Well, it's not really a restaurant, just a sort of jumble of palm thatch huts with a scraggly assortment of people milling around, living there. They have an outhouse and you can sit on something. Take out works, too. The oven is a big clay igloo on top of a big rock 'table.' Trini (who looks like a totally evil drug-dealing Columbian Indian shaman assasain, but is only some of those things and a decent guy) and his wife Isabel (French Canadian hippie trapped into the squaw life and raising her tri-lingual kiddos) make the pizzas from scratch and cook them carefully in the oven, which has a fire inside, off to the the side. They often use the oily dried husks of coconuts to fire it, or whatever wood falls by. I once found Trini cutting up a log of ebony to burn in the fire. They'll make whatever size you want, put on it whaterver they have. Which can include calamari, nopales, fresh tuna or marlin, or whatever.
This is a place you meet the real cream of the Island riff-raff. Alcoholic doper gringos on pension, entry-level narcotics producers and wholesalers, fishermen tired of fish, wide-eyed American college kids passing through, federal cops radiating bad karma, sweet kids picking up a pizza for mama. Big pizzas cost a couple of bucks. They scammed a frig somewhere, too, so now you can get a cold pop. Watch out that Ed, an old Brooklyn jazz freak on the lam from the law of averages and living in a seaside cottage for like $40 a month and smoking $100 of dope a month, doesn't scam you out of a slice. On the other hand, it's worth a slice to hear his rap. Once.
Thing is, they make a good pizza. And when you're old, you'll always remember this as the oddest pizzeria you ever ate at.