One of the great things about being in a city is the myriad restaurants and cuisines that are so readily available. I love to cook and eat and though I am no Anthony Bourdain of Food Network’s No Reservations fame, I am happy to sample frog legs or olive oil ice cream. My three roommates and I decided that this semester we would try a new cuisine every week. This is a scary adventure for one of my roommates, Kelsi, who tends to restrict her diet to chicken and pizza.
This week was our first foray into the dangerous world of non-American cuisine. Don’t worry, we didn’t go too far, only to Jamaica, which we found on the corner of H St and 6th St NE at a place called Taste of Jamaica.
At first glance, Taste of Jamaica, with the requisite Bob Marley poster hanging on one wall and the reggae music playing through the speakers, checks out as authentic Jamaican. I ordered my boneless chicken fricassee through a small window in the glass wall that separated me from my server. I watched as the woman behind the glass slopped ladlefuls of an unappetizingly dark brown chicken stew onto the red beans and rice already filling the Styrofoam carton that was my plate.
I paid for my dinner and Woman-behind-the-glass turned away. It seemed to me to be just a moment too long between when I paid and when I should be given my dinner. This is where I made my big mistake. My brain told me that I needed to get my dinner myself. I reached through the tiny window and attempted to pick up my Styrofoam dinner. This was clearly an affront. “No.” Woman-behind-the-glass said, and her husband backed her up with a death glare. Of course, there was a reason for their glass cage, and though a girl from Connecticut was probably not it, I had clearly broken a code.
If my first moment with Jamaican food was Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull than my first bite of Jamaican food was Raiders of the Lost Ark. It was just the right amount of sweet and the sticky brown sauce turned out to be buttery and bursting with Caribbean spices and a hint of barbecue. Jamaican food and I were absolutely getting along. A better metaphor may be When Harry Met Sally, where Sally is Jamaican food.
But I know the question on everyone’s minds – what the public is really clamoring for I’m sure is what Kelsi, the picky eater, had to say.
Well at first glance Kelsi gave taste of Jamaica a:
But after her jerk chicken, Kelsi gives Taste of Jamaica:
And how much more could you really ask for?
Emily
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Emily Magida was a Spring and Summer 2012 RedEye Intern
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