Jerk in Boston, Portland, the way it was meant to be prepared. - file

If only Miss Sylvie had been a bit more careful while cleaning her standing fan, then she wouldn't have cut her finger and Angie wouldn't have been stuck working in the bar, dealing with people like Prophet; the gold-teeth sporting, white-rum drinking, self-proclaimed Rastaman who was standing across the counter, smiling at her.

His head was wrapped with a green cloth and his eyes were hidden behind very dark sunglasses.

"Hey Angie, you a good woman you know. Is long time mi fi tell you dat you know," he said. She stared blankly at him.

"You is a nice woman you know Angie, a really nice woman," he added, before taking a sip from a cup in his hand and smiling, exposing his gold teeth.

"Lawd man, stop badda mi," Angie replied, looking annoyed. The two were in a small shop in Boston, Portland, around 2 o'clock on a recent afternoon. Angie was the barmaid for the day, filling in for the older and more popular Miss Sylvie, who was still recovering from her encounter with the blades of her standing fan.

"Den how you a move so, Angie?" Prophet pressed. "Look yah nuh man, mi too tired fi deal wid you right yah now," was Angie's reply.

Raucous laughter

"Oh God, you tired? You need fi buy a bed put under di counter. Hee, Hee!" Prophet broke out into raucous laughter, much to the consternation of Angie, who flashed him off with her hand. The bar was roomy and there were several stacks of beer and rum bottles on the shelves. A radio on the counter blared reggae music and there were several calendars with pictures of semi-nude women hanging on the walls. Outside, jerk pork and chicken vendors, famous in these parts, were busy selling to the growing crowd that had flocked to Boston. As Angie tells it, crowds are quite common here.

"Boston get famous fi di pork, so di people dem come from all bout fi get it. Di man dem out a front deh so well beknowing fi dem pork," she said, keeping an eye on Prophet, who was sitting on a bar stool nearby, trying to touch her hand.

"Di people dem say di best pork come from right here," she said. "All him sell too," Angie chuckled, pointing to Prophet.

I eyed the dreadlocked Prophet curiously, who, under pressure, was pressed to give an explanation. "Mi sell mi roots wine and tonic," said he, pointing to a stall outside. Sure enough, the table was stacked with bottles of a dark brown liquid and a cluster of green bush that Prophet insisted was peppermint. It didn't smell like peppermint.

In what seemed like an attempt to change the subject from the true nature of the bush, Prophet redirected his attention to Angie.

"So Angie, you nah have a drink with me?" he said.

In walked Benjy, a middle-aged coconut vendor wearing a white shirt and black trousers. His skin was dark and wrinkled. "Boss you nah drink a jelly?" said he. "Huh?" I replied, having been surprised by his sudden appearance. "Jelly coconut, man! You nah drink a jelly coconut?" Benjy said.

I declined the offer and Benjy sat on one of the bar stools. He was grumbling about something. "Mi seh di bwoy sell one a mi jelly dem and pocket di money," he said.

Sold jelly

Angie asked him what was bothering him. "Nuh di bwoy Prento! Mi lef him a watch mi jelly dem so mi coulda go dung di road. When mi go and come back, di bwoy sell one a dem and a talk bout seh a lie. But is alright! Wait till I hold him!" said he. Angie chuckled. "Weh you a laugh fah? Wait till I hold dat big nose bwoy. When I hold him and give him a lick today, all next month him feel it!" he said, before suddenly turning back to me. "Boss, you sure you nuh want a jelly?" he said, his eyes still fiery. It might have been a good marketing strategy, as with his display of violent intent in mind, I suddenly felt a bit thirsty and left Boston that day with a hearty drink of some cool, sweet coconut water.

robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com