Caribbean

I was wandering around the beach in front of the Ritz this afternoon and guess what I found? The Ritz Jerk Centre! Geez. Here Lincoln and I spend a good hour yesterday driving all over the island to get to Scotchies when there’s a perfectly good jerk shack so close to my room that I should have been able to smell that spicy smoke.

I was sitting on the beach staring at the jerk shack as if it had just suddenly appeared over night but according to Lemuel Steele, the portly, bald waiter who has been keeping me in good supply with ice cold Red Stripes, it’s been there pretty much since the hotel opened in 2000. Used to be a towel hut for the beach, he tells me. “Seems people like it better as a jerk shack.”

And how’s the food?

“Oh, it’s good,” he tells me, smiling. “And they got the coldest Red Stripe on the island, no doubt, no doubt.”

Well hell, that’s good enough for me. So I wrapped a towel around my waist, threw on a T-shirt and loped up to the shack, taking a seat at the rustic bar. A Ritz chef was flipping over a gorgeous chunk of rolled pork on the grill.

Pork belly? I asked him.

“The leg of the trenton as we say on the island,” he replied.

Ricardo Stewart jerking the chicken at the Ritz-Carlton. Photo by David Lansing.

His name was Ricardo Stewart and he’s normally a cook at Mangos, the pool-side restaurant, but he says he likes to come down to the jerk centre and cook a couple of times a week because he finds it relaxing. “Nobody in a hurry here,” he says, pointing at people tucking in to their lunches of jerk chicken and bammy, a pancake-shaped, deep-fried cassava bread.

As Ricardo barbecues, we chat. He tells me the Ritz figured they’d better put in a jerk shack when they realized that a lot of their guests were leaving the resort to go and get street food. “No reason not to do jerk right here on the beach,” he said.

He wouldn’t tell me exactly what went into his jerk—“Some garlic, pimento of course, a touch of ginger, some other stuff”—but admitted that the key ingredient was Scotch bonnet peppers. “The trick is how much you put in,” he said. “You want the heat, but you also don’t want to overpower the meat, if you see what I’m saying.”

Ricardo’s jerk was just fine. Not quite as smoky and moist, perhaps, as Scotchies, but damn fine just the same.

And as Lemuel had promised, they had the coldest Red Stripe I’d had yet on the island.

That hurricane everyone was so nervous about on Friday? Never showed up. Lincoln and I were laughing about the pandemonium even a no-show hurricane can produce on an island. For instance, Lincoln said, he’d planned on taking his gal to the best jerk shack on the island Friday evening only to find it was closed.

“Closed!” he said, still outraged. And they were still closed on Saturday and Sunday. Then he started telling me how if he didn’t have jerk on Friday or Saturday, it slowed his blood. Which is probably why he was so tired today, he said.

Which is when I suggested we go get some jerk.

The best jerk on the island, according to Lincoln, can be found at Scotchies, on the coastal road going to the airport, and that’s where we headed. It’s a good thing Lincoln knew where it was because even if he’d given me directions, I’d have driven right past it. But once you park along the highway, all you have to do is follow your nose. The smoky smell of spicy chicken and pork floats over you the minute you get out of the car.

There’s not much to Scotchies: two pit barbecues beneath a corrugated tin shack where a cook in a red dew-rag tends to the jerked chicken and pork by turning the inch-thick pimento branches it is smoked over.

The cashair window at Scotchies, Montego Bay. Photo by David Lansing.

Lincoln puts in our order at the “CASHAIR” window; we get a little blue stub of paper with a number on it which we hand to the cook. A quarter of a jerked chicken is $3, breadfruit thirty-five cents a slice, and a Red Stripe will set you back a buck-fity (though you can get a shot of Overproof for a buck).

Most people are getting their jerk to go, but in the back, beneath palapas, are benches atop empty beer kegs, which is where Lincoln and I settle in, sharing jerked pork and chicken, smoky sweet yams, breadfruit, and a couple of Red Stripes. The ubiquitous Bob Marley blasts from a boom-box.

Picking apart the jerk chicken with my fingers, downing the cold Red Stripe, I come to one of those universal truths that sneak up on you unannounced every now and then and it is this: The better the food, the less the need for conversation.

