Restaurant: Bamboula
Location: Brixton
By Boeing: 5356 miles
By Boris Bike: 5 miles
One of the most emotive and stirring scenes in London in the heat wave summer of ‘76 was thousands of Afro-Caribbean fans storming onto the parched outfield of the Oval to hoist their cricketing heroes aloft. Their cricket team had made them proud and reigned victorious over their starchy English hosts. It was as much a cultural celebration as a cricketing one, the reggae soul and carnival spirit transplanted from tropical shores to London’s controlled, calculating cityscape. It was a homecoming for all those who had made their home thousands of miles from an island paradise.
Of all the West Indian nations it is Jamaica that has left its indelible mark on the capital. The delicious juxtaposition of its carefree charm with England’s tense conformity has enlivened London and imbued it with a sense of fun and a pinch of irreverence. Brixton has always been the spiritual home of Jamaican London, spilling over with reggae record shops, rickety stalls of exotic fruits and all manner of hooded tops and stationary emblazoned with that anti-establishment symbol, the Cannabis leaf. So it was naturally to Brixton I headed to pay culinary homage.
A short walk from the station past a ubiquitous KFC was Bamboula, a yellow-fronted restaurant behind a short picket fence. It stood out from other Jamaican fare in the vicinity for being a genuine restaurant, rather than a take-away shack with a few tables squeezed in the front. The minute you walked through the door you left frenetic London behind and were enveloped in an ambience of a chilled Caribbean beach. Indeed the space is transformed into a beach hut, with a vaulted thatch effect ceiling and wooden veranda fencing around the walls. Tropical plants daubed onto the wall and a bar sunk under a sloping beam roof complete the bright, ebullient effect.
Wisely passing on a jug of rum punch on a weekday evening we chose two of the island’s famous brands. My friend opted for Red Stripe lager while I chose the more intriguing Dragon Stout. Intriguing because this thick, viscous island staple seems so incongruous with the light-hearted vibe of the island. In a Wigan working man’s club perhaps, but on a sandy beach slung in a hammock? But it shows that though Jamaica bristles with very unBritish freedoms it has nevertheless adopted some of its tastes.
Being an island fish is never far from the dinner table and our starters reflected this. Lightly seasoned Ackee in a fried plantain pocket was served alongside cod fish fritters with a peppy salsa. The subtle flavours of the fish emboldened by spice made for a pleasingly fresh and satisfying starter, and also hinted at the heat to come. While many dishes are pan-Caribbean the Jerk marinade is a Jamaican speciality. So while grilled Tilapia and Curried Goat tempted we opted for the Jerk. This sauce is sweet and spicy, assaulting the taste buds and forcing them to savour flavour while bracing themselves for wave after wave of heat.
British cuisine could never have concocted something so brash, so brave. Like a fairground big-dipper this is not an experience for the faint-hearted or easily flustered. Our eyes welled with tears of attrition and our lips burnt with flavour. More beer was required to douse the dish. Had the chef created this inferno especially for our British, middle-class sensibilities?
A sign hanging nearby said ‘Nuff Niceness’, and by the final forkful we agreed. It many ways it was a chastening experience, like commuting on the Northern Line. But as the heat subsided the flavour remained and tantalised. The waitress betrayed a smile as she collected the plates and saw the trail of tears on the tablecloth. This would provide the chefs with much mirth, I thought. Enjoying the soft reggae rhythms playing over the speakers and the friendly patter of the barman and waitress I relaxed into the evening and delayed requesting the bill. There was time, I reasoned, for a rum bread and butter pudding. Once again this was a British custom adopted but then Jamaicanised. The suet, soft slice of the British version was unrecognisable. This was coarse, brown bread, more
like a Ginger cake than a loaf of Sunblest. The Wray and Nephew rum had seeped through its grains like a flash flood through porous rock and gave it a boozy depth. It was decadent and filling and was complimented with the tang of a scoop of stem ginger ice-cream. Its home-baked heartiness was at odds with its sharp flavour. Again it was a British dish but not playing by British rules.
Jamaica will forever rule the roost in this corner of South London and the timid will do well to gird their loins, for its cuisine makes you sit bolt upright faster than a conversationalist on the tube.
