Distinctive tastes

permeate the island,

from dishes at Devon
House in Kingston
(below) to the jerk
spices at stands along
Boston Bay (right).

�the flavor of�

story by

In a five-course eating tour,

a New York chef connects with
her Caribbean heritage through
spicy meats, secret coffee, crispy
�
Ramin Ganeshram photography by Shelly Strazis

snapper and, of course, true jerk

chicken with lots of pepper
sauce. Too much? Nah, man.

78 M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om 79
Felicia, a large, tall jamaican woman,
leaned over with amazing agility and enveloped me in her
arms, my stiff white chef’s coat crinkling in the embrace.
“Thank you for teaching us about our food,” she said,
smiling. She was just one of many students of West Indian
descent — mostly Jamaican — who took my cooking classes
here in New York on how to prepare traditional meals.
I blushed and thanked her, thinking about her words.
“Our food,” she had said. But the truth was that, outside of
my ancestral home of Trinidad, I was as much of a neophyte as
the next cook when it came to the foods of the other islands.
Most of what I knew of Jamaica came from childhood visits
when my Trinidadian father took me to visit his closest friend,
Lola Campbell, who lived in Brooklyn. Miss Lola was Jamaican
and had, like him, come to America in the 1950s for educa-
tion and the hope of a better life. When the two got together,
there was always a feast of curries, stewed beef, rice and peas,
and a sweet bread of some kind. Maybe there
A culinary tour of
would be some ginger beer or a Red Stripe for Jamaica includes
my father. The day was punctuated by rapid-fire Devon House (chef
Caribbean patois and loud laughter. Norma Shirley
pictured at left),
Their camaraderie made me intertwine Strawberry Hill
Trinidad and Jamaica so closely that, content (above) and the
with my once-removed knowledge, I never felt coffee-rich Blue
Mountains (below).
the need to visit Miss Lola’s island home.
I was jolted out of my memories as everyone began
departing the kitchen-classroom at the end of class. Felicia
called out to me, “One love!” using the Jamaican saying.
“One love!” I answered, raising my hand in a wave.
Watching her disappear into the elevator down the hall,
I knew that in order to live up to my students’ admiration,
I had to change my ways. Their belief in my ability to be the
ambassador of the larger Caribbean made me long to know
more about other islands that made up my West Indian her-
itage — and my first stop had to be Jamaica.

First Course: Patties & Patois

i arrive at the kingston airport eager for my
first taste of Jamaica and to expand my knowledge of Carib-
bean cuisine. My goal: take back to my cooking students the
culinary essence of the island their forefathers called home. I
am confident that my West Indian heritage will give me entrée
here, but when I meet my guide, Carey Dennis, who will
accompany me on this weeklong adventure, I am shaken by

M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om 81
 The Jamaican menu
on any given day
features (clockwise)
fresh snapper, pepper
shrimp, sweet rum
cake from the bakery,
and market fruit.

