Bottom-dwelling goodness
Dinner @ G&W Caribbean Smoked BBQ
My first encounter with Caribbean food was at a patty shop in New Brunswick. Wedging a spicy slab of chicken-filled suet dough between two fat slices of coco bread for $2.50 is a college student’s dream, one I had often.
Walk out, take a right, descend George St. The tapestry swag shop down the block is owned by a riddling Rasta who sells me the best weed at Rutgers at an elevated price point—also worth it considering the $90 ounces of Mexican brick we’re accustomed to. Thankfully, the many glorious island herbs work together.
My love affair for this cuisine grew from there. All so familiar, yet always holding its own. For years, I order the shrimp roti at Nicole’s in Jersey City, learning about the African slaves and Indian indentured servants spread across this chain of islands smashing their indigenous foods and spices together with local crops. Necessity breeds creativity.
I don’t recall much about my first visit to Florida, except this: stopping at a Fort Lauderdale street festival and spotting a Rasta serving conch sandwiches. The pepper sauce leaps from the fried mollusk, tempered by two thick slices of bread. I devour it, look at Wayne, our red eyes blazed over, turn around, order another. This chef is never going to be in my life again. Desire destroys satiation—a decision never regretted.
Then, my only actual visit to the Caribbean, walking into a St Thomas restaurant, ordering patties and coco bread, veggie curry and roti, whatever my then-vegetarianism allowed.
The only disappointment is, tragically, the overpriced and under-delivering Negril on the island of Manhattan. The cocktails are worth it; the curry, not so much.
Sure, there’s been a forgettable patty here and there. I basically lived at Golden Krust when working in the garment district. I would never rank the chain against the pantheon of Floridian conch dealers or the exquisite Guyanese flavors spun up in Nicole’s laboratory—it warms my heart that 15 years after moving out of downtown Jersey City, she remains in business.
Now, across the nation in Portland, my fix still needs fixing.
Catfish, pikliz & plantains
We’re zero for two at Habanero Burrito, a cart located in the parking lot of the Dime Spot. A burrito spot next to a weed store is one of the most Portland things ever, out of many Portland things ever. Sadly, the truck is closed as we pull up because one thing we’ve learned after a year of living in this city is that “business hours” are only suggestions that could be close to the truth, or not even.
My wife is amazed by and abhors—the two somehow co-exist—my single-mindedness when it comes to food (among other things). Once a meal enters my mind there’s no rest until the dish is in my paws. Instead of succumbing to the disappointment of this night not including burritos, I blurt out “the carts,” which I expect her to translate as “the Eastport Food Carts nearby.” Sensing my hangerness, she does.
We’ve already had good experiences with the Afghani cuisine in this pod. Twice we’ve driven over to this pod on SE 82nd and SE Center hoping to check out the well-regarded Spice of Africa. Twice, closed. Callan even texted the owner, who immediately replied that they open at 5, although we were standing in front at 5:30. Then, apparently, someone cut their gas tank lines and they were forced to flee the pod.
We take a full pass through the parking lot deciding where our stomachs will lead us. We almost go with Hawaiian in preparation for an upcoming trip to Kauai, but settle on G&W Caribbean Smoked BBQ wedged in the corner.
Both windows are closed, though I see someone scurrying around preparing an order. I wait roughly a minute before he notices me. He flicks up the window and raises an eyebrow. I tell him we’re interested in ordering, which seems to surprise him. He asks for another minute. Understood—running a cart solo is no easy task. He’s all smiles when he reopens the window.
Callan orders the cod fish with rice and beans. A quick flick of his head: no rice and beans tonight. Also, no cod fish. She goes with the catfish and mac and cheese. He nods.
I follow up with the catfish sandwich. A side of plantains. He tells me the sandwich comes with chips, and asks if I want the plantains as well. I tell him I only want the plantains. I’ll pay separately. But I don’t need the chips.
“No chips? They come with the sandwich.”
I confirm no chips.
He looks at Callan. “Do you want chips?”
She also refuses. He shakes his head in disbelief. Who would give up free chips?
Apparently, us. I’m not anti-chip. I’m just a half-hour past when I thought I would eat and am now craving plantains. He concedes, hands us a buzzer, and we head north to the Beer Garden.
I’m only halfway through a quaffable Mexican lager when the buzzer explodes. Carrying three plates back to our table, I’m quickly reminded of my conch experience: the pikliz (a Haitian blend of cabbage, carrots, bell peppers, and Scotch bonnet peppers) adds heat and crunch atop the fried catfish, with the thick toasted bread holding it all together. The result is doughy goodness holding together a slightly hot and perfectly fried layer of fish-cabbage.
The smashed plantains are smothered in a layer of Scotch bonnet sauce and another side of pikliz. The spice level is moderate—enough to add flavor, nothing scorching. Well-balanced, dressing up the unripe deliciousness of the slightly sweet fruit.
Unlike me, who can (and sometimes does) devour bread daily and without accompaniment, Callan considers bread a food delivery system and generally avoids it. She takes her catfish with the lemon and tartar sauce, an equally compelling and fulfilling experience, especially with the comforting mac and cheese adding heft to her plate.
Across the street from Nicole’s is (was?) an Asian seafood market that I frequently visited when living in downtown Jersey City. Catfish was the least expensive offering during my pescatarian phase, and so was often on my home-cooked menu. As a bottom dweller, catfish is generally shunned from the plates of foodie culture gatekeepers, which is fine by me: keep the price low. We don’t need a branzino repeat in which people suddenly wake up to its deliciousness and quadruple the price. Catfish remains relatively obscure in American cuisine, save southern and cajun dishes, but it’s big in the Caribbean, and I’m fine seeking it out there. (There’s also a paprikash catfish that I really need to make.)
Interestingly, the former actor that some considered a politician, Ronald Reagan, made June 25—my birthday—national catfish day back in 1987. I missed that factoid until writing this article, proving the fish had a moment back in the day. (When visiting my family in Jersey, I used to enjoy the blackened catfish at Chili’s, so it’s not completely obscure.)
Neither of us finish our plates. For $40, G&W did us right, providing Callan with a filling lunch the following day. I crushed the sandwich on the spot but left with a few plantains, which, in true Portlandia fashion, was eaten along with the remaining pikliz and a bird on it—well, two fried eggs, in this case.
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