I was just 21 years old when I arrived on Bequia, a young, rather naïve Canadian from an entirely different culture. I did my best to adjust to life on the island, but have to admit that at times it could be quite daunting. The meagre supply of groceries in the small shops was a challenge, not to mention the sad-looking vegetables sold in the harbour on Saturdays, and as a result I ate an awful lot of bread and cheese in those early days.
One evening I was enjoying a drink with a few local friends at the Frangipani Bar. I loved spending time at the Frangi, it was THE social hub of the island, where people gathered to meet old friends or make new ones, to gossip, make plans for outings or to simply fill a lonely void. That particular night the happy chatter grew more animated as the rum punch flowed, and it became more and more difficult to hear what my friends were discussing. My ears were not yet attuned to the local dialect, so whenever I heard an expression that I didn’t understand I asked for its meaning. I knew a plan was being hatched and wanted to be in on it!
“Le we go Hamilton fo’ souse”.
That was a new word I didn’t know – souse! When I asked what it meant my new friends stared at me in amazement;
“You ain’t know what souse be?”
I admitted ignorance. The previous day I had told a cruising couple I met at the Chandlery that I had never heard of roti, and they promptly took me to Daphne’s to eat one made with beef and breadfruit. That delicious roti was the only real local food I had eaten since my arrival on Bequia, and it had left me craving more. Souse? Was that a local food too? I was about to find out!
My friends and I left the Frangi and walked in the dark to a dimly-lit rum shop in Hamilton, where the now-familiar sounds of dominoes being slapped on a table greeted us. The shop-owner, on learning that I had never eaten souse, hurried off to fill our order with a big smile. I had been told that she made the souse herself, and that it was the best on the island. I was obviously in for a treat!
When the souse arrived, I stared with horror into a cup of what look like soup broth, soup broth with a pig’s foot taking place of honour! There were bits of onion and cucumber swimming around the trotter, and although the souse SMELLED all right I was repulsed by the cup’s contents. What on earth was I supposed to do with the foot? My friends, the shop-owner and those playing dominoes were all waiting for me to taste the souse, so I took a little sip of the hot salty broth and made appreciative noises.
That was obviously the cue my companions needed, because after I took my first sip they dug into their cups with gusto, and the disturbing sound of bones and sinews crunching along with noisy slurps of soup filled the rum shop. I sipped the broth gingerly until the shop-keeper (and souse chef!) leaned across the counter and pointed at my cup;
“wha yo’ waitin’ fo’? Eat de pig!”
I looked at my friends in desperation and they laughed, waved what remained of their trotters, and demonstrated by crunching more bones.
“Like so!”
I had to eat the foot, yuck! Pulling the offensive item from my cup I nibbled at the end furthest from the part that had previously stomped around a pig sty. It tasted like pork but there wasn’t much meat, the trotter was mostly skin, bone, sinew and fat. It was also quite sticky from all the gelatin, a substance that stuck like glue to the roof of my mouth. I accepted a cold beer gratefully and took a long swig to remove the gelatinous slick from my mouth, but when the cold beer met the hot sticky goo it made the gelatin congeal even more.
My pride was at stake that night; I didn’t want to offend anyone, especially the souse chef watching me like a hawk from behind her counter. I ate that pig foot, rubbery skin and all, and I survived the ordeal. There are other, more appetizing ways to prepare trotters I am sure, in many parts of the world pig feet are even considered a delicacy. However, my first “trotter” experience was rum-shop pig foot souse, and crunching through the skin and bones and then having the roof of my mouth filled with a grease slick turned me off for life. It was NOT a stellar dining experience! Since that night I have enjoyed many a Bequia souse made with chicken, conch and whelks, but I never ate pig foot souse again…..
It sounds like you survived the ordeal. 🙂
Souse is not of island origin. Souse is, in fact, a pickled version of an old Scottish cooking method known as head cheese. I immigrated to the USA in 1986. I haven’t had souse in years. I miss it.