Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/407098
w i n t e r 2 0 1 4 | W e s t W o r l d 29 swaddled in spongy white bread rolls, complete with relish, mayonnaise and Bajan hot sauce, as well as a fist-size dollop of curried chicken and potatoes wrapped up in a flaky indian flat- bread. e flying fish is crispy and succulent at once, and the yellow curry is an ideal counter- point to the cold, clear Banks lager. it isn't fancy by any means – at home it would be just another fish sandwich and wrap. But here, next to the ocean, after a long night of dancing and drinking, bathed in dappled Caribbean light, it tastes like vacation. at's the thing about culinary tours: food is always better in a stunning place minus the stress of home. and though Barbados may not have the most refined culinary tradition, the dawdling pace makes you slow down and savour what you eat. i lie back on the bench and listen to the rhythmic thrum of the sea, and before long i'm fast asleep. when i wake, the sun has set and the ocean air is cooler. i've already missed a cocktail party and i'll probably be late for dinner. But i walk back over to mr. Delicious to place another order anyway. W makes me realize that in this day of globaliza- tion, part of the appeal of a festival like this one is the exchange of ideas and the food fusions that result. it's almost impossible to reconcile the afternoon and evening experiences, except for the sultry heat, the throb of salsa- and reggae- tinged beats and the free flow of beer and rum. as the night wears on and the banquet floor transforms from fine dining hall to full-on dance party, i feel the familiar and welcome Bajan haze clouding my head. e flavours of Barbados, it turns out, transcend its food scene, and i find myself hoping the night will go on and on. i wake the next morning with a headache stronger than a bottle of mount gay. i'm due for brunch at a well-known local eatery but decide to postpone because the thought of stale restaurant air and big crowds makes my head throb. instead, i hop a local taxi down the coast to miami Beach, where i'm told you can find some of the most authentic food on the island. i arrive expecting a chirpy little colonial building with a breezy verandah but find only a broken-down-mercedes-bus-turned-eatery with a few plastic tables and chairs scattered in palm shade. the sign on the grille reads "mr. Delicious snack Bar." i'm ready to head elsewhere when i remem- ber something that marcus samuelsson said on day one of the festival. "wherever you travel, go to both sides of town. e really local food . . . that's often where you can find the most intense flavours." another seemingly immobile woman takes my order. i ask for two flying fish cutters. "Yah want roti?" she asks without flinching. "what's that?" i ask. she doesn't move, doesn't speak. i start to wonder if she's dozed off. "sure," i say, just to break the impasse. "and a beer. Banks," i add. i wander over to a ramshackle table to wait. afternoon sunlight filters through the hibiscus leaves, and a puff of breeze click- clacks the palm fronds. an elderly man with dreads sitting in a rickety folding chair, one of the only other people nearby, suddenly bursts into an impromptu song about the bird in the treetops. my mind goes momentarily blank, like a trance, until i hear a voice. "Banks. Banks." the woman is speaking. "Banks!" me? i realize my order is ready, grab it from the bar and walk to a slatted wooden bench by the sea. inside the oil-stained brown paper bag, i find two local favourites: fried fish filets