Pasties
Nine years in the UK, and I’ve still never had a Cornish pasty. But I’ve had my share of samosas, sambusas, empanadas and patties— glorious, heat and meat filled Jamaican patties.
My college boyfriend had an internship downtown with a well-known jazz journalist whose Sullivan Street office was indescribably cool. Wall to wall to wall to wall—shelves of books, records, CDs and cassette tapes. Stacks of books, piles of magazines. Floor to ceiling windows. 20 foot high ceilings. Maybe you’d walk in and there would be Miles Davis or John Coltrane playing. But more often than not it would be tunes by someone you’d not heard or heard of before (or at least I hadn’t.) Ornette Coleman. Henry Threadgill. Peter Brotzmann. John Zorn. Ben Allison. And then there was Howard himself: a gem of a man. A native Chicagoan with a talent for words, an ear for greatness, a radiating warmth, a musician (now ex-) wife, and a supremely sweet daughter, Rosie, for whom I occasionally babysat.
I’d come downtown to meet Joe on those internship days. I’d pick him up at Howard’s office and, before heading off to beers at Chumley’s or a movie at the Landmark Sunshine or soy burger dinner at Dojo or more jazz at Tonic, we would almost always stop at the Jamaican place a few doors down for a snack— a jerk chicken or spicy beef patty, and a Ting.
And now it’s 20+ years later, and Joe and I are still close friends and have kids born almost exactly one year apart, Rosie is a gorgeous, triumphant young woman, Howard is back in Chicago, and Theo’s eating a Jamaican patty in east London.
