. The Coconut Man will tell you with a smile in a slow, Belizean way "Hees name eees Go Slow".