Fish and Festival
On a beach in Jamaica sits a non-descript hut. Every year, the ocean comes closer, pulling more and more sand into the sea. Every so often, boats come in, hauling nets and wire traps brimming with creatures from the sea. Lobsters, with their brown, mottled shells, clatter about, waving their antennae. Nets full of red and yellow snapper are carried into the hut to be cleaned, seasoned, and fried alongside other mouthwatering morsels. More seafood, is carried inside and as we watch, we can only wonder what delights they’ll make.
The classic dish is nothing fancy, but the small restaurant is renowned for it: fried fish and festival. When the food is carried out, you watch as steam rises from the fish. They’re piled on a plastic tray, but we’re not here for the silverware and candle lit diners. The scent hits you, and your body leans forward in anticipation.
It’s placed in the middle of the table for all to reach. You strike fast, as do the other experienced diners of the group because, you know that as soon as the rookies taste it, they’ll want more. You grab what can be considered the eight wonder of the world. The snapper’s colorful hues peak through a delicate crunchy exterior that rivals the warm brown tones of maple syrup. But, despite that, the fried exterior is delicate enough to get a peek of the colored skin below. The tail is crisp, a salty treat that you save for the after meal. You dig in, pressing your fingers against the still hot fish. The fried skin gives way under your fingertips, and makes a small noise, almost unheard, like a secret for only you to hear. Break it open. You’re enveloped by steam, the inside is flaky and pearly white. Your senses are overwhelmed. Fingers slick with oil, nose teased and taunted by the promiscuous scent of the dish, mouthwatering, and eyes widening in pure ecstasy, you place the first piece on your tongue and wilt.
The first thing that you encounter is the natural flavor of the fish, which is followed by the seasoning added by the chef. It’s not meant to overpower the dish, but like partners in a tango, it accompanies it. It dances along your taste buds, lightens your soul, and uncontrollably brings a smile to your face. The first bite is so pleasurable, it equates to sitting down after a long day of standing or parching your thirst with an icy cold drink. It leaves you wanting to lean back and savor every bite of what is to come.
On the side, there is the festival. They’ re non-descript looking. It takes a closer look to understand just how special they are. They are most similar to fried dumplings, but look like breadsticks, the outside's a wild melody of browns. The outside is crisp and hot, the oil still popping on it, fresh from the dutchy. You break it open and watch as the steam spirals out. With the sun's heat heating your skin, you wonder how the food could give off so much steam in this tropical heat. It's like a competition between food and sun, to see who can burn the brightest.
Shaking these thoughts, you close your jaw on the festival and feel the crack of the outside give way to an aerated bread. Its sweet and yeasty, and unrivaled by all. It has to be eaten fresh from the hot oil, on that beach of Jamaica. All the festival's magic is lost once it leaves the restaurant grounds. When eaten as a leftover, you only taste the memories of what it once was- fresh out of the dutchy. Reaching out, you pile more fish and festival on to your plate.