Enlarge Photo

Photo by: Zach Stovall

There’s a “food democracy” in Negril I’ve not found anywhere else on Jamaica. Perhaps that’s why this easygoing beach town is my sweet spot, the epicenter of everything culinary on my favorite Caribbean island. It’s the simplicity, the almost hedonistic environment, of intersecting ocean and jungle, where fresh ingredients surround me as I walk along the cliffs or on the beach. In places where large hotels are predominant, local cuisine is obscured; homogenized resorts make food that makes their guests comfortable. But here in Negril, where no hotel can be built higher than the tallest palm tree, everyone can find the same fresh dishes, whether tourist or local, regardless of income or social status. When you eat on the streets of Negril, everyone is the same and food is the common denominator.

As a chef, I find this completely fascinating. The cuisine reflects the national motto, “Out of Many, One People.” Almost every plate reflects the island’s rich cultural tapestry. The Spanish, first to conquer, left behind escovitch and other vinegary marinated dishes. From the English came the patty, the Jamaican turnover inspired by the English pasty. The Maroons, former slaves, cooked over open fires, contributing to the birth of jerk cooking over allspice wood. Then there is curry, brought by West Indian indentured laborers, and Rastafarian ital cuisine — totally vegetarian, devoid of salt and extremely flavorful.

This is why I always return to Negril. I can completely immerse myself in the culture. Even before the bus embarks on the familiar ride from the airport in Mo’ Bay — a trip I’ve made at least 50 times over the last 35 years — my sense memory takes over and sets my heart racing with pleasure. The fumes of congestion give way to the earthy, exotic aroma of tropical vegetation mingled with the wood fires of roadside jerk stands; reggae rhythms pulse through the open windows as we pass through small towns. Our bus stops more than once for crossing goats. I am home.

See related photo gallery: The Perfect Patty »

My first night here, I walk to Best in the West jerk-chicken shack. I take a seat under the hut’s thatch roof, a high-powered Los Angeles attorney on one side of me, a Chicago stockbroker on the other. The captain of a sailing vessel is tucking in across from me, and there’s a group of pot farmers from Mendocino, California, nearby. We savor the spicy food, dipping our soft, sweet coco bread into the fiery sauce. Our playing fields are level. None of us cares what the others do; we are bound by simply knowing this jerk shack is here and by the contentment of just being.

It’s the same sense of well-being I felt on my first visit 35 years ago, only now I feel smarter too. I started coming to Negril as a young art student during the early 1970s, searching for peace, paradise and fellow creative spirits. I’m still an artist at heart, but now I’m a professional chef, a relentless student of global cuisine and a fresh-food fanatic by sheer desire. Every trip to Negril is both a culinary and emotional journey for me.

My work as a chef and writer has allowed me to cook throughout the world. I’ve found that Jamaica offers something unique to the cooking world that others strive to achieve. Most tourists coming from the States know that the vogue right now is to eat local: “Farm-to-table” fare is the fashionable craze. But in Jamaica, there is no other way. Almost everything is grown and harvested within minutes of where it is cooked and eaten. You can see this natural supply chain from the moment you leave the airport. The roadsides are dotted with tiny fruit and vegetable shacks selling seasonal bounty. What appears simply as beautiful flora lining the road is actually ackee, breadfruit, mango and other delicious edibles.

The island is laden with fruit and vegetables wherever you look. Breadfruit hang precariously from trees. Unbelievable amounts of avocados pack tree branches, waiting to be plucked and eaten. And all around is the smell of fragrant allspice wood smoldering in roadside jerk pits, where chicken is slowly cooking. It never fails: As a local-food advocate — and someone who just loves real, good food — I reach my happy place as soon as I inhale the aroma of fresh thyme, green onions and spicy Scotch bonnet chile peppers on my way through the palms lining the beach.

I’ve had the pleasure of cooking alongside Negril’s “bush cooks,” from whom I acquired so much valuable cooking wisdom. The traditional dishes of Jamaica are intense in flavor and uncluttered in taste and rely on ultra-fresh ingredients and simple, age-old cooking methods. It’s a singularly natural way of eating. One thing you’ll notice is you never feel full or bloated after a good Jamaican meal. My entire soul smiles after I eat here. I feel rejuvenated, sated but healthful, as if I’ve done something good for myself.