Lincoln and I are silent as we eat. As is almost everyone around us.

It is Friday afternoon and I am floating. On my back. Off Doctor’s Cave Beach. In MoBay. Jamaica.

I have the ocean to myself. Really. You think, Oh, well, he means that it isn’t very crowded there. No. What I mean is I have the ocean to myself. As I float in this warm teal-colored sea and look all around me, there is nothing. No humans. No birds. Nothing.

How can this be? you wonder. Because maybe you have been to some remarkable beaches in the world, places where there is absolutely no access except by sea and then only if you are willing to take a tender offshore and then slog your way through heavy surf and still…still…when you crawled onto that remote beach with sand as white and virginal as Sleeping Beauty, you found a small group of nut-colored Italians sunbathing in the nude. You found found several lobster-colored snorkelers, all quite drunk and sporting T-shirts from the 1998 NCAA Final Four covering their bright red bellies.

So, you wonder, how can I say that I am floating in Montego Bay in the most lovely of Caribbean waters and I have the entire goddamn ocean to myself?

One word: hurricane.

The hurricane season in Jamaica officially runs from June 1 to November 30 but the height—the time when you’re most likely to encounter that meteorological beast that stalks the Caribbean hurricane belt like a chain-saw wielding ghoul in a teen horror flick is August and early October. Which would be…now.

Ever since I arrived on the island, everyone has been loosely tracking the slow approach of a storm that has veered through the Caribbean like a badly-injured prize fighter, lurching this way and that, picking up strength and then loosing it, bobbing, weaving, jabbing. Now they say it will, in fact, cross Jamaica. At Kingston? Ocho Rios? Montego Bay? That is the question.

But the word around noon today was: It’s coming.

So everyone has taken refuge. Hiding in their hotel rooms after following instructions to move all patio furniture inside, close shutters and drapes, STAY AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS.

And I did all that. And then I looked out across Doctor’s Cave beach and it was so calm. So beautiful. So deserted. Why not go for a swim?

Calm before the storm. With no tourists, no beach chairs, just...the sea.

Now I am out here all alone. Except for a single frigate bird that, just as I am meditating on my solitude, breaks my zen thought process as he desperately flaps his wings on his way out to sea.

Coward, I think.

And as I am thinking this, a beefy hotel lifeguard in a white polo shirt and red swim trunks cups his hands and yells out across the water, “Mon…mon! Get out of da water, mon! Hurricane coming!”

I wave at him and go back to floating on my back. After all, how often is it that we find ourselves swimming in the ocean in the precious few moments of calm just before a hurricane hits? Never.

Besides, the ocean is mine. And I like that. So I slowly do the backstroke, moving away from shore, wondering if the lifeguard will let me go. Like a buoy cut loose. Or a boat freed from its mooring.

When I dare to look up, he is gone. The beach deserted.

Damn, this is fine. Not only do I own all of Doctor’s Cave, I own all of the beaches for as far as the eye can see. At least until the storm hits. If it hits.

This morning Lincoln picks me up in front of the resort promptly at ten and we head directly for Montego Bay’s largest fruit and vegetable bazaar, the Charles Gordon Market, a dark, ancient hall filled with wooden stalls heaped with odd spinach-like greens called callaloo and the peculiar-looking cho-cho which tastes like squash and is used in soups and stews.

Charles Gordon Market in MoBay. Photo by Reena Bammi.

There are bananas that smell of vanilla and custard, and coconuts in different stages of ripening, including “jellies,” green coconuts whose pudding-like meat is so soft it is fed to babies. There are mounds of mangos, guava, and breadfruit the size of large grapefruit, sweet potatoes ripe plantains, and stall after stall offering up “fresh goatflesh” for 280 Jamaican dollars for a pound (about $3.20 U.S.)

Lincoln introduces me to an old granny sitting in front of a pyramid of okra. “Good for the back,” she says, holding one of the fuzzy green cylinders out to me. Says Lincoln, “If you don’t get okra with your steamed fish, you’re not getting steam fish. Gotsta have the okra.”

