Chicken Rita’s in Barbados

We were told that Chicken Rita’s served the best chicken in all of Barbados.

You have to curl and curve a bit to get there, navigating the narrow, broken roads until you come upon a small, rum shack set back a bit from the road. Remote from the perspective of a tourist, it seemed that this just happened to be where Rita lived as opposed to being the result of any sort of opportunistic business stratagem.

It was early afternoon and we were the only people in the two-table place. The pair of middle-aged women we encountered seemed indifferent to our arrival, maybe even a little bit confused by it, as if we’d gotten lost, happened into their kitchen and awoken them from naps. Without being particularly eager to impress, they decided they’d cook us some lunch, moving heavy and wordless back to the kitchen.

It took a long time, and as it was a very hot and humid day, Rachelle retreated to the protection of the AC of the car. Shortly after, the rain came in relieving torrents. The chickens that had been roaming freely in front all scattered, but the Blackbelly sheep in the field across the street were completely immobilized, as if cast under a spell. It was mysterious, almost mystical for me to see them frozen like that and I was utterly transfixed. One of the women looked at me and shook her head, “Sweet Jesus, it like you never see sheep before!” she said, as she shuttered the windows and closed the doors, the scent of pot drifting in with the wind and spray.

The rain stopped before the lunch was made, and I stepped outside as the women swept the accumulated water from out of the shack. The chickens had reassembled, each cock now crowing, creating a network of communication echoing down the streets. Nearby at a sheltered picnic table, three young men sat smoking and drinking. A gentle looking Rasta called me over, curious about the off-season tourist, and the group of us chatted for 10 minutes. One of them, just a boy, was hard looking, as if already preparing for a difficult future, the other one, chilled-out and fleshy, smoked dope with lidded eyes, the tattoo Self Made inked onto his hand.

They were going to be there all day. More friends and acquaintances– buying little bottles of rum from Rita’s—would be joining them as the hours passed. None of them had ever been off the island or expressed any particular desire to do so. The Rasta, rolling a new joint, asked me, “You like Barbados? It’s paradise, eh?” but he said this hopefully, like he was looking for an outsiders reassurance rather than expressing a known certainty.