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Time after Thyme: Cooking the Jamaican WayBy Stephen Henderson
When I am nervous, I usually get hungry. So, when I saw “Faith’s Pen,” a group of tin-roofed cooking shacks about a third of the way to Kingston, I immediately hit the brakes. Lined up in a row were at least two dozen establishments, all identical except for their hand-pained signs: The Lip-Smackin’ Spot, The Love Zone and The Hot Pot. As these whimsical names attest, Jamaicans like to cook with the spice of romance. Some chefs even insist their ingredients are sexual stimulants. All I can say is that one whiff of the odors coming from outdoor grills built from oil-drums at Faith’s Pen, and I was a true believer. Suddenly, my appetite became passionate. A moment later, I stood chatting with a corpulent, jolly man who insisted I call him “Twiggy.” Surprised by this brazen nickname, I laughed out loud. Twiggy laughed even louder and gave his belly an affectionate stroke. After he showed me his specials for the day; I asked for a little of everything. My request didn’t faze him in the least.
No utensils were offered, so I began to eat with my hands. The chicken was crispy on the outside, but tender and moist at the center. Its flavor was bright and fresh, but densely layered in a mysterious way that only marinating can produce. “How long did it take to make this chicken?” “Listen mon, I don’t know,” Twiggy replied. “But d’ya like the taste?” “It’s delicious.” “Well, mon, that’s what matters, isn’t it?” I agreed, but couldn’t leave well enough alone. Couldn’t he give me a hint about the recipe? “Salt, pepper, sugar, garlic, scallion, scotch bonnet peppers, cinnamon, allspice, thyme, pimento, a tip of vinegar, cloves, sage, mace and marjoram.” His reply came out in such a rapid tumble, I knew it was pointless to ask for proportions. What, after all, was a “tip” of vinegar? Perhaps because many of this island’s chefs are reluctant to reveal trade secrets, Jamaican food is one of the world’s most overlooked styles of cooking. Even among those who have heard of “jerk” chicken or pork, few would guess that Jamaica’s is a centuries old cuisine. The capitol city of Kingston has been cookin’ for 400 years, as locals like to say. Long before there were “all-inclusive” tourist resorts near Montego Bay featuring rum punch fountains and all-you-can-eat shrimp, Jamaicans had a taste all their own. It is a blend of many cultures, starting with the island’s original inhabitants, Arawak Indians, who concocted recipes for corn, sweet potatoes, callaloo, iguanas and crabs. Subsequent waves of immigrants, or, as they are called here, “those who came” added new flavors and ingredients. Spaniards arrived in 1494, bringing with them citrus trees such as Seville and Valencia oranges, lemons and limes. Great Britain controlled the island for three centuries, from 1655 through 1962, and introduced breadfruit, mangoes, black pepper and coffee. Chinese and Indian merchants brought Eastern spices like curry, ginger and marjoram. Johnny McFarlane, a representative of Walkerswood Caribbean Foods, which produces Jamaican-style sauces and seasonings, explained that no matter who was cooking, the tropical climate presented a constant challenge. “Up until the 1600’s, wild boar were plentiful all over the island. Once these animals were killed, though, some way had to be found to keep the meat from spoiling in the Caribbean heat,” McFarlane said. “Rather than the salting process which was popular elsewhere, here in Jamaica meat was encased in a protective covering of spices. Overtime, this came to be know as ‘jerk.’” Since it was too hot to cook indoors, grilling and stewing recipes proliferated. Old-time Jamaican kitchens gave pride of place to a three-legged iron stock pot which was always ready to accept cooking scraps and left-overs for “tomorrow soup.” Even the hardships visited upon African slaves who worked in sugar cane fields affected the development of recipes. “Being a British colony, rather than a Spanish one, we didn’t have a siesta. People here were ‘12 hours slaves.’ Our diet was based on starch and salt because this food was the most filling,” said Tony Laing, a popular radio talk show host in Kingston, with whom I shared a curried goat soup one evening. “And, we didn’t eat all those lovely hogs and cattle being raised. We got what was called the animal’s ‘fifth quarter,” meaning the head, tail, feet and hide, which the plantation owners would throw away. We learned to cook this all down, slow and spicy.” To this day, Jamaicans have a tendency to overcook meat and “rare” is a word rarely heard in the Jamaican kitchen. Even a dish such as a Spanish ceviche is localized, in that Jamaicans fry the fish before immersing it in citrus, rather than letting the raw seafood cure in the lemon and lime juices. Think of it as a culinary approach that’s nearly anti-thetical to a Chinese stir-fry. Most Jamaican recipes require patience and considerable planning ahead. “I learned to cook from my mother. She seasoned her meat overnight, properly, and wouldn’t even look at it till the next day,” says Ras Doobie, a Jamaican native who now, along with his wife, Queen Nzinga, runs Ras Doobie de Chef Catering on Penn Street. “You can’t just do a fast set up and send it out. You have to put in all the love that you have.” A similar theme of “what’s-the-hurry-mon” is put forth in a fascinating