Why are those Jamaican animals such sons-of-bitches? I mean you have your jerk chicken, jerk goat… What? Oh, shit, I’m a moron. I’m sorry. I’ve just been alerted to the fact by my pal Beenie Man that “jerk” refers to the spices that the food is cooked in, not the personality of the creature itself. Sorry, I’m like sooooooooo white. And, unlike most of my drunken, white brethren, I never jumped off the balcony of my Negril hotel into the pool with a full bottle of Red Stripe in my hand and a big Marks-A-Lot smile drawn on my ass. So, you can imagine that I made a bad face when coming across the curried goat on the menu. Don’t those things eat tin cans and used condoms out of the garbage? Even the power of curry ain’t gonna cover that up. I went the safe route and ordered spiced fowl. I must admit that the stuff was damn tasty. It had just the right tenderness, toothiness and bite. All the black famous folks on the wall–some of whom I recognized, and some whom I didn’t–seemed pleased with their meals as well. The tiny, red dining room with the two fancy oil paintings of some Caribbean bay was also a warm reminder of the islands and the mellow waft of the Jamaican breeze. Or whatever, the whole place could smell like sewage for all I know; I’ve still never been there. I may never make it back to Caribbean Spice either, but it will always be my true island home. [MF]
402 W 44th St.