Barbados and Don’ts

I guess it had to happen at some point.  We’d hit our fifteenth country and managed to clean our plates every time.  What events conspired to lead me to toss my overstuffed foil container of Bajan leftovers into the trash before I even entered my apartment?  Read on, friend. I’ll explain.

A fifteen-minute bus ride from Kensington left the Nomad crew at the corner of Flatbush Ave. and Empire Blvd. on the east side of Prospect Park, still a good fifteen-minute walk from either of the restaurants the Nomad had scouted.  Anyone looking for a leisurely Saturday afternoon stroll could do a lot better than Empire Blvd. between Flatbush and Nostrand.  Although the desolate trudge past warehouse after garage after warehouse was hardly transporting me to anything approaching my heavily stereotyped image of Barbados, it was doing wonders for my appetite, and I arrived at Culpepper’s (1082 Nostrand Ave, Brooklyn 718- 940-4122) raring for a feast.

We were  encouraged by the mass of people we found waiting patiently for their Saturday suppers, some apparently for over an hour.  To all outward appearances, Culpepper’s is a typical West Indian take-out joint, and I briefly envisioned us eating off our laps as we sat on the curb outside.  Then, as I was still trying to sort out who was waiting for what and where if anywhere a line might have formed, I suddenly found myself following the Nomad and Noquar into a tiny, green, windowless dining room lined with portraits of five of Barbados’ seven prime ministers.  It was uncomfortably quiet inside compared to the bustle on the other side of the door, and completely empty except for one of the friendliest, most helpful servers you could hope for in such an awkward setting.  This strange little room was his domain, and it was clear from the moment we walked in that we would be well taken care of.

Pitcher of mauby

We started with the fish cakes, crispy, doughy little nuggets  served with a sweet, creamy, peppery dipping sauce, and a pitcher of mauby, a homemade soft drink made from tree bark.  The mauby was fantastic and definitely the most interesting beverage we’ve come across so far.  It starts out tasting almost like bubble gum and finishes with a nice earthy bitterness.  After practically inhaling our fish cakes (I don’t think any of us had really eaten much all day), we ended up having to wait what seemed like an eternity for our chicken roti because our order had disappeared somewhere amid the Saturday-afternoon chaos in the kitchen.  We had actually ordered a vegetable roti as well, but it never arrived, which was fortunate because the chicken roti was enormous and probably could have fed the three of us on its own.  For anyone who’s unfamiliar with it, roti is a kind of flatbread often used as a wrap.  It’s common in South and Southeast Asia, parts of eastern Africa, and the Carribean, most likely brought there by the large numbers of Indians who went as indentured servants under the British at the end of the 19th century.  This particular roti might be the best I’ve ever had.  The roti itself had a perfect soft, chewy texture, and the chicken inside was tender and curried in a sweet, mild sauce.  We tore the thing to shreds in a matter of minutes.  We must have looked like a cartoonish blur of knives and forks, and the folks who had been seated at the table next to ours were in vocal awe of our voracity.

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