See related photo gallery: Where to Eat in Negril »

In the beginning of my love affair with Negril’s food, I simply appreciated it. When I became a professional chef, the global culinary kaleidoscope came into focus with each plate. Now, as an adherent of the local-food philosophy, I think every meal here is truly sublime. When I order a callaloo patty, I know the fresh greens will be pulled straight from the ground and prepared simply. If I’m in the mood for seafood, I count on the fact that my snapper, parrotfish or shrimp (sometimes called “swims”) are coming from a little dugout docked off the beach. In fact, I may have met my snapper-escovitch lunch earlier in the day while snorkeling in the intense blue-green waters. And as I stroll the landscape, I take care to walk around the patches of fresh thyme and green onions so as not to disturb them before they go into my rice and peas.

Eating in Negril is improv-
theater at its finest. There’s hustle and bustle in every corner. As you walk along the jungle where it meets the beach, you’ll come across food shacks selling freshly cut fruit, tropical drinks, grilled lobster or just-baked patties. Reggae music blasts along the shore and through the bush, providing a melodic backdrop. Small boats drift ashore with the daily catch; food vendors walk the sand carrying baskets of fruit picked moments ago or coco bread just pulled from the oven. It’s a nonstop spectacle of people and food.

Negril is divided naturally into two zones: beach and cliffs, each with its own rhythm. Many people like the cliffs — their elevation and dense, jungly vegetation lend a secluded, laid-back vibe. But while I prefer the beach for its constant action and breathtaking turquoise water, being able to enjoy the best of both is yet another facet of Negril’s enduring appeal for me. My personal game plan is to stay on the beach, then head up to the cliffs for dinners and side trips when I’m ready for something a little different.

This, for me, is the real Jamaica. There’s an air of immediacy, a culinary primitivism here that I don’t feel in any other place. In Negril I find complete contentment in just walking the beach and scoping out where the food shacks are and what they’re serving that day, knowing it’s coming to me straight from the earth — or sea. When the mood strikes, I find an accommodating spot and do as I please: grab a bite, go for a swim or bask in the sun like a lizard, then repeat the process in any order through the morning and into the afternoon.

If eating here is an organic experience, drinking is no different. Ting, the local grapefruit soda, is the way I start my day, but as afternoon approaches, I graduate to Red Stripe or, better yet, head for one of the ubiquitous rum huts along the beach. I watch as the barman pulls a fresh banana from the bunch, adds a ripe papaya and a soursop, then purees it all with ice and Jamaican rum. It’s local food — and drink — at its finest.

My dining routine in Negril is a way to reconnect with the people and food I’ve come to cherish. For a foodie like me, it’s a daylong affair. In the morning I head to the beach to wait for the Mango Lady to come by and peel a fresh mango or papaya for me. Then I move on to a cup of homegrown Blue Mountain coffee, which, thankfully, is served everywhere, along with a dense banana or other fruit bread.

When I crave a traditional Jamaican breakfast, I venture to my favorite breakfast place, Sweet Spot, for a plate piled with ackee and saltfish, roasted or boiled banana, sauteed callaloo, and bammy or festival, local doughnuts of sorts, heavy but wonderful. For lunch, I improvise on either the beach or the cliffs. Miss Sonia’s is a must on every trip, but I also stop by the small beachside huts for fresh-baked patties or a bowl of chunky soup. I often succumb to some of the beach hawkers too, whether I indulge in a pumpkin patty or a bag of freshly roasted peanuts.

Dinner is my favorite part of the day, when I visit my go-to haunts, eat amazingly fresh food and catch up with the owners I’ve befriended through the years. It also inspires a dream I’ve held almost as long as I’ve been coming here: a beautiful little seaside restaurant that serves modern Jamaican food with a twist called Kojak’s on the Beach (in honor of the nickname my local friends have given me and my bald head). I’m not taking reservations just yet, but check with the Mango Lady the next time she strolls by.

Where to Eat in Negril:

Contact info provided where available

Best in the West Jerk Stand

Hungry Lion; 876-957-4273

Ivan's Bar Restaurant; 876-957-0390

Sonia's Restaurant and Snack Counter; sonias@jabta.com

Sweet Spice; 876-957-4621

Sweet Spot

3 Dives; 876-782-9990

Steven Petusevsky, aka Chef Steve, is a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America and a passionate advocate of local food and natural cooking. He is a frequent contributor to Relish.com, pens the Vegetarian Today column for the Chicago Tribune News Service and is the author of The Whole Foods Market Cookbook (Clarkson Potter, $25.95).