This isn’t the sort of place where you’d run into Martha Stewart if she were on the island or even Anthony Bourdain, for that matter. The poverty is palpable, the hygiene iffy at best, and there’s a vague ominous feel to the place (Lincoln asked me not to bring a camera with me). Still, it’s fascinating. Particularly the herbs and spices section of the market where you’ll find bundles of fresh and dried herbs, both to cook with and to cure whatever ails you. Something called Leaves of Life, recommended for those with chest colds, is hawked by a toothless women who also sells homemade concoctions for diabetes, diahrea, and female problems.

Lincoln buys us both a round, yellow-green palm jelly fruit. The vendor hacks off the tops with a machete and sticks a straw in each. I suck down the sweet, refreshing liquid and think about having another, but Lincoln suggests one might be enough, adding, while leading me back towards the car, that if I should “feel uncomfortable” in the stomach while eating in Jamaica, the best cure is a shot of Overproof. “It kill everytin in da stomach,” he assures me.

Good to know. Maybe this afternoon I’ll stop by the Cohoba Lounge again and see if Dalton the rummier is around. You can’t be too careful.

It’s late in the afternoon—tea time—at the Cohoba Lounge in the Ritz-Carlton in Jamaica. But nobody is having tea. At least no one I see. But, you know, they’ve got that British tradition thing going here and the little resort newsletter that was slipped under my door this morning while I was still deep asleep suggested I enjoy “Caribbean appetizers and afternoon tea in old-world style” in the lounge.

Well, I wasn’t really too interested in tea (a bit too hot for that) but thought I’d come down to have a look anyway. What I found was a very stylish bar with dark wood paneling, ceiling fans slowly spinning overhead. Some scratchy 40’s jazz was playing in the background while men in plantation suits munched from bowls of potato chips and sipped Negroni cocktails.

Everyone looked a bit flushed, whether from the aged Appleton rum infused cocktails that are a specialty here or from the sun it was impossible to tell, though I’m guessing from the periodic bursts of laughter and boisterous conversation all around that it was more rum than sun.

I’m just about to order a Negroni myself (one of the great, largely-forgotten cocktails of our time) when a voice cuts through the bar chatter announcing a rum tasting “for those of you who might be interested.”

The man speaking is Dalton Kirlew, the hotel’s “rummier.” Who knew there was such a thing? Amazingly enough, I’m the only one in the lounge to take Dalton up on his offer to sample some of the 150 varieties of Caribbean rum (including 70 from Jamaica) that the bar carries.

“Well, looks like just you and me,” Dalton says with a smile as he pours me a very small taste (“That’s all you’re going to want,” he warns me) of Overproof rum, a rather vile 63% proof alcohol that Dalton says is the “poor man’s rum.” This is what everyone on the island drinks, he says, partly because it has such a kick but also because it is very, very cheap. You go anywhere in Jamaica and order a mai tai or a daiquiri and this is what it’s going to be made of, he says.

“Now, the older people on the island like to mix this with coconut water. That’s the typical drink in a local bar. Coconut water is said to ‘cleanse the heart,’” he says, chuckling. “Though I don’t know about that. Some say this rum will make your hair turn white.”

If you want to be like the locals, Dalton tells me, you go to a roadside bar and order a “que,” which is a quarter bottle of Overproof and a side of coconut water. “But you don’t want to do that,” he says.

Dalton is right; I don’t want more than a taste of the Overproof. To wash the petrol oil out of my mouth, he gives me a very smooth Appleton that has been aged for 21 years. It’s the color of a good whisky and tastes as lovely with a bit of caramel and vanilla on the tongue.

Dalton says, “Now with the Appleton, you don’t need any coconut water. In fact, it would be a shame to mix it with anything.”

And he’s right. Which is why I politely refuse Dalton’s follow-up offer of a Wray & Nephew Coco Mania, a coconut-flavored rum whose name alone is reason enough to decline it.

“If you don’t mind,” I tell Dalton, “I think maybe I’ll just stick with the Appleton.”

Dalton smiles. “Well, that’s what I’d do,” he says. “Stick with the Appleton.”