82 M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om 83
 his formal, old-school British demeanor.
As we head around Kingston Harbor,
Carey recites that it is “the seventh larg-
est natural harbor in the world” in proper
tour guidese. I nod politely and look out
the window at the street-food vendors
that look so like those in Trinidad. They’re
selling green or “jelly” coconuts — bought
for their cool water but so-named for their
gelatinous flesh — and candies homemade
from ginger and coconut. Peanut vendors
are selling nuts wrapped in narrow paper
cones rolled tightly so the salty, peppery
nuts can be tipped right into the mouth.
The fruit stands I see bring to mind all the
fruits I can’t get in the States.
“My favorite fruit is pommerac — do
you have that here?” I ask.
“Pommerac,” Carey muses. “What
does it look like?”
I launch into an animated explana-
tion of the pinkish fruit with white flesh
that tastes something like strawberry. As I
form its shape with my hands, he suddenly
bursts out, “Otaheite apple?!”
“Yes!” I say, “That’s its real name. Captain
Bligh brought it from the South Pacific.”
For the first time, Carey genuinely smiles.
“That’s a real nice fruit!” he exclaims, and we
start to talk about what else Bligh brought
over, including breadfruit, a starchy tree
fruit used as a filling staple to feed the slaves
who were Carey’s ancestors and, later, the
indentured East Indians who were mine.
The ice has broken by the time we pull up to Devon House, we pass through the city and up the hilly slopes, we see ref-
the late-19th-century estate of Jamaica’s first black millionaire erences to Bob Marley everywhere — his image on walls, his
and now a national monument. After a tour of the house- name given to everything from corner stores to schools.
museum with its wide plank floors and cedar-smelling antique This leads to a discussion of reggae, Trinidad calypso and
wardrobes, so like those in my father’s house in Trinidad, we more food. Carey tells me he is an avid home cook. Relaxed
stop at the Brick Oven, a patisserie in what was the estate’s old now, his language has eased into a light patois as we laugh
kitchen. Here we pass by sweet rum cakes and pone, dense, through descriptions and anecdotes to try to learn what the
syrupy cakes made from grated cassava. We order beef patties same foods are called in our respective lands. The unspoken
— a fitting starter to the coming days of indulgence — and eat undertones of our easy conversation speak to a pact we are
them on a tree-shaded bench in the courtyard. They are as big making as fellow island folk ­— one through which we will fol-
as softballs and have flaky crusts. The spicy meat filling is good low the story of our collective culinary heritage, hand in hand.
and hot, but not hot enough to stop me from gobbling mine
down in five or six bites, chased with an Second Course: Strong Drink
Throughout the ice-cold Red Stripe. Standing and brush- in the peaks, the next morning dawns bright and
island, vendors ing the pastry crumbs from our clothes, cool, belying the intense sun baking greater Kingston thou-
send a smoky siren we head back to the car for our journey sands of feet below. Carey sits across the table and sips his
call of Jamaican
jerk roasting on to Strawberry Hill, a mountaintop bou- tea while I savor a cup of Blue Mountain coffee from Old
pimiento grills. tique hotel about 40 minutes north. As Tavern Coffee Estate, just north of here. If a nation’s essence

84 M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om 85
 were made up of aromas and tastes, So many flavors,
surely Blue Mountain coffee would so little time.
Clockwise from
be a key part of Jamaica’s. This brew’s right: jerked pork
distinct flavor notes are complex and loin at the Sugar
almost nutty, born from a berry slowly Mill, pumpkin soup
at Norma’s, coffee
matured in the cool mountain mists at Old Tavern.
and having a high sugar content.
After breakfast we will trek further up into the Blue
Mountains to Old Tavern, where Alex and Dorothy Twyman
grow coffee beans, processing and harvesting in the tradi-
tional way, meaning by hand. This, combined with limited
real estate for growing beans — Old Tavern grows their cof-
fee at about 4,000 feet of elevation — means the coffee can
retail for roughly $50 to $60 per pound in the U.S.
If you don’t know what you are looking for, Old Tavern,
huddled on one of the many curves of a winding and dizzy-
ing mountain road, is easy to miss. The unassuming build-
ing has no sign, and Alex tells me, “That’s how we like it. If
you really want to find us, you will.”
From inside, the rich smell of roasting coffee wafts
through the window into the cool mountain air. Alex tells me
Dorothy is roasting beans in small, to-order batches. Com-
ing outside to greet me, Dorothy invites me back in, and I
watch as she tastes a cup of coffee brewed from the beans
she has just roasted. She does this with each order, using
only the most aesthetically perfect beans for the premium
coffee. The discarded beans with cracks or other imperfec-
tions are still usable and sold to a few local restaurants.
Dorothy gives me a cup of just-roasted dark coffee. The
aroma is heady. It’s velvety on the tongue, sweetened not
with sugar but with honey from Alex’s bees, which are kept
to pollinate the coffee flowers. He’s rather enterprising.
Later, I taste a coffee liqueur he makes with his beans and
Jamaica’s famous Appleton Estate premium rum (among
others). I discover a more refined, artisanal version of the
mass-market brands like Tia Maria.
I sip my coffee and take a cookie from the plate shyly
offered by Dorothy. “We got these especially for you. They
are from Trinidad.” I nibble them while looking at the
book of estate photographs with Alex. In the next room,
Carey and the Twymans’ grown son, David, are chatting
about this and that. It’s not unlike a lime at an old friend’s
house on my father’s island. I wish I could linger here in
this easy hospitality, but soon Carey gives a slight nod to
indicate that it’s time to head back down the mountain
into Kingston and the next leg of our trip.

