I set out to do a story about eating lunch at some of the colorful places off Seventh Avenue in Ybor, but as soon as I met Cephas Gilbert, I knew I couldn't write about anything else.
It's empty inside Cephas' Jamaican restaurant. And hot. An ancient ceiling fan ineffectually swirls the un-conditioned air. There seems to be more vertical than horizontal space, with a single narrow aisle separating two rows of weathered black leather booths and kitchen chairs. The walls are covered in 20 years of photographs and posters — here a tryptich depicting MLK, Nelson Mandela and Malcolm X, there a Jamaica tourism ad featuring a buxom hottie. Cephas, the owner, gestures us to sit anywhere as he watches the local news on a snowy TV.
As soon as we're seated, Cephas turns to us, asking in a Jamaican accent, "Do you ever use aloe?" Well, sure, you know, on burns and such. "You gotta drink it! Look at me, I'm 55 years old and I've been drinking aloe shakes for 25 years." He turns his profile to us and we have to admit, he does look pretty good. Hard pecs and well-muscled arms show through a black T-shirt. Loose camo pants are tied around a trim waist.
Obviously, mere posing isn't having the persuasive, pro-aloe effect he is looking for, so he crouches down and explodes into action. After four quick steps he springs onto a table, bounces off the back wall and the top of a cabinet, then leaps for his final destination — the union of shelf-like molding in a corner, a good 10 feet off the ground.
Whuh? After a quick look to make sure we're paying attention — how could we not be? — he jumps to the floor, like a Caribbean Jackie Chan, or even, dare I say, Spider-Mon.
We're impressed, but not necessarily impressed enough to drink down a couple of shakes derived from a cactus I previously assumed to be inedible. There is no stopping Cephas, though. He pops a videotape into the VCR and walks away, tossing "the first one's free" over his shoulder.
Suddenly free of static, the TV displays our host demonstrating the correct way to make these shakes, a procedure that involves scraping the gooey, protoplasmic innards of the aloe cactus straight into a blender. Add water and ice, hit puree and enjoy your foamy white health juice. Yum? If the homemade tape was meant to re-assure, I think Cephas should stick to superhuman feats of agility.
While nervously waiting for our tonics, another man brings us a Jamaican amuse bouche. Each plate has half a bright red tomato, stalks of celery, golden brown medallions of fried ripe plantains and a deep-fried hunk of un-ripe plantain, along with a puddle of jerk sauce that we are warned is laced with seriously hot peppers.
Before we have a chance to dig in, though, Cephas plops down two Styrofoam cups and fills them to the brim with foamy aloe shake. Nervously, I take a tentative sip, and realize that it's not nearly as bad as I feared. Sure, the liquid is exceptionally bitter, and my body tenses up like it isn't quite sure this is a good idea, but I can drink this. The problem is that Cephas is standing there watching, half-filled pitcher in hand.
"You've got to slam it. It needs to hit the stomach with force," he says, with an impatient gesture. My companion — Writer Rick — and I look across the table, shrug, and pick up our cups. After gulping down about half of the 16 ounces of refreshingly bitter aloe, we both feel like we've made the requisite gesture to satisfy our Jamaican host. Nope, it just gives Cephas an opportunity to refill our shakes from his pitcher, with another exhortation to "just slam it."
Our reticence encourages him to display the proper way to "slam" liquids. He tilts his head back, telling us to open our throat and pour it down, like a militant Black Panther instructing a frat pledge on the finer arts of funneling Milwaukee's Best. That raises our macho hackles and we proceed — with a minimum of gagging — to down another pint of cactus juice. Phew.
We chase the shakes with bites of the two styles of plantains: sweet and carmelized, and crunchy and starchy. Soon enough, my lips are on fire and my skin feels cool in the hot air. Maybe it's the scotch-bonnet-laced jerk sauce. Maybe I'm just allergic to aloe.
Our plates arrive, their structural integrity challenged by the heaping piles of food. Curried goat and chicken are milder than I expect, each bite subtly scented with allspice and coriander. The chunks of gamey goat meat fall apart at the touch of a fork, but there's an equal amount of chewy fat hidden under the golden sauce. Tender and moist, the chicken is the better of the two and we pick it to the bone.
The ox-tail stew, covered in simply cooked lima beans, is doused in rich beef gravy. Cutting the meat from the bone, the aroma reminds me of classic Midwest crock-pot roast beef. Nothing fancy, just beefy goodness.
A little shell-shocked by the fiery sauce on the appetizer plates, we approach the jerk chicken cautiously. No worries; instead of the scotch-bonnet heat, a sharp burst of traditional black pepper is the spicy highlight of the chicken, along with a heady mélange of thyme, allspice and nutmeg. Just like the curry chicken, the texture is perfect, falling off the bone and juicy.
Everything comes with half a tomato, a pile of rice, some plain green beans and more of the exceptional fried plantains. Surprisingly, after our adventures with the aloe shakes, we find all the food accessible to even unadventurous eaters — except perhaps the goat.
Cephas has a following for his remedies and advice. While we eat our lunch, eight different people come in for aloe shakes, from a mountain of an African-American cop to a couple of skinny white girls in halter-tops. Between customers, he finds time to remind us to avoid pork — "it's too close to human genetics so it tries to stay in our intestines" — and white bread. He also shakes his head at us when he sees we didn't finish our veggies.
Eight hours later — the gestation period for experiencing the power of the aloe, according to Cephas — I'm not sure I feel any different, physically at least. Mentally, I'm energized, replaying the most interesting lunch I've had in years.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Aug 17-23, 2005.