The fresh cucumber juice at Jake's, a bohemian-chic hotel on Jamaica's Treasure Beach, has a grassy taste and a tangy kick of spice that lingers on the back of my tongue. It's a fittingly refreshing welcome drink. "What's its secret?" I ask Dougie, the 60-something caretaker at the poolside bar. From inside a thatched hut displaying the requisite Bob Marley photo, he smiles knowingly. "Local cucumbers and ginger. Freshest you can get, mon."
This enthusiasm for fresh, local, organic food is by now a well-established mantra in the food world, but it's late in coming to the Caribbean. Agricultural production in the region has actually declined with the boom of tourism, and farmers have left the field for lucrative jobs in the hospitality industry. Until recently, low food prices made it easy for residents of Caribbean islands to buy necessities from overseas—the region now imports food at a staggering annual cost of nearly $3 billion. Even on large islands like Jamaica that are still teeming with farmland, bad roads and high prices make fresh local food a last resort for the booming resorts. Complicating matters even further are inter-island trade restrictions: Chances are, a mango in the British Virgin Islands arrived frozen on a plane from the United States, rather than fresh off a boat from nearby St. Lucia.
But there's a seismic culinary shift going on in the Caribbean, to source more produce locally, and when possible, organically. Increasingly, guests with sophisticated palates—accustomed to enjoying organic food at their local farmers' markets—are demanding more from their Caribbean food experience. "We've always catered to an arts and film crowd who appreciate that we source most produce locally. Now they are going further, asking, 'Is it organic?'" explains Jason Henzell, proprietor of Jake's, the low-key 29-room getaway, long an insider favorite of vacationing fashionistas.
Jake's is among a new crop of resorts making an effort to offer organic produce and sustainably caught seafood, from Eric Ripert's organic tasting menu at the Ritz-Carlton Grand Cayman to the garden-to-table cooking classes taught at Hermitage Bay on Antigua. Even cruise lines have gotten into the swim, with Holland America sourcing organic for passengers on request. I decided to experience this culinary Caribbean revolution firsthand by sampling the rich flavors of the food at Jake's, and later at the British Virgin Islands' luxurious Rosewood Little Dix Bay. I found them to be a world apart from stereotypical notions of all-inclusive Caribbean resorts that fill bland buffets with imported food. But while the dividend for travelers couldn't be sweeter—beautifully sourced meals bursting with West Indies spirit—I discovered that in the Caribbean, it's not so easy being green.
Because of its hands-on approach to working with local farmers, Jake's seemed the perfect pot to begin my quest to discover how resorts are responding to locavore demands.
My first night, under the lanterns at the alfresco restaurant at Jake's, the smoke from kingfish grilling nearby blends with hints of sweetness from bougainvillea. I choose pumpkin curry with chickpeas from a range of vegetarian dishes featured on chalkboard menus. The curry is understated, letting the pumpkin shine. This island gourd tastes milder than its American counterpart—as if it, too, is relaxed by gentle island winds. Alongside it, I have a coconut-laced succotash of butter beans, carrot, and corn.
The restaurant fills with an easy mix of American honeymooners, British fashion plates, and German backpackers. Feeding them all is chef Dockery Lloyd, who has overseen the food at Jake's for three years and sources most of the hotel's produce locally. Surprisingly, Jake's doesn't wear its locavore passion on its sleeve. Other than a small hand-painted sign at check-in encouraging visitors to support area farmers, guests might never know that nearly 80 percent of the food comes from within a few miles.
"Cooking with local ingredients is just how I grew up. And I like that the organic produce has a stronger, richer flavor," Lloyd says with a Jamaican lilt.
The next morning, I wake to the sounds of crashing waves outside my TV-free cottage and take my first sip of velvety Blue Mountain Coffee. My peanut porridge makes me reconsider breakfast cereal: Forget gray gruel; this flaming orange breakfast soup combines the hearty flavor of just-picked raw nuts with the silkiness of coconut milk. The chef tells me the secret to the porridge's vibrant hue: fresh, unprocessed peanuts. In short order, I am fortified for my trip to area farms that supply Jake's.
Escorting me on this adventure is American Liz Solms, agricultural consultant to Jake's, who in 2005 received a grant to establish an organic farmers' cooperative in Treasure Beach and stayed on when Jake's wanted to expand the program further. "Many of the farmers have traditional Rastafarian beliefs about cooking food that is pure and natural, so many are anxious to stop using traditional fertilizer and pesticides," she explains as we stop at the farm of 70-year-old Dull McLean, who has earth-worn hands and an infectious smile. He proudly leads me through rows of carrots and sweet peppers that he began farming organically six years ago. After cautioning me not to step on his watermelon plants, we pause in the shade of a newly constructed greenhouse.