Third Course: A Fish Between Friends

we journey out of kingston and head southwest
toward the fishing village of Hellshire Bay, known for its
beach-side food stands and bars. It is an extra stop on our
longer journey. Boston Bay, considered to be the true home of

86 M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om
 Fish — snapper, blackfin tuna, parrotfish, kingfish and more — is
yet another integral ingredient in the recipe that is Jamaica.
jerk, is an inlet on the northeast shore in the parish of Port-
land, one of 14 such distinct areas of the island.
Carey tells me that fish, too — prepared a myriad of
ways — is yet another integral ingredient in the recipe that
is Jamaica. Snapper, blackfin tuna, parrotfish, kingfish and
more are roasted, steamed, fried, jerked, curried or pickled
in the local escoviche style, using a vinegar-based marinade.
For a taste, we’ll stop for lunch at Prendy’s. At four years old,
Prendy’s is a newcomer to the cluster of established food huts
in the Hellshire enclave, but it is already a hot spot because
proprietor Donnette Prendergast hosts a dance party from
Friday afternoon to Sunday evening. Today, a weekday, it is
quiet, and I walk up to the counter to choose my fish from the
fresh catch nestled in ice in a large cooler. I select a red snapper
that I can have fried, roasted or steamed. “Fried,” I say, as I join
the cook in the kitchen, an open area with a long grill over a
smoldering pimiento-wood fire. Taking up a long cutlass, the
cook scrapes the skin to make sure no scales remain and then
makes two slits on either side of the fish, into which he rubs a
pinch of salt before tossing it into a vat of boiling oil.
“That’s it?” I ask, amazed. In Trinidad, fish is usually
washed with lemon juice and marinated in an elaborate sauce
called “green seasoning,” made of chopped herbs and garlic.
“That’s it,” he says, scooping out my fish a few minutes later
and handing it over on a plate with a side of bammy, a coconut-
milk-soaked cassava cake that looks like a crumpet; and “festi-
vals,” a sweetened cornmeal fritter much like Italian zeppole.
I slip into my place at a picnic table next to Carey and see he
has chosen his fish steamed (which is actually simmered) with
potatoes, carrots, okra, scallions, pepper, garlic, salt and a bit of
pumpkin puree. It is arranged on a wide platter flanked by the
large water crackers that are so popular here in Jamaica.
My own fish, crispy outside and succulent within, is soon
reduced to a pile of bones, and I eye Carey’s plate hungrily.
“Taste?” he asks, inclining his eyebrows a bit.
“Do you mind?” I’m already picking up my fork.
“Nah, man,” he responds as I tuck into a bit of fish.
It is delicate yet firm, like the friendship we’re forming.
Fourth Course: Tableside and Roadside
later in the car, we pass many vendors selling pan
(barbecued) chicken and holding up bags of fiery peppered
crayfish with bright red shells. Carey tells me we are invited to
the home of his friend, chef Darren Lee, in Port Antonio, near
After five courses our new hotel and a stone’s throw from Boston Bay, also known
covering the gas- as “the home of jerk.” I realize I’m lucky to have a guide like
tronomic gamut, a
respite on one of Carey, who loves food and culture and keeps company in kind.
Jamaica’s beaches A Jamaican of Chinese descent, Darren has worked in
is in order.
M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om
America and in the finest restaurants around the island. When
we arrive at his home, I see that — in true West Indian fashion
— he has made more food than we can possibly eat. In an haute
homage to local ingredients, there is tuna tartare made with
local blackfin tuna atop reconstituted local sea moss (a dried
seaweed) and a green salad with hibiscus dressing. What I’m
