Lunch at the Afro Caribbean Pot in the Plymouth Market

When I was gifted three wiggling fish by a Bulgarian fisherman on the Plymouth Hoe, I had no idea what to do with them. Having not gutted a fish since the age of 8, under the guidance of my proud father, I called the one place I knew might be willing to cook my catch: the Afro-Caribbean Pot in the Plymouth City Market. I first noticed the proclamations of jerk chicken and pepper soup when shopping for fresh produce. I had a brief first taste at the Plymouth Flavour Fest (curried vegetables) and had been salivating to spend a leisurely lunch on their booth. Because the stall was packed during peak lunch hours, Rita asked me to visit for an early brunch. “What kind of fish are they?” she inquired. “Medium-sized and blue?” I responded. When I explained the receiving scenaio, she gleaned them mackerel. Schedule in hand, I invited my friend Emad, a Turkish PhD student, to join.

When we arrived on a Tuesday at 10:15AM we found three men already seated there: two Plymothians and an African named John whose London accent complemented his sunglasses (worn indoors), earphones, and tank top. He joked with the married owners, Antony and Rita, as the worked the kitchen. John had first met the couple in 2000 when fishing on the Hoe; he was a fitness instructor who visited weekly, at least.

Antony and Rita met in Ghana. A British-Jamaican tracing his African roots, Antony met Rita when boarding at her Ghanese hotel of employment. They returned to the UK in 2012 to homestead in Cornwall where their two daughters, aged nine and six, attend school. Working a stall in the Plymouth Market isn't easy: they wake around 4:30AM to commute across the Tamar Bridge. They prepare shop for doors to open at 9AM. By 5PM the doors close. Then, the tired parents head home, to cook dinner and prepare the family for tomorrow. “Don't you ever get sick of cooking?” I ask. Rita smiles, cooing,“I love to cook.”

Every customer is asked the same question: do you like it spicy? Emad and I nodded giddily. Sufficiently informed, Antony disappeard with our fish around the stall's corner as Rita prepared one of the double-burner stove tops in the space. The scent of pepper wafts to our noses; we hear the crisp sound of chopped vegetables.

Antony reappeared ten minutes later, handing Rita the bowl of our fish cut into thin strips with skin-on. She dusted them with flour and instructed over her shoulder, “Serve their salads.” Antony muttered under his breath, obliging.

As our stomachs gurgled in anticipation, we observed and conversed with the stall's occupants. Antony's parents immigrated to Plymouth in the 1950's from Jamaica. When I asked why, he shrugged, turning to Rita and John. “I don't know. Why did the British tell Jamaicans to come to the UK? They tell everyone at some point.” A smooth-skinned lady sat down, bow jauntily tied around her ballet bun. Greeted warmly by Rita, she began to read a Bible while they chat. Like mother and daughter, the lady and Rita discussed her recent stomach problems. Rita advised on the right herbs for today's lunch. I asked the girl about her reading materials. She tells me that she attends The River Church at 4PM every Sunday in the Guildhall. This service is attended by a diverse population from all corners of Devon. I am excited to learn of a new place for Going Churching, especially where 50% of the population is African.

An angel bestowing gifts from heaven, Rita leaned over the counter. She placed red plates laden with spiced fish, vegetables, and a tower of red-beans-and-rice before us. Emad and I groaned with delight. The delicate fish is soft on our tongues, refreshing despite it's peppery undertones. We sniffed in appreciation. I had gifted one of the fish to Antony and Rita; when Antony tried his portion he exclaimed, “That's got a kick to it!” As an expat-local, I had felt a little lackluster over the past week. I missed relaxing with my parents over dinner at their house. Then, as I sat with Emad over a plate of steaming home-cooked comfort food, I felt like a videogame character that had jumped onto an energy block. My face flushed.

Resolutely, Emad and I finished our meal. “One of the best I've had in Plymouth,” he lauded. As we paid our cash-only bill a round British man lifted his curly-haired daughter on the counter, delighting Rita and Antony. “He's a regular,” Antony told me, offering a huge plate of three jerk chicken breasts over rice and slathered with gravy. The man and his daughter came to the stall for this very lunch every single day. “He pays the rent!” Antony laughed.