cookbook, The Real Taste of Jamaica (Ian Randle Publishers, 2000). Its author, Enid Donaldson, repeatedly warns her readers that if they are grilling, they must let the charcoal turn white before putting food on to cook. She also writes, “a soup should smile, chuckle but never laugh in a full rollicking boil.” That Ms. Donaldson can imagine a soup smiling and laughing is appropriate in Jamaica, where different foods are invested with distinct personalities. Goats, for instance, are revered for their intelligence and this wisdom is thought to passed along to anyone who eats them. “Mannish water” is a highly-spiced porridge made from a goat’s intestines, green bananas, and a variety of other root vegetables like yams or potatoes. Believed to be a tonic, if not an aphrodisiac, mannish water will often be served at wedding receptions. Or, consider that Jamaicans refer to the distinctive blotches on a snapper’s scaly skin as “fingerprints of Jesus,” because they are convinced snapper was the type of seafood which was miraculously made to feed 5,000 as described in the New Testament. And, though they may love papaya, Jamaicans fear planting papaya trees close to their houses as prolonged exposure to its trunk or roots is believed to render both animals and humans infertile. Such stories can, of course, be dismissed as folklore. Before doing so, however, one should ponder an ackee. Though not officially Jamaica’s national fruit, it might as well be as ackee grows prolifically on trees everywhere, and is harvested several times a year. Only problem is, ackee is poisonous if eaten before its pod opens naturally. When a local fruit is deadly one day and sustenance the next, is it any wonder that food is granted magical power in Jamaica? In her exalted position as the “Julia Child of the Caribbean,” (or, so she was recently named by Food & Wine magazine), chef Norma Shirley has a few fables of her own to tell. I couldn’t get her to reveal what exactly she cooked for Star Jones’ recent 40th birthday party at her restaurant, Norma’s at the Terrace, in Negril. But, Ms. Shirley did offer the following advice. “The essence of Jamaican cuisine is our use of herbs. And our herbs are so pungeant because we have incredibly rich soil,” Shirley said. “My absolute favorite herb is thyme. When you go to market to buy it, your entire car will smell from one tiny bunch. To cook the Jamaican way, you need time and thyme.” Ms. Shirley’s lovely, lilting comment reminded me of a schoolyard rhyme I heard when I was in her country. As its words about “pudden” (or pudding) suggest, cooking the Jamaican way is not a mater of measuring spoons, but of opening your heart. Pudden is a serious ting Eat Like a JamaicanInstead of rinsing with water, Norma Shirley recommends “washing” seafood or poultry by rubbing it all over with lime or lemon juice. For a hint of Jamaican flavor, toss a whole Scotch bonnet pepper into a soup or stew. Stir carefully, so the pepper doesn’t explode, and pull it out before you serve. Marinate! Rub your meat with spices and let sit in the refrigerator for four hours, or overnight if possible. Substitute scallions for any recipe that calls for yellow onions. Scallions are slightly more peppery, and add extra ‘zing.” Trust your instincts instead of a measuring spoon. A marinade is a forgiving recipe. Experiment with what feels right to you, and soon enough, you’ll develop what Jamaicans call a “season hand.” Walkerswood makes an excellent Jerk Marinade and Jerk Seasoning. These products can be found at Big Boy’s Food at Lexington Market on Packer Street, 410-685-4080, or ordered on-line at www.walkerwood.com. Visit Ras Doobie and Queen Nzinga at Ras Doobie de Chef Catering, 213 Penn Street, 410-752-3896. If you like their food, Queen Nzinga says she’s happy to help you arrange a trip to Jamaica to experience the full flavor of the tropics! Jerk Chicken(adapted by Stephen Henderson from Enid Donaldson’s The Real Taste of Jamaica) 3 whole chickens cut in half Squeeze fresh lime juice all over chicken, ½ a lime for each ½ chicken. Puree all other ingredients in a food processor. Rub mixture over chicken, cover and leave to marinate overnight in refrigerator, or at least four hours. Bake chicken halves at 400 degrees for approximately an hour. (Don’t crowd pieces in pan; use two baking pans if necessary.) Turn and baste chicken pieces at least once while they bake. When chicken is cooked through, turn on broiler, and broil chicken for about 6 – 8 minutes, or until skin is crispy and slightly blackened. Cut into pieces and serve. Isn’t that good, mon? |
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Last December, after spending a few days at
the Grand Lido resort in Ocho Rios, I drove from Jamaica’s north coast down
to the capital city of Kingston. The route I took was called “Fern Gully,”
a narrow road that twisted up, up, ever upwards through a forest of dense,
emerald foliage. Distracted by this organic splendor, people were driving
crazily, honking their horns as they swung wide around blind curves.
With a couple whacks of his machete, Twiggy cut half a
“jerk” chicken into bite-sized bits, and loaded this onto a plate alongside
grilled breadfruit, callaloo (a stewed green vegetable similar to kale),
braised cod, and ackee, a fruit that tastes surprisingly like scrambled
eggs. To wash this down, he handed me a recycled rum bottle, now full of
freshly squeezed carrot juice.