Everything you've ever heard about Jamaica is true. Almost everything, that is. Everything you've heard: It's beautiful, but poorly maintained; Bob Marley is king; poverty is rampant; rasta is respected as a great cultural movement; dogs run free; the food is terrible; everyone smokes pot. An anecdote to indicate which of those facts is true: In Long Bay my wife and I walked out onto a trash-littered coral beach, while a Rastafarian fished for his dinner and lit his second joint. Reggae from the bar half a mile away drifted through the coconut trees, while three wild dogs grappled over a fish head. So far, my forewarners seemed to be right on the mark. We watched the sunset and headed across the street to find some food. Given our soothsayers' accuracy rating, our expectations were low. But, luckily… The part about terrible food is only almost true: A tiny cook shop named Fisherman's Restaurant was our only option. The cook, called Wayne, was a sight for empty stomachs. A local man sipped on a Red Stripe, smoked ghanja and cried out, "Yat fud?" "Ya Mon!" smiled Wayne. He turned to us. "Ut chu wun, Mon?" I chose the curry goat. My wife had shrimp. Wayne started peeling the shrimp while plantain sizzled in a skillet set over the wheel rim of a car filled with coals, glowing orange. The perfume of Scotch Bonnet peppers wafted out of the open-air kitchen, and we already knew that we'd be back for breakfast, then dinner again. If you find yourself hungry in Long Bay, stop by the Fisherman's Restaurant and eat whatever Wayne tells you is good that day. Despite what you may have heard, you can't go wrong.
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