Feeling satiated, Emad and I strolled back out the market doors, down Cornwall Street to Armada Way. Our only complaint was the cost of the meal: our salads and the fish lunch, supplied in part by me, totaled £10 each. Yet, we both perceived ourselves a little more Plymothian; the Afro Caribbean food stall was a right-of-passage for expat-locals. With pride we kissed lightly on the cheek and parted ways.

The Plymouth Planner: Going Churching -- The Minister Church of St. Andrew's

Overview: On this episode of Going Churching, we visit the historic Minister Church of St. Andrew’s (Plymouth City Centre) followed by a bistro brunch, a long walk, and a local cider. 

Expected Cost: Thank God that Church is free. Brunch at Cafeé Rouge will probably run around £10: mains are about £6.95 and coffee refills aren't free! A pint runs around £3.

Solo Savvy? Yes; you will receive lots of extra prayers if you appear on a pew alone. 

Expected Duration: 3 hours. 

Requirements: Shoes fit for walking. A wide-brimmed Sunday hat is recommended. 

The Plan: The Minister Church of St. Andrew is located on the North end of the Plymouth Royal Parade, a hop away from the Plymouth Guildhall. The notable insignia, RESURGAM, hangs above its main entrance. The sign was erected during Reconstruction after the Luftwaffe Blitz of 1941. The Blitz left a “roofless shell” of St. Andrew’s and other cherished buildings. RESURGAM literally translates to “I will rise again.” The entire city adopted this slogan during the difficult years post WWII. 

The 9:30AM Holy Communion service follows a modernized version of the traditional Mass, containing the ritual sequence: stand, sing, sit, listen, kneel, pray, stand, say hello, sing, sit, listen, kneel, sit, listen, stand, walk, pray, nibble, sip, walk, sit, stand, sing, sing, and exit. 

If you’re not too hungry when Mass is over (St. Andrew’s communion is a nibble of Wharburton’s and a sip of syrupy-sweet wine), grab leaflets from the table to the left of the entrance and take yourself on a walk through the building. The pamphlets offer guided tours explaining the fascinating history of St. Andrews, its relics and antiques, and contain descriptions of the stained glass windows. Even if church touring isn’t your thing (or you’re wary of thetimefull citizens beckoning you with offers of post-church coffee and cakes) grab some reading materials to mull over during brunch.

Exit through the North Patio and take a sharp right toward North Cross. In a few yards, you will see the Cafeé Rouge. Positioned in the triangular-shaped white building on the corner, it boasts French-ness with guilded windows and a red front door. The waitress will slowly finish a bite of cake behind the bar before moseying over to seat you. When she does, ask for a window seat facing North Cross. You will recognize the canes of timefull church-goers at surrounding tables. In a town where nearly every institution closes on Sunday, Café Rouge proudly serves diners seven days a week. Order a coffee and a “French” breakfast.*** Don’t expect toast cut from one of the French loaves you see proudly displayed at the bar, however. Although my spinach, mushroom, and tomato omelette and coffee tasted lovely, I was disappointed by the same crusty Wharburton’s on my plate that St. Andrew’s blessed and served during Communion. Alas, you can take the French out of France, but you can’t take the white toast from the British (or God).

After poring through the St. Andrew’s history brochures and pouring coffee until you can’t possibly contain yourself, hit the toilet and the road. Head south down the Royal Parade. Take a left past the fountain, up the Hoe toward Smeaton’s Tower. Cruise past Plymouth’s historic landmarks: the Bowling Green on the south end (stay to watch the men play in their impeccably starched trousers and sweater vests); the panoramic view of Plymouth harbour; Smeaton’s tower; and the Tinside Lido pool. Walk past the tower and loop North, down the cobblestone streets with the ocean on your right. Just before you reach the Barbican shopping area you will notice a tall staircase leading to a lifted white bar called The Mayflower. Climb the stairs to find a pint and one of the best views of the harbour in the city. Ask the owner, who is surely working the bar, for a local cider. He’s a jolly old man who will be more than happy to entertain you, should you choose to chat. Otherwise, kick back at a stool next to the window, watch the sailboats float by, and say a little prayer for another relaxing, tasty, and fulfilling Sunday spent Going Churching.


**NOTE: Much to Emily's dismay, Cafe Rouge has closed! She now recommends walking to Monty's Cafe on the Barbican for breakfast instead.