The entire “Miss Adventure” (that’s me), had started the day before (Tuesday). I was having a summer’s holiday sojourn in Bermuda, staying at a charming hundred-year-old guesthouse called “Rosedon” directly across the street from the Fairmont Hamilton Princess Hotel.

Rosedon is a lovely little homey hotel built as a private residence in 1906 for an Englishman (Bermuda is, of course, a famed Colony of the United Kingdom). Over the years, the property changed hands and it now has about 40 rooms — some in the old house, some added on in the adjoining lushly landscaped and slightly wild gardens with its heated swimming pool. My room overlooked the gardens, on the back side of the house. Because this was my second stay here, I had become quite familiar with the property, and found there was an easy shortcut from my room to the front lobby (and afternoon tea), through the kitchen. I would use this easy access frequently, muttering apologies to the staff, such as “sorry”, or “just passing through”, to what was, unarguably to me and them “the best room in the house”.

On this particular Tuesday, as I trespassed via my favourite “secret” passageway, I espied a particularly luscious looking filet of beef sizzling in a skillet on the stovetop. “Is that for me?,” I inquired of the chef. “No,” he said apologetically, “it’s for my boss.”

Rosedon’s bill of fare is pretty simple stuff. If you’re on the “Bermuda plan”, a daily revolving breakfast menu is served each morning; lunch is self-served from “The Pantry” which offers up an assortment of cold salads and sandwiches (on the honour system, as is “Nigel’s Bar”, tucked away in a little closet off one of the main living rooms).

Afternoon tea in this British outpost is served from 4 until 5.30 p.m. and consists of the requisite urn of this most ubiquitously British beverage, finger sandwiches (with the crusts cut off, of course!), usually egg salad, tuna, ham and cheese, etc., and slices of poundcake, plain or marbled, served on the spacious and gracious verandah. That is, except for Tuesday, when tea is still served, but without the sandwiches, because Tuesday is “Rum Swizzle” party night, replete with hors d’oeuvres. Which is to say, in an undeniably roundabout manner, that there is no restaurant at Rosedon, although limited orders may be placed for soups, sandwiches and salads for dinner.

But they couldn’t fool me — the nose knows! Aromas emanating from the kitchen and wafting in the direction of my quarters belied the fact that there was more than sandwich-making going on it that kitchen, and the steak was my first eye-witness evidence of such.

When next I passed through the kitchen, I came upon a large man standing at the stove in front of a large frying pan packed with loads of golden brown fish cakes. “For the staff’s lunch,” I was told. Admittedly, I was envious, and slightly salavatious (a word I have just coined for this occasion).

That afternoon, I decided to stroll into Hamilton to browse about a bit. I found myself in a rather charmingly cluttered bookshop just off Front Street, where the cruise ships come in to port. As I jostled amongst the ship’s overfed passengers, I tucked into a corner with shelves of local publications, many of which were cookbooks celebrating the island’s multicultural cuisine, and it was here I learned more about the quintessential Bermudian comfort food, the fishcake. Apparently, Bermudian fishcakes are good for whatever ails ya. Depressed? Eat a fishcake. Lonely and looking for love? Eat a fishcake. Is your manhood flagging? Fishcake is the answer.

By now, I was beginning to become obsessed with fishcake.

I returned to Rosedon. I went back to the kitchen. “Where is the person who was making the fishcakes earlier?”, I asked. “He gone,” was the reply. “Well, I was wondering,” I said to the sweet little lady who had answered my query, “do you think it might be possible for me to get some fishcakes for breakfast in the morning?”

Rosedon does allow for substitutions at breakfast if you don’t care for the choice of the day. “Oh, no,” she answered, “not without advance notice; maybe if you had asked a couple of days ago.”

