I hate souse. I really don’t know how people enjoy that stuff. Before you start in on me, be assured that this is not a hasty conclusion. Going back to the early 1970s when I started touring with Tradewinds, I have tried souse all over the Caribbean (even in Bequia, for heaven’s sake) and in the homes of Caribbean migrants to North America. I have tried it in elaborate dwellings and modest backyards; I have tried souse in a troolie hut on the Essequibo and in a cabin cruiser in that area the Trinidadians call “down the islands.” I have tried it at weddings, and in one-on-one situations. Every time, no go.
Several times I’ve been told, “You don’t like souse? That’s because you’re not eating the right souse. You will like my souse.” Chester Hinckson in St. Lucia told me that. He was wrong. One sip of Chester’s version turned out like all the others; I hate souse.
I mention souse because, if you listen to its aficionados, there is something unique about it (that’s Chester’s boast) and Caribbean cuisine in fact is full of examples of dishes that have become specialties of one country, or location, and nowhere else. Cynthia Nelson, in her marvellous cookbook, Tastes Like Home, can’t go out on a limb naming these “best of” Caribbean specialties that you can find only one place.
She has to be impartial; I don’t. I can rise up and point out some special Caribbean food items or styles of cooking that are found only one place in the Caribbean. You cannot replicate them; don’t even try.
For example: in the island of Jamaica, on the main road between Kingston and Ocho Rios, at a place called Faith Pen, you will find a collection of roadside vendors offering the best roast fish and roast yam on earth; not just in Jamaica, on earth. If you’re ever on that drive, be sure to stop at Faith Pen and treat yourself to this delight.
Even if you’re late; even if you’re not very hungry; even if you’re leery about public toilets and you’re dying to pee; hear what I’m telling you: stop at Faith Pen. You might find roast fish and roast yam elsewhere in Jamaica, but the Faith Pen version is to die for.
In St Lucia, they put together a dish called fish broth (in the St Lucian dialect this comes out as ‘feesh broff’) which is somewhat similar to our metagee, but the Lucian version is heavy on fresh fish and lots of broth… sorry, ‘broff.’ It is pure heaven. I remember one night in Castries where I ate so much of it that it was late the next day before I felt like food again. I have sampled this dish in Dominica and Grenada, but the gold medal version is in St Lucia; nowhere else.
Curry is big in Guyana, Trinidad and Jamaica, but in each place the flavour differs. Jamaican curry, delicious in its own way, is cooked more like a stew (they don’t burn the curry powder with the meat) and is not as aggressive, partly because they don’t use masala. Trinidadians are a people given to strutting so they’re quick to tell you, “Listen, na padna, we have the best curry.”
It’s a close race, but there is one area where Guyana pulls ahead and that is crab curry. Guyanese curry made with North West crabs in particular is a dish that leaves the most sophisticated folks licking their fingers to catch the juice, and it can even be a powerful social lever – if Cousin Colin gets on your bad side, next crab curry you don’t invite him; the man is on his knees begging pardon.
The Trinis are not in it with crab curry, but they are champions at pelau. I remember encountering chicken pelau for the first time backstage at a Queen’s Hall show in Port-of-Spain; I sidled back to the pot three times. I can’t explain it – maybe it’s something in the water – but the made-in-Trinidad stuff is to die for.
I went so far as to compliment the Queen’s Hall lady who cooked it, and her husband informed me, “Hear na, man. Is her pelau I married her for, you know.” On my third plate, I couldn’t argue with the gentleman.
There is an area in Barbados, Oistin’s, on the south-west coast where the fishing boats come ashore after a night’s work, and in recent years government has wisely developed the infrastructure, right there on the adjoining beach, for food vendors selling fried fish and boiled ground provisions. The Bajans are very good with fried fish, especially the stuffed version, but at Oistin’s, using huge frying pans over flaming wood fires, they have gone to a next level. This is no fast-food outlet so you wait and watch the fish cooking, but brother man the wait is worth it.
The place is so popular with locals and tourists that some nights the Bajan cops have to come out to regulate the traffic. We cook fried fish all over the Caribbean, but the Oistin’s version – perhaps it’s the sea breeze – is in a class by itself.
There are other examples: the Vincentian dish called ‘tri tri’ (pronounced ‘tree tree’) which is a fried, small fish cake made of hundreds of miniscule river fish; or the Curepe area in Trinidad, on the way in from the airport, with easily the best doubles God ever made; or Boston’s jerk pork in Jamaica; or German’s soup here in Guyana.
Delights like these are such that we line up for these things, and when we travel we often end up with a container of the local specialty. So I’ve travelled from Jamaica with jerk pork, and from Trinidad with doubles, and from St Vincent with tri tri, and my nose tells me that some Guyanese board Caribbean Airlines here armed with garam masala curry.
One thing I know for sure though: the curry they’re carrying on is not crab; that one is so sweet there’s never enough left over to travel with.