really interested in, though, are the traditional dishes he has also
prepared. There is curry goat, peas and rice and jerk chicken.
While we eat, Darren explains the holy trinity of ingredi-
ents that is the staple in nearly every type of Jamaican cooking:
allspice, scallion and Scotch-bonnet pepper. He is animated as
he talks, making comparisons to both Trinidadian food and our
shared French culinary training so I may better understand. He
also explains how this trinity is the starting point of jerk, a sea-
soning mix that can combine more than 20 spices and was cre-
ated by the Maroons, escaped slaves who lived in the parishes
of Portland in the Blue Mountains and (continued on page 102)
FL
Runaway
Montego Bay Bay
Cuba
St. Ann’s Bay
Rios Bay
Ocho
Beach
Strawberry
Hill Hotel
Jamaica • Boston Bay
• Jamaica
Palace Hotel
Kingston
Hellshire Bay
� DETAILS FLY directly to Kingston or Montego Bay on Air Jamaica, which has
the most nonstop flights from U.S. cities. airjamaica.com RENT a car and driver
from Burke’sTransport andTours from $175 around town for up to 10 hours. 876-
925-9448 BATHE in the sulfur springs at Firewater pond in Runaway Bay in the
parish of St. Ann. BUY crafts like dolls, wood-carved aphrodisiac statues, straw
baskets and more at Kingston or Montego Bay craft markets. SPEND Jamaican
or U.S. dollars in resorts. LEARN more at visitjamaica.com.
� ROOMS AROUND THE ISLAND Part of the Island Outpost roundup of
luxury properties, Strawberry Hill in the Blue Mountain Range has rooms
in the traditional Georgian style. Yoga classes, spa treatments and skill-
fully prepared organic, local foods provide a refreshing respite. Deluxe
rooms and houses from $660; strawberryhillresort.com In Port Antonio,
Jamaica Palace Hotel has a swimming pool shaped like Jamaica itself. It
is located near the island’s jerk-heritage area in Boston Bay. Rooms start
at $138 with a minimum seven-night stay. jamaica-palacehotel.com
� STREET FOOD TO STYLISH EATS Scotchies in Drax Hall and Montego
Bay offer traditional jerk in a clean, well-organized setting. Faith’s Pen Rest
Stop in Ocho Rios is a collection of traditional food stands with everything
from jerk to curry mannish water (a goat-head stew). Jelly coconut and
fruit vendors offer their sweet wares islandwide. Norma’s on the Terrace at
Devon House features seafood chowder, grilled snapper and other authentic
creations of Norma Shirley, called Jamaica’s Julia Child.
islands.com/jamaica
89
Jamaica (from page 89)
cured wild hog meat that closest to the road. A Fifth Course:
was then slowly smoked steep hill slopes away The Sweetest Taste
over a pimiento-wood fire. from the building on one as we leave the jerk center,
After emancipation in side. Two 10-by-10-foot Darren asks if we have time for one more
1838, the Maroons were grates are set side-by-side stop. I groan, unable to eat another bite,
said to come down from over the smoldering ashes but he assures me that his is a lagniappe
the mountains to Bos- of pimiento wood, stoked — or what we island folk call “a little
ton Bay on Friday eve- by a man wielding a long- something extra” — and this one is of
nings, selling their smoked handled shovel. On top the mental kind. He wants me to meet a
meats. Today, jerk stands of the grates are square master fish-pot maker in St. Ann’s Bay,
dot the entire island, but pieces of galvanized metal west of Boston Bay. A traditional art,
the essence of true jerk upon which pork, chicken, the fish pot is an ingenious, rigid net
is an elusive mix of spice sausage and fish sizzle, used by local fishermen that allows fish
and smoke that hard-core wrapped in foil. to swim in but not out. We pull onto
aficionados, like Darren, I edge closer to the a dirt road abutting the water. Small
