I love Crown Heights because of Hassidic neighbors on their patios, Eastern Parkway sunsets over the Brooklyn Museum, and the Lincoln Place and New York Ave block with potted plants hiding the brownstone steps.
But truly, I love Crown Heights because of jerk chicken.
I moved back here in 2020, and Yammz Caribbean was right around the corner. At that faded St. John’s Place storefront, I could get a jerk chicken dinner with rice and peas and plantains, tart sorrel, steamed cabbage, a side of macaroni salad, jerk wings, and some black cake for about 60 bucks. The medium dinner was enough for two-and-a-half servings, though, so it lasted a weekend. The curry chicken and the oxtail were pristine, if rustic. They made food fresