Installment #52 in Monolisticle's Ongoing Campaign Against the "Internet of Endless Listicles."
What is it that makes a restaurant authentic?
Is it the fact that the owners were born and raised in the country or region where the food comes from?
Is it the fact that the dishes are loyal and true to the recipes, ingredients, and cooking techniques native to that place?
The answer is maybe, and maybe. Those two things are no guarantee, but they are all “very good signs,” as they say.
But even if the food is seemingly “authentic,” that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will be good. Far cry from it. Good still requires culinary skills—no matter whether those culinary skills were acquired through formal training, or in one’s childhood kitchen learning recipes passed down from generation to generation (at which point, fortunately for us, one of those said generations decided to immigrate to America and share that culinary gift with others).
In this case, that generation would be the owners of Wi Jammin restaurant in Los Angeles. And the “others” would be anyone living within wafting-aroma-distance of the intersection of Pico and Redondo; or foodies like myself living elsewhere in the world who happen to hear about Wi Jammin through the “foodie grapevine,” and then make a cross-country pilgrimage (as I did) to experience these delectable wonders themselves. Lucky me.
I first heard about Wi Jammin from a Jamaican acquaintance of mine, choreographer Luther Brown, whom I interviewed for my arts and culture blog monolisticle.com. We were talking about choreography, creativity, and filmmaking—and then the conversation suddenly took a lovely detour toward food. Realizing we were both foodies, I asked Luther what his favorite Jamaican restaurant in LA is, given he now lives there. Without hesitation he answered “Wi Jammin.”
One year, three months, 22 days, and two hours later, I finally found myself standing inside Wi Jammin, savoring the wafting aromas firsthand, and waiting impatiently to order. I looked around. The decor was what you would expect. Bright colors all around. A Jamaican flag mural taking up an entire wall. And a very large photograph of the legendary man who inspired the restaurant name: Mr. Bob Marley. Next to his photograph, a poster of Usain Bolt. Of course.
As I ordinarily do when I visit a new restaurant that I’m excited about, I order an embarassing number of dishes. I can’t help myself. The young lady who took my order seemed to be amused by my uncontained enthusiasm and graciously suggested that if I wanted to try a lot of different dishes, I could order them as “sides” instead of main portion-sized quantities.
Yes, please. In rapid-fire succession I ordered Jerk Chicken (with cabbage, rice and beans, of course), Curry Chicken (the young lady’s personal favorite), and Ackee with Salt Fish (which the menu described as the “National Dish of Jamaica.” How could I not try their version of the National Dish of Jamaica?). Throw in a glass of Jamminade (a concoction of pine ginger, lemonade, sorrel, and carrot juice), and you’ve got yourself a Jamaican feast.
It was all so crazy good. I can't help from saying that the food, too, was definitely jammin'. As I bit into a piece of Jerk Chicken, chopped into pieces—bone, meat and all—I remembered a review I had read in preparation for my article in which a critic pointed out (as if it were somehow a strike against them) how Wi Jammin's chicken had pieces of bone in it. How is that a negative, I wondered? Especially in this day-and-age of food that has been so altered and homogenized as to be almost unrecognizable from its original state? And yes, my Ackee and Salt Fish had pieces of cod bone in it as well. Who cares? Pick it out, and keep eating.
Which brings me to another indicator of "authentic" food: it hasn't been altered or compromised in order to cater to mass-audience palates. I almost wrote "mass-American palates," and then I caught myself. Because as a fan of all traditional dishes, including traditional American dishes, they have in common a fanatical adherence to traditional ingredients and techniques. Making them more palatable to the masses is not even a consideration. Nor should it be.
The menu also enticed (read: tormented) my taste buds with oxtails, red snapper, and fried chicken. However, my Southern manners held me back from ordering those as well and publicly making a pig of myself. I will have to wait until my next visit. And I intend for that next visit to happen very soon. Next Saturday afternoon looks pretty open.
@wijammin
@luudaddy
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