Love Letter To Jerk King

Can I get a side of jerk chicken with these spoons?

Walking down Bloordale you’ll stumble across a random collection of secret neighbourhood landmarks: a storefront with a window full of chipped mannequin legs, an edgy bar covered in graffiti, and a lizard shop with the same musty looking turtle perched motionless on its terrarium rock. 

Further along, nestled in the middle of Cloré Beauty Supply and the Quick Fix Cell phone and Computer, lies a not so secret neighbourhood gem. A Dufferin Street staple. A fast food fundamental. 

The red cursive letters scream against the black awning: Jerk King.

Lineups snake outside the shop and along the sidewalk, curving with an assortment of construction workers, Dufferin Mall shoppers, and pedestrians intrigued by the spice filled air encasing the restaurant. 

Jerk King’s food is delicious in itself, but physically being inside the tiny shop jammed with chatty customers is an equally important part of the culinary experience.

There’s the clinical neon lighting. The windows sweating with West-Indian infused condensation. The metallic scrape of a ladle inside a vat of oxtail gravy. The mysterious porcelain sink sandwiched between the only table in the restaurant and the humming pop fridge. 

This weird inconsistent atmosphere is part of the charm. Part of why I believe, every time I order, I am receiving the best and most authentic jerk chicken in Toronto, when in reality what the hell do I know?

Going to Jerk King now is a vastly different experience. The highly coveted Jerk King ambiance is underlined with unease. The world outside of Jerk King is crumbling. 

But that’s just it. The world outside of Jerk King is falling apart, Jerk King itself is very much intact. Yes, the ambiance has changed (I’m screaming my order through a cell phone taped to a street facing window). But my order has remained the same.

Although there has been a shift, and I can’t hear the woman scrape out spoonfuls of gravy or see the strange porcelain sink tucked away in the corner - I’m still receiving the same flavourful comfort food, that does just that. Comfort.

The styrofoam takeout containers are wrapped in a brown paper towel. The ratio of plastic forks to knives are all outta whack. The coleslaw is questionably warm. But I’m basking in it. Basking in the normalcy of it. Jerk King is a stable, steady, reliable always. 

So yeah I’m going to eat the fatty chicken skin, and yeah, I’m going to keep that extra plastic cutlery for my collection… ok those thin single ply napkins too. 

I’ve given myself permission to focus on the benign. To eat and just focus on eating because, in that moment when my nose starts to run and the heat of the scotch bonnet hits, the world outside isn’t burning.

PS. It sounds like I’m low-key talking smack here, but Jerk King is amazing. In honour of this newsletter I encourage everyone to order a large jerk chicken with extra oxtail gravy and/or a jerk chicken roti. Support local Black owned businesses. Discover the gems in your area, and slowly become addicted until you’re writing newsletters about your experience. Ok bye friends.