Research has assured me that this canned product is, in fact, an iteration of the meat found in Reubens; this is good because I really couldn’t tell. What it resembles more than anything is a coarser, saltier, less-savory beef chorizo, compacted into a dense, greasy block. Or, you can go with my partner’s description: “Cat food.”
Once liberated from its distinctive, paper-wrapped rectangular cans with finicky key attachments, the meat is broken up and browned in fat, then seasoned to within an inch of its afterlife with garlic, thyme, Scotch bonnet, other aromatics, black pepper, oxtail seasoning, and other condiments, loosened up with a little water, then used in preparations such as the dinnertime classic cabbage and bully beef, sandwiches (sorry, Ron Weasley!), or a brunch hash of meat and onions. Jamaicans use a lot of cans. Between the outsize influence of the British—our most dogged colonizers, and still the tinniest people that ever did tin—and the storm-prone, bug-blessed reality of tropical living, canned goods have emerged as the understated, unglamorous backbone of Jamaican cuisine. Here are a few essentials.
