Another Trifle. No, a Coconut Pie.

So today is Ben's birthday, and I'd pre-ordered two pies in honor of the occasion at the island's best and possibly only bakery that my mother had scoped out for me on her February trip. I'd chosen coconut cream and key lime, partly because I knew Ben would love them and partly because they seemed the most true to the spirit of the Bahamas. Ben is not a fan of cake.

It was actually a stellar eating day from start to finish. When we drove to the bakery--about ten minutes from our house in the middle of a tiny rundown neighborhood populated by stray dogs and roosters--to get the pies, they weren't ready yet. Instead, we got the "local breakfast" to go: sausage, tuna and grits in a tomato sauce. Sounds highly questionable, I know, but trust me. It worked. And the croissants were the best I've had outside France. And there were cinnamon buns and cheese danish and still-warm doughnuts with a spoonful of guava jam in the middle.

I had brought Lily and Violet along, and I could tell they were a little mystified by the place. Don't let my mention of France throw you off; if you had not been told, assured, really, that it was indeed a place of business, you wouldn't guess it from the out- or inside. The aforementioned stray dogs and roosters were on the front stoop. Trash and crushed cocount shells littered the "parking lot," and inside, the two large cases were totally empty. A few bored looking teenaged girls behind the counter literally ignored the customers. After about five minutes I realized aggressive tactics were required to so much as place an order.

Not ready, one of them told me, after disappearing into what I figured was the kitchen for about ten minutes. Come back at one. No pies, I told the girls, who were peering in the empty cases. We'll come back after lunch. We headed home.

At one, Ben and I set out to the bakery again, but we stopped when we saw a man taking something out of the back of his pickup, which was parked on the beach, and placing it on a make-shift table in front of him. He was making conch salad right on the spot; the back of his truck was full of flesh-colored conch shells. He chopped the seafood in a practiced way, without even looking down. He chopped tomatoes, fresh ones, onion, pepper and little hot chiles and put it all in a bowl. Then, he took oranges and limes--from my yard he mumbled--and squeezed them over all.

Beside him, three men were cleaning mammoth fish, which glinted red and silver in the intense sunlight. Ben and I looked at each other. The question was only: How much. You want the head? one of the guys asked. I hesitated for a second before shaking my head no. Our kitchen and pantry weren't equipped for stock, and we had planned a number of meals out. There would be no point. But we bought the fish.

On the way to the bakery, bags of just-cut fillet at my feet, we shared bites of the conch salad, fell silent and watched the rooster and chicken show on the side of the road. I'll just be a minute, I said, naively, as I headed in to get the pies.

The place was still busy, although there were still no actual baked goods in the cases. A woman emerged from the back room carrying boxes with clear plastic lids full of hot cross buns, in honor of Easter, but she handed then to a waiting customer who grabbed them and left. Immediately three other people asked about the buns and were told: No more buns.

When it was my turn I managed to get one of the teenagers to acknowledge my existence and said I was back, as requested, for my pies. The girl rolled her eyes and disappeared. Somehow I knew what she would say upon her return. No pies. Come back at 2:15, she added. I bought spiced beef and conch patties, steaming hot and flaky. I bit into one in the car and sighed with satisfaction. It was good enough to make me forget about the pies until we got back to the house.

I made lunch. I beat an egg with a little milk and stirred Old Bay seasoning into some flour and fried the filets in a little olive oil. I had made a black bean salad with avocado and tomato and onion and lime, and we ate the fish with the beans and some guacamole and the rest of the conch salad, and it tasted like the view from the deck, the spray of the ocean, the warmth of the sun. But we didn't have pie for dessert. The little girls wanted a birthday celebration. We all wanted to go to the beach.

For the third time, at almost 3, I headed out through the pastel colored concrete houses, the screeching roosters, to the bakery. When I pushed open the screen door, the girls were on cell phones, all three of them. My pies, I said, a declarative sentence this time. It was time to meet fire with fire. One of the girls looked up at the clock. Another one disappeared into the back. I resisted the impulse to leap over the counter and follow her, seize my pies by force.

She returned. Soon, she said. I paced, observed with interest as a dozen other customers picked up pastries that were not advertised on the sign on the wall, not visible to customers, and usually assembled wrongly, in ways that annoyed the obvious regulars. A man standing at the counter looked as though he'd been there all day, was becoming a part of the decor. When his boxes emerged, he opened one, peered in, and pounded his fist on the counter.

After half an hour, a woman came out holding two white boxes, propped open. These hers, she said, thrusting an elbow in my direction. I reached for an edge of the box to check that they were the right pies, but she pulled back the box as though I were attempting to steal it. It's hot, she snapped. Don't touch.

I carried the two boxes out to the car without looking inside. I knew that if they weren't the right pies, there was nothing to be done about it, nothing to be done until the Tuesday after Easter Monday (Easter Monday--who knew?), as the door had been locked behind me.

We ate them tonight after dinner: the spiced beef and conch patties, pina coladas, more beans and guac. It seems essential to mention that they were both excellent.