Oh, right. This thing.

It's been a little over two weeks since I last wrote something for this blog, an absence I attribute to various reasons---listed below in no particular order:

* I was vacationing in Jamaica for five days.
* There was laundry to do.

* I was breaking the heart of a Penthouse Pet (story for another day, kids).
* I had nothing worth saying.

I still don't have much to say, but I will struggle past that obstacle and spit out a story I like to call, "The Curious Case of the Jamaican Jerk Sauce."

One of the most enduring stereotypes of Jamaica is that it's a weed-loving country where people walk around from morning until night with blunts dangling from their mouths...usually as they play soccer and listen to Bob Marley. This was mostly true. While pot is illegal in Jamaica, it didn't stop the local population from furtively (and not so furtively) offering me "smoke" twice within 15 minutes of clearing customs in Montego Bay. By week's end I had been offered pot just shy of a dozen times. None of this seemed unusual at the time or in retrospect. What was unusual was the transaction that went down on the evening before my return to New York.

The resort I stayed at had a basketball court which Rich (travel bud) and myself availed ourselves of on several of the days there. The court was somewhat out of the way and, except for a kid from the Bronx which Rich schooled with little to no effort (niiiiice), nobody else ever visited the courts. Our last night there, despite a lengthy list of bumps, bruises and abrasions incurred from the week's (unexpectedly) physical activities, we decided to go head-to-head one more time. Rich ended up winning the game 21-14, but this was definitely a moral victory for me. My strategy of backing into the lane, dribbling in place for 30-45 seconds, and then jumping backwards with a wild bank shot worked with alarming success. While I would like to credit my natural athletic gifts for the closer-than-expected final result, I think Rich had been distracted by our mid-game encounter with The Bacon Chef.

About half way through our marathon game of futility, we noticed a man slowly approaching us from the distance. He seemed to be a worker at the resort and his slow, careful movements suggested he was about to offer us drugs. As is typical in these situations, the affable man inquired about our vacation and engaged in a little chit-chat. Then he asked, "How do you like the food?" "It's good. Very good." we replied. His eyes lit up and he proudly announced he was The Bacon Chef. For a good while we thought he meant The Baking Chef...but we've since elected to go with Bacon. "What was the best thing you ate so far?" he inquired. The answer to this question was pivotal. I'd be fascinated to know what would have happened next had we answered something like, "the bacon" or "the soft serve ice cream" or the "pineapple tempura." But no. We answered..."the jerk chicken from last night was awesome." Having fallen into his trap, he smiled. "The jerk sauce here is THE best sauce. You can't get that anywhere else. Nobody else knows how to make it." Rich and I look at each other. This was the strangest drug dealer ever.

"You guys want some jerk sauce to take home? Not the diluted stuff. The real stuff." Was he really going to sell us illegal jerk sauce? Yes. Yes, he was. Rich, perhaps because of his Cajun background, was far more interested in this transaction than I was, and thus fanned the flames. After Rich said he was interested in procuring some, The Bacon Chef said, "Wait here. I'm going to get you a sample. You'll see. You've never had anything like it." Off he went, and back to the game Rich and I went. Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, The Bacon Chef returned with a plastic cup of jerk sauce. Rich and I both sampled it and, true to his word, it was the best jerk sauce I've ever had---a little sweet, but definitely with a strong kick. It was good enough to drink. "How much for a bottle?" Rich asked. The Bacon Chef seemed as though he was making it up on the fly when he declared he had two sizes. Rich opted for the smaller bottle which was going to cost him $20. Always a victim of peer pressure and never able to say no to a salesman, I, too, agreed to buy a bottle of said jerk sauce.

"Okay, here's how it's going to work," our sauce dealer informed us. "You give me half the money now, and half the money tomorrow when you get the sauce." Rich and I glanced at each other and shared the exact same thought: we were never going to see this money or the jerk sauce again. "I'll call your room tomorrow and let you know where to meet me." Now resigned to the fact that this was a charitable donation to the local population, we rummaged through our pockets for money. "We only have $13," Rich said. "I'll take it," said the grabby Bacon Chef. We gave him our money, received some vague instructions, and off he went. We resumed our game and Rich, no doubt troubled by the prospect of not getting the jerk sauce he so desperately wanted, proceeded to let me go on an Eduardo Najera-like scoring binge.

At the game's conclusion we walked back toward the resort area and encountered the dealer for yet a third time. "I work from 3:00am to 12pm. What time should I call your room?" "Not at 3:00am," Rich quickly replied. "Call at 8:30am," I said. "Rich, will answer." We gave him our room number, he left, and then we took odds on whether he would actually call. Because I was dutifully sleeping in the next morning, the rest of this story is a secondhand account as relayed to me from Rich. Sure enough, just before 8:30am, the phone call comes. Rich is given specific instructions to "ask for The Bacon Chef" at the Negril Buffet. Rich arrives at the buffet and, after an awkward encounter with the hostess who kept trying to seat him, he explains that he's looking for The Bacon Chef. She signals to someone with a walkie talkie who then radios to the back for The Bacon Chef. Out he comes and, in an exchange not unlike those on The Wire, cash is rapidly exchanged for two bottles of illegal jerk sauce.

Rich returns to the room---by which point I'm up and awaiting the results of his deal. He had already opened his bottle and was drinking from it, but sure enough he had the shit. And it was gooooood:



Needless to say, I came home from Jamaica and bought eight pounds of chicken.