"Less chemical is better for your health. And everything just tastes better. You've never had sweet potatoes like these," he says, handing me some just-picked root vegetables. McLean instructs me to take them back to Jake's, making me a cog in the farm-to-table wheel. After depositing the farmed treasures with Chef Lloyd, I'm dispatched to dinner and choose the traditional Jamaican specialty escoveitch, the fish dish imported to the Caribbean by the Spanish in the late 1500s. The flaky broiled red snapper is topped with a spicy vinegar medley of Scotch bonnets, sweet peppers, onions, and carrots. The result is a fiery delight that I ravenously consume with the help of a Red Stripe beer, and then the chef appears with a dessert fashioned from McLean's produce. The heavenly slice of sweet potato pone with mango syrup is thick and dense, like bread pudding. The mango dollop heightens the sweetness of the potato. As the sun sets and the waves crash within striking distance of my table, I realize how lucky I am to have followed this dish's organic ingredients from the hands of a dedicated farmer to the kitchen of a caring chef.
At the opposite end of the glam spectrum from Jake's is Rosewood Little Dix Bay, a place more preppie luxe than hippie chic that is surmounting a different set of challenges in sourcing local produce. Set on a stunning half-mile crescent bay, the property transformed genteel Virgin Gorda into a jet-set destination when it was built in 1964 by pioneering venture capitalist Laurance Rockefeller. The property has been extensively renovated, but it retains a retro ambiance, with glass-walled hexagonal villas where the characters of Mad Men would happily vacation.
Unlike Jamaica, Virgin Gorda is a place where bountiful harvests are a tough row to hoe. Little rainfall and steady dry winds make the geography almost desert-like, with cactus dotting the mountains that slope down to the sparkling Caribbean. But the lack of an organized and large-scale farming culture hasn't discouraged chef Hemant Dadlani, who arrived two years ago with an ambitious plan to increase the resort's access to organic produce.
"Freshness is the soul in my cooking," says Dadlani. "A tomato grown in Holland that comes to me via Miami doesn't taste the same as the one grown on the island. Our guests want that special local flavor," the Udaipur, India, native tells me as I finish my lunch with a scoop of tamarind sorbet. It brings to mind a Sweet Tart candy—first, a smack of bitterness that causes a pucker, then a jolt of sweetness.
"My pastry chef picks the tamarind from trees on his way here every morning. Then we add ginger. Fresh, of course," Dadlani says. Immediately, I order two more scoops.
Currently, Dadlani has a group of employees, their families, and friends growing produce for him; he mentions a hot pepper sauce homemade by restaurant worker Venita Chapman. Overhearing Chapman's name, a fellow guest leans over and shares a tip he's garnered after many visits—Chapman's hot sauce is not for sale, but she might pack a bottle for me to take home—if I'm lucky.
Dadlani allows me to tag along on a round of visits to local growers as he tries to find new produce sources and encourage current vendors to diversify offerings. Just past a farm that supplies pork to the resort, he agrees to buy all the mangoes produced by the trees of an 81-year-old native who recently returned to the island after retiring from teaching in the Bronx. Later, while touring a former employee's farm that supplies the resort with a variety of tomatoes, Dadlani offers to pay for a greenhouse in exchange for all the peppers grown inside. As a thank-you, the farmer gives him several just-off-the-vine eggplants for tonight's dinner. Finally, at a new hydroponics operation, Dadlani guarantees he will buy whatever microgreens it can produce—regardless of quality.
"This is a gamble," the chef says. "But if it pays off, it could mean some of the freshest lettuce available."
Back at Little Dix Bay, after a lazy dip in the sparkling water, I head to the resort's Sugar Mill restaurant. From the first bite of the Asian-inflected cuisine, I taste the rewards of the chef's local hustle that I witnessed earlier. The colossal prawn "Greek salad" features a luscious cube of watermelon set on microgreens from the hydroponics lab with a punch of Scotch bonnet fire powered by Chapman's hot sauce. I ask my waiter to let Chapman know I'm a fan, hoping to score a souvenir bottle. Next, the delicate hoisin-mopped pork belly melts in my mouth, and I am suddenly sad that I only ordered an appetizer portion. Then the braised halibut fillet that smells of coconut and lemon revives me; it's served with smoked eggplant caviar made from just-
picked vegetables.
The next day, as I reluctantly board my departure ferry, Chapman appears with a bottle of her hot sauce. "For you," she says. "A little something to help you remember the freshness of the islands." Not so long after, back home in a drizzly New York, I stare listlessly at my coffee, wheat toast, and a couple of breakfast eggs. I realize I'm suffering from a particularly bad case of post-island blues, so I reach in the refrigerator for Chapman's care package. Just a drop or two of her spicy sauce on my huevos reminds me of how lucky I was to spend time in the Caribbean. Doubly lucky, these days, since resorts including Jake's and Little Dix Bay are responding to the demands of locavores like me.