claim is best found in Bos- grates, and the men stand wooden huts are clustered together,
ton Bay. He recounts the aside. Peering over the and in a clearing near the shore a young
tale easily, not just because low wall and down the man is winding chicken wire around a
it is part of Jamaican lore » Bring Back hill, I see a man making polygon made of bamboo sticks that
Walkerswood
but also because he has Allspice For sausages, stuffing and will eventually be a fish pot.
grown up in this parish, about $2 for 2 twisting off the links Darren calls out to one of the huts,
where there is always a hint ounces, you can by hand. I am the only where a squat old man wearing a fish-
afford to bring
of jerk smoke in the air. one of Jamaica’s customer and the only ing cap sits inside on a small stool. I am
As he speaks, I find staple spices back woman here. The men introduced to Mr. Mack, a retired fish-
myself again wishing that home. Allspice are clearly amused by this erman, now a master pot-maker. The
is a mixture of
I could stay talking long ground berries American lady come to boy outside is his apprentice.
into the night, as with the of the pimiento have a look-see, and I am I glance inside the small hut at Mr.
Twymans. I like this man tree that creates beginning to feel uneasy. Mack, sitting among wire bales and
a savory and
for his love of food and sweet flavor great It is clear that I do not bamboo sticks. I am reminded of my
his love of country. with any dish. belong here. students back home and how I must
“Will you come with Walkerswood Jerk Darren tells them faithfully record for them all I have seen
Seasoning is a
us tomorrow? To Bos- must-try as well. quickly in patois that I am here. I must share the smell of smoke
ton?” I blurt out. Easily the most a chef and a writer. With from the roadside stands where fish,
Across from me, Carey authentic version that, they nod warily. jerked meats and breadfruit are slowly
on the island,
breaks into a wide smile. the seasoning “She West Indian. roasting over pimiento wood fire. My
“Yes, can you come?” was created Trinidadian,” I hear him words must convey the rise and lilt of
Now Darren smiles after months of say, and they visibly relax. my friends’ voices standing a few feet
research among
back, excited too. “Yes, I the Maroon One man comes for- away. Through my eyes my students will
think I can.” We spend the people, who ward with some jerk see young men sitting on a log close to
next half-hour negotiating invented jerk. chicken and roasted shore, taking a break from making fish
walkerswood.com
when to meet and where breadfruit on a plate. pots, laughing and chatting in patois,
we will go the next day. Another wields a bottle with the bottles of Red Stripe at their
True to his word, Darren meets us of pepper sauce, which I gladly take feet and the sea glittering beyond.
at our hotel the next morning, and and pour out generously. “Come inside, darlin’,” Mr. Mack
together we make our way to a cluster “That too much!” he says, startled. says, breaking my thoughts, reach-
of sheds called a “jerk center.” It looks “Nah, man,” I reply and begin to ing out toward where I stand on the
more like a huddle of falling down eat. They watch closely to see if I will threshold. Grasping my outstretched
lean-tos than separate food stands. cough or sputter. When I don’t, they hand and drawing me near, he greets
Emerging from the car, we see a band smile broadly. me in the old way: “I hope, now, we are
of rough-looking men, clothes smudged The man with the pepper sauce asks not strangers?”
with blood and ash. We go to the larg- if I like the jerk. “No, sir,” I say, squeezing his hand.
est of the stands, Mickey’s, which is “Yeah, man!” I say, grinning back. “No, we are not.” ^

102 M a r c h 2 0 0 8 isl a n d s . c om