The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [152]
I had numerous options for dinner that evening. Matt had gone on tour with his band that week but left me with a list of highly recommended restaurants. My friend Nick was going on a trip in a few days and suggested we check out one of his favorite Indian places. Chrysanthe had been raving about the food at a restaurant that just opened in Williamsburg. Scott, too, had offered several high-end restaurant suggestions. But that night, Tuesday, I decided to dine alone. On whatever was closest to my vicinity. I got home and looked at the empty sink and kitchen counter. I usually relaxed and unwound when I got home from work by doing the previous night’s dishes. Instead I pulled open a drawer underneath my TV and sifted through the many takeout menus that had been slipped under my apartment door over the months. Most of them were Chinese takeout places, a few Japanese. I put my jacket on, deciding to see what was in the neighborhood. There were a number of hole-in-the-wall Caribbean restaurants in my immediate neighborhood, since it was populated largely with people from the West Indies. There was one right around the corner from my building. I decided to check it out.
I walked into the brightly lit, small restaurant. There were about six square tables. All were empty except for one, where a sole customer sat. I took a look at the trays of food behind a glass window. The lady behind it greeted me and offered me a menu.
“Can I try the jerk chicken, please?” I asked a few moments later.
“Sorry, tonight is curry chicken and barbecue,” she said. She pointed to the word Tuesday on the menu. “Each night we have these,” she explained, drawing my attention to the list of days of the week and the corresponding entrees that were served on each one.
“Oh, I see,” I said. So tonight’s offerings were barbecue chicken or curry chicken.
“But we have all the same sides, too,” she went on. Trays full of stewed greens, macaroni and cheese, and other sides were steaming behind the counter. I took a look at them and another look at the menu.
“I’ll have the curry chicken,” I said decisively. The lady smiled and began to fill a round aluminum takeout tray. “Do you want it with plain rice, or rice with pigeon peas?” she asked. “It’s a Jamaican specialty,” she said, referring to the rice with pigeon peas.
“I’ll have the pigeon peas, please.” She ladled the curry chicken stew on top of the rice and filled up the last third of the tray with a scoop of soft-cooked cabbage. I paid for the meal, which cost just $7. She gave me a curious smile when I asked for no bag, and placed a few napkins on top of the takeout tray. I smiled and thanked her. The tray was heavy and warm, and I realized that the napkins were handy for holding it without burning my hands. I turned the corner and walked back to my building.
I turned on the television to a news show but found myself watching only the food as I ate. The tray was filled to the brim. The chicken was so tender that it fell off the bone at the slightest touch. Its warm, spicy mix of ginger, cumin, and other Jamaican spices was soothing and had steeped