As a travel writer/food critic on holiday in Bermuda, I was eager to unlock the island's culinary treasure chest. The previous year's visit had led to an amusing "Miss Adventure" search for the authentic Bermuda Saltcod Fishcake experience; this year I was dedicated to discovering the island's myriad other edible offerings. I would spare no expense; I would leave no menu unturned; I would count no calories. In short (and I am), I would take no doggy bags!

Happily ensconced in the charming 100-year-old home-turned-hotel known as Rosedon on the outskirts of Hamilton (across from the Hamilton Princess), my culinary excursion began with the first morning's breakfast, waffles and bacon served at a poolside table in the lush gardens of Rosedon. A lovely start to what turned out to be... (one never knows, after all) a lovely day. After breakfast, perusing the guidebooks, talking to staff, and scouring the Internet as part of my comestible quest, I began to plan my eating attack on the island's dining establishments. I would return to old favourites and I would seek new discoveries.

As the day wore on, and the waffles wore off, my thoughts turned lunch-ward. Across the street from Rosedon is the fabulous Miles Market, established in 1862. When visiting foreign countries, I always enjoy a trip to local markets, whether indoors or out, to feast with my eyes upon a country's smorgasbord of eatables, from feathered fowl to fragrant fruits and fondly fondled produce. Miles Market in Bermuda is a gem of a food store, there even the butcher case offers an artful display. I consider these ventures to be a kind of culinary anthropology. It is interesting how much one can learn about a location through its stomach. The migrations of people, the various diasporas, all influence a country's cuisine. Its geophysical location, of course, seriously factors into its foodstuffs. And an island, of course, will always offer an abundance of seafood. But I digress, and it is better, perhaps, to digest.

Miles Market having served to further whet my appetite sent me to the sidewalks leading in to downtown Hamilton, the smart corporate capital, with its handsome businessmen in their sexy Bermuda shorts and knee socks scooting about on scooters. I perused a few menus along the way, but passed them by. I came to a small park overlooking the harbour and, in the corner, could catch a glimpse of what I had been told was the chichi Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. Oh, I longed to lunch there, but knew it was an exclusive members-only establishment. Alas, we have no Yacht Club per se in Cayman, so there was not even the faint hope of reciprocity. Still, it beckoned me. Don't we always want what we can't have?

Well, "faint heart ne'er won fair maiden", I thought, and emboldened by a false sense of bravado (or is it, in my case, bravado?) and ignoring the exterior's "Members Only" sign posted on either side of the open doorway, I entered the hallowed premise. Black and white photographs of Her Majesty the Queen on her visit to the RBYC in 1994 adorned the walls. Off the entry foyer a glass-doored room shimmered with silver trophies of glorious regattas past. Armed with nothing more than a Cayman Government-issued press pass and a certain chutzpah, I approached the hostess apologetically. Given the fact that I was a foreign journalist, I explained, would they possibly consider, might they just turn a blind eye (to the fact that I was not, in any way, entitled to entry), would they perhaps pretend to find me invisible for a nonce? And allow me to enjoy the experience of chronicling such an enviable experience?

To my very pleasant astonishment and surprise, she showed me to a table!

Sitting down I felt as if all eyes were on me, knowing me for certain to be an impostor. How dare I? But no one threw any bread rolls at me and I was even offered a menu. Well, when in Bermuda, do as the Bermudians do. In the dedicated interests of culinary epicuriosity, I felt compelled to order "The Club's Own Bermuda Fish Chowder", a said-to-be 300-year-old piscatory concoction of near epic proportion (or portion, at least). Knowing the chowder to be tomato-based, I decided a nice red wine would be a suitable compliment.

As I waited, I surveyed my harbourside surroundings. A proper yacht club, to be sure. Established in 1844, mind you. Nautical, but nice. Teak tables with crisp white napery. Semaphore flags fluttering overhead in the breeze of ceiling fans stirring salty air above the brick seaside patio overlooking Pitt's Bay.

The soup promptly arrived in a white porcelain bowl with the crest of the Club properly facing me. The requisite accompanying Black Rum and Sherry Peppers in twin glass cruets were placed before me. The chowder was the colour of deep red mahogany and the taste full of fish and deeply satisfying, having been doubtless steeped for a long time to achieve such fathoms of flavour. The third spoonful put me back a bit (or a bite?) as I found the peppers' punch and so stirred the soup to distribute its additions.

In the harbour, the distinctive and prestigious British Red Ensign (which Cayman also flies) was flying from the stern of many of the yachts bobbing in the bay. I admired the handsome and impressive architectural style of downtown Hamilton, the island's capital, the corporate home to many of the world's largest insurance companies, not to mention banks and accountancies. At an adjacent table, a group of ladies who lunch and a seven-week-old yachtie-to-be asleep in a stroller.

I returned to my bowl of red and drizzled in a little additional sherry pepper sauce, and a little more black rum. An intense fish stock made from bones and heads I was sure and a maritage made of a wealth of onions, celery and other unidentifiable veggies; carrots, perhaps, for sweetness, and that melange married with a plethora of plump tomatoes in the most concentrated versions. This was soul food, compliments of the chef, and Bermuda in a monogrammed bowl.

Dessert sounded tempting, especially so a chocolate raspberry layer cake served with whipped cream and raspberry sauce, and since I so enjoy chocolate with red wine and I still had half-a-glass left, but I demurred. Amusing though was the "Members' Favourite Chocolate Sundae", with two scoops of vanilla ice cream with warm homemade semi-sweet chocolate sauce, whipped cream and praline", which just goes to prove, in my opinion at least, that no matter how serious the yachties, or how big the boat, we are all just kids at heart.

Gretchen Allen is a freelance writer based in the Cayman Islands. She specialises in writing about food.