Well, it seems that the humble fishcake is somewhat tedious to make. First, you have to take a quantity of saltcod, the fish commonly used, and soak it overnight. This is necessary to leech out the salt which has been used to dessicate the codfish’s flesh in order to preserve it. Then it has to be rinsed. Potatoes need to be boiled, because the cakes are essentially not much more than the flaked codfish mixed with mashed potatoes into patties, with a few other ingredients, depending on the individual maker, dipped into flour (dredged) and fried.

By now it was time for the Tuesday night party, so I drowned my disappointment in several Rum Swizzles (frankly, a rather revolting tipple to my taste; I’d rather they not mess with my rum, thank you), went out to dinner and called it a night. I tucked myself into bed with Fishcakes on the brain. I think I may have dreamed about them.

They were still on my mind when I awoke Wednesday morning, my final day in Bermuda. I was determined to “score” fishcakes somehow. My breakfast was served on the patio overlooking the gardens. The day was sunny and warm. The eggs were meant to be “over easy”, but mine were apparently turned with a sledge hammer. No matter. I wouldn’t ask for another egg (even though as a young gourmet child, I would send them back when my mother broke the yolks — what cheek!), as I was going to have fishcakes for lunch. Or so I thought.

My first step in this crazy and seemingly unquenchable quest came when I saw the gentleman chef from the previous day, who, by now, I had begun to revere as the “Fishcake King”. I confessed to him how much I had, since the day before, been lusting after his fishcakes. He immediately took me to task.

“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”, he chided. “I would have given you a couple.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I demurred.

“Let me see if there are any left,” he said, turning to go to the refrigerator. I held my breath. “No,” he said, “all gone.”

“I knew they wouldn’t leave any,” I said in resignation, my hopes dashed.

“Never mind,” I said, “thank you anyway. Perhaps you could just tell me some place I could find them for lunch,” assuming this to be an easy enough assignment.

“Well,” he said, “you could try the place just up the street; I think they might have them”.

I checked with the front desk. “I think he may mean Bouchee,” said the young girl behind the counter at reception. I strode in that direction. My hope brightened when I saw a sandwich board sign on the sidewalk which read: “Bouchee, Bermudian owned, French-inspired menu.” I thought I might be on to something, but when I approached the menu posted beside the door, there were lots of temptations, but nothing about fishcakes.

I walked further toward Hamilton. As I was passing one of the imposing office buildings overlooking Hamilton Harbour, I approached a gentleman wearing Bermuda shorts and said, “Excuse me, but I’m a food writer, and I’m in search of an authentic Bermudian fishcake; can you direct me to a place?”, I asked. “Oh, you’ve got me there,” he replied. Finally, after a pause, he suggested I might try the Port O’ Call restaurant on Front Street, but he admitted he wasn’t at all sure if they had fishcakes.

I walked another couple of blocks and by now was nearly at the Bookstore where this fishcake folly had started in the first place. I explained my plight to a male clerk who, how shall I say this, gentle reader, appeared to enjoy his feed and seemed eager to help. He called a friend and they conferred. He called Port O’ Call for me. No fishcakes. He suggested Bermy Cuisine and called to inquire. Yes, they responded, they do have fishcakes, but only on Saturdays. Lobster Pot? Negative. A couple more phone calls; a couple more strike-outs. He suggested the Lemon Tree Cafe quite nearby.

I went in; it was busy as it was now the height of lunch hour and all Hamilton, it seemed, was abustle for bounty. A somewhat inscrutable gentleman with what I think was a German accent tried to assist. Yes, he said, they had them, but only for breakfast.

“You won’t find them any where this time of day” he assured me. “Come back tomorrow.” Alas, I had ordered a taxi to the airport for 6 a.m., so that suggestion wouldn’t fly, or neither would I.

Growing increasingly despondent, my earlier vision of a crispy warm golden fishcake tucked atop a bed of tender field greens, accompanied by a nice glass of, perhaps, a crisp Pinot Grigio, set upon a linened table in a quiet corner, was fading with every plodding step upon the pavement of what was now Reid Street.

