I spent the first fifteen years of my life in the culturally rich, ultimately ridiculous, sun-baked Broward County, FL. From a very latch-key upbringing in a very lower middle-class neighborhood a mile from the Atlantic, I was exposed to things that people in my current area just can't appreciate. I grew up surrounded by reggae, Haitian and Cuban cuisine, voodoo and neighborhood cat abductions, Latin invasion, and Caribbean influence; I also grew up going to goth and heavy metal clubs. My first two CD's I owned in fourth grade were the Prodigy's "Fat of the Land" and the Miami Sound Machine's "Cuts Both Ways".
When riding the public bus to the surf shop when I was 10, a crackhead drooled on me and asked if I had a cigarette.
Mine and my brother's favorite pastry is Brazilian and is stuffed with meat. I can't spell it, but it sounds something like this: Gojeena. I think there is an 'X' in there somewhere.
I first ate alligator and frog on a school trip to an Indian Reservation in the Everglades when I was in Elementary school. We spent the day literally wading through the world's largest swamp up to our belly buttons because we were told 'that's how they used to do it' by a white native who called himself Chakateekee.
Very long story cut short (tl;dr): I was lucky to have a very culturally diverse and eye-opening childhood.
Greensboro is trying to do something. The city doesn't have a clear enough direction. A place like this thrives on artisan pizza places and craft beers. Any authentic cultural restaurant I have experienced cannot stand on its own without having to Americanize its menu to death or just flat out going out of business. Aside from places like India Palace on Tate St. who play the same Indian awards show on their TVs every time I go in there. They are an institution at this point.
I was genuinely excited the first time I went to Jibaro. Jibaro, for those who don't remember, occupied that awkward space on Tate St across Walker Ave from the dynasty that is NY Pizza. Jibaro was an authentic Caribbean establishment that didn't serve their sandwiches with bread. They created godlike pork and chicken sandwiches with giant, salty plantain bread-substitutes. This was five years ago, so I can't get into exact sandwich details, but I left with memories of childhood food truck meals. I tried to go back a week later and it had gone out of business.
A few years later I moved to Glenwood. The swift car door-lockings, condom wrappers on the sidewalks and shoes hanging from telephone wires reminded me of my neighborhood growing up. And then I heard about Da Reggae Cafe. Reasonably priced strip mall Jamaican and Caribbean food. I was curious. There was a sweepstakes two doors down in the strip mall. They sold me everything I could have possibly wanted. The first time I went I think I ate 3 Jamaican patties, once beef, one goat and one pork. The second time I had curried goat with potatoes and plantains. The third time I tried to go UNCG had bought the land and was in the process of knocking Da Reggae Cafe down, along with the sweepstakes next door.
Yeah. I was upset.
From my experience, people in this area are afraid to try new things like Caribbean cuisine or real authentic things that haven't been overly Americanized. The hopeful cultural ambassadors try to express their culinary differences and are instead pallbearers of restaurants past.
This was supposed to be a blog post about the actual culture I am experiencing living in Greensboro and eventually about visual art. I am hungry so there was a long rant about how I want Caribbean food right now and I won't be able to find any, blah blah blah.
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