Bon vivant of Caribbean cuisine

Bekim Betoni Rauseo

Updated August 2021

On days that I pined for curried crab and dumplings in those white unforgiving Philadelphia winters, there was no better comfort than a call to my mama for one of her recipes

Brown boy lost and longing for Caribbean cuisine

Several years ago, while settling into the pace of urban Philadelphia life, I found myself slung far from the Caribbean lifestyle I knew in Trinidad. I was alienated from food that I loved and craved. Among the noisy cabs, bleating car horns, and dense smog, I was a brown boy lost. I had a longing to swap the bustling streets of Philly for the homely clanking of metal spoons against coal pots, as sugar turned seasoned chicken to brown. On the back burner of the stove, a tall pot of potatoes burbled furiously. The aroma of caramelised sugar always possessed a slavering power to me. These memories invaded my daydreams as I journeyed through a myriad of days spent days in the land of my birth, Trinidad and Tobago. I still relish every morsel of memory that had primed me to become who I am, a bon vivant of Caribbean cuisine.

One memory I recall well was a typical Sunday visit to see mama, my mother’s mother. These family trips were routine in my sagacious nine-year-old brain. We arrived at my mama’s house tucked way up high on the face of El Tucuche, Trinidad’s second-highest mountain peak. I was exhausted from the long drive and equally ravenous.

El Tucuche, a sacred mountain, sacred moments in Tunapuna–Piarco, Trinidad

The sweltering sun consumed the verdant jungle vegetation, its sizzling heat vaporising every drop of moisture in the atmosphere. My mama’s garden was, as it still is, well maintained, with flowering sprays of West Indian jasmine (ixoras), hibiscus, and morning glory—a secret garden in the wild, untamed Caribbean nature. We found mama, as she often was, hunched between the shrubs of her herb garden, plucking at neat rows of brilliant green chive, pinching at the pungent leaves of culantro (chadon beni), and guiding her knowing hands to the ripe jewels of bird pepper fruits.

Mama was in her element and showed no sign of tiring. Wiping her brow, she reached out to us in a graceful motion, hands clutching her choice garden produce. At that moment we were three generations in a familial embrace beneath the swelting midday Trinidad sun. My grandmother led us to the cool shade of her verandah and into a stream of crisp mountain breeze that freely eased the lingering discomfort from our ascent to Trinidad’s Northern Range. As we settled, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the day, there it was, Sunday lunch.

Mama was in her element and showed no sign of tiring. Wiping her brow, she reached out to us in a graceful motion, hands clutching her choice garden produce. At that moment we were three generations in a familial embrace beneath the swelting midday Trinidad sun. My grandmother led us to the cool shade of her verandah and into a stream of crisp mountain breeze that freely eased the lingering discomfort from our ascent to Trinidad’s Northern Range. As we settled, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the day, there it was, Sunday lunch. It was nothing short of spectacular. To this day when I recall this memory, I see it in perfect detail.

On a long wooden table, daintily decorated by a vinyl covering were spread numerous enamel, pyrex, and ceramic bowls filled with stewed red beans, steaming white rice, sweet fried plantain, and slices of avocado. A macaroni pie fresh from the oven sat atop a corkboard placeholder, the sharp molten cheddar cheese bubbling on its golden surface. To the side was a ceramic platter piled with slivers of roasted beef. At the far end of this heavenly feast, one dish sat mysteriously, still uncovered, guarding its gastronomic secrets.

My mama’s table

As we took our places at mama’s table she appeared with sliced cucumbers, seasoned with salt and pepper. Placing it beside the fried plantains she vanished again behind the swirling beaded curtain, returning with a jar of pepper sauce. This sinfully delicious condiment perhaps freshly blended from the produce she had been harvesting on our arrival. In a final flourish, the white rice was garnished with finely chopped chive and it was time to uncover that mysterious dish, my mama’s mouth-watering stewed chicken that was strategically placed next to my father. We would dive in and devoured our Sunday lunch in first and second helpings.

From beginning to end it was a sensorial ceremony of a spiced and fragrant culinary procession that filled the afternoon. The sweetness and texture of the stew chicken, a common yard fowl, paired with the creamy heartiness of the deep macaroni pie brought every mouthful together in a harmonic complement—sides, condiments, and meats.

This moment is emblazoned on my memory. It was the first time I truly began to understand the culture of my food as a Trinidadian. During my time living abroad, I clung to these memories. On days that I pined for curried crab and dumplings in those white unforgiving Philadelphia winters, there was no better comfort than a call to my mama for one of her recipes. A trip to the grocery store followed and the unveiling of my miniature coal pot lead to many glorious hours spent recreating that joy of home cooking and deepening my love of Caribbean cuisine.

Caribbean cuisine and mama’s hand

Back living in Trinidad and sitting at home on the verandah, my realization has come full circle. I am no closer to that feeling of home now than during my time abroad, or even to that very moment at my mama’s long wooden table when I began to appreciate the spectacle of a real hearty Trinidadian lunch. Caribbean cuisine or Caribbean food, or whatever you call it, is what we make of it. It may be a dish made from authentic produce or made with substitute ingredients. The key to a successful recipe or Caribbean dish is always those memories and associations we attach to the special moments when we dine with family and friends. Where ever we are in the world matters little, as long as we continue to embrace our Caribbean lifestyle, love and share our Caribbean food, and uphold Caribbean culture and heritage, where ever we happen to make our home.

So was I able to carve my niche in Philadelphia after that day? Yes. We are closer to the culture of Caribbean food in locations around the world than we often realise. Though miles away from the world’s most unique archipelago, in almost every metropolis across the globe one finds elements of Caribbean cooking. And even if it remains a challenge to find a taste of home, one may seek comfort in knowing that your granny may just be one phone call away.

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