Growing ever desperate and despairing, I opened the transparent door to some unlikely eatery whose glass cases offered up a myriad of attractive comestibles and whose hanging blackboards touted many temptations, but, alas, not a fishcake in sight. I stumbled along to another such establishment, a place called Delicious in some unknown (to me) shopping arcade, where a line of office workers awaited the day’s fare. I cut to the chase and went directly to the cashier.

“Excuse me,” I apologised, “do you know where I can find a fishcake,” I asked, rather hopelessly.

“We have them here,” she said. “At the counter.” I couldn’t believe my luck. I quickly got in line. I didn’t see them listed overhead, but my eyes eagerly scanned the steam tables in search of the seemingly ever elusive fishcake. And, voila, there they were! Did I want it on bread ($5), or a roll ($6). A roll, I thought. The young woman behind the counter plucked it from its dish and plonked it into the microwave oven, not a tablecloth in sight. She opened the roll in waiting. Did I want tartar sauce, she asked. Affirmative, I thought.

“Anything else?”, she wondered, standing before an assortment of sandwich accompaniments. “Maybe some lettuce,” I suggested, somewhat hesitantly. “How do they usually come?”, I asked. “I don’t know; I never eat fishcakes,” she admitted, nonplussed.

Sliced in half, wrapped in white paper and tucked into a brown paper bag it went. As I neared the cashier at the counter’s end, I nearly swooned to the floor as I had opened my wallet to look inside and saw just two Bermuda and two US dollar bills, plus an assortment of Cayman Islands dollars from my home country, and unspendable anywhere else. “Oh, no,” my dream of a fishcake so close at hand was being rendered a nightmare before my waking eyes. So near and yet so far...

Then a forgotten Traveller’s Cheque saved the day. Clutching my brown bag, I headed back to Rosedon to chow down. Along the way I returned to the bookstore, entered and held aloft my trophy brown bag. “I got it,” I yelled triumphantly to the young man behind the counter.

“She’s been trying to find fishcakes,” the young man explained to a lovely older Bermuda lady standing at the counter.

“Oh, Miles,” she responded.

“They’re the best; really nice and they’ll heat them up for you,” she assured. “Where is it?”, I wondered. “Right across the street from Rosedon,” she informed me.

Nearing “home”, I passed a liquor store along the way, went in and purchased a small bottle of Sutter Home, not quite the wine I had envisaged earlier, but it would have to do. By now it was hot and my feet had begun to swell. No matter. I am a woman of determination and I had “bagged” my quarry, so to speak.

Passing Bouchee, I now approached Oliver’s. I went in out of curiosity.

“Oh, yes,” they told me. They have fishcakes ($4.50). “I already have one,” I said, “I just wanted to know for future reference.” Wouldn’t you know it — right in my own back yard.

“Where was Miles?”, I wondered. A postal worker was pushing a cart across the street. I inquired. She directed me to a lower level in an office complex. What a revelation. Not only do they have the classic codfish and mashed potato fishcake ($2.50), they offer two other house-made salmon fishcakes, one curried, and one with apricots and something else I’ve forgotten. Suddenly I was swimming in fishcakes but, alas and alack, too much, too late. But Miles was a real revelation for what will hopefully be next summer’s return and further investigation and pursuit of the curious Bermudian fishcake.

I proudly entered the Rosedon kitchen. “Got it,” I bragged; “wasn’t easy, but I got it.” I borrowed a plate.

Sat down on my patio and unbagged my “catch of the day”.

Was it good?, you wonder. Yes.

Would I write home about it? Well, apparently so; I’ve just written hundreds of words about it.

Was it worth it? Yes.

It was an adventure. It was a quest. It was jousting at fishcakes in my own insane insatiable way, and they don’t call me “Miss Adventure” for nothing.Gretchen Allen is an award-winning multimedia writer who resides permanently in the Cayman Islands. She is the Culinary Correspondent for “Horizons”, the official inflight publication of Cayman Airways, the national flag carrier. She is a member of the International Food & Wine Society and an officer of La Chaine des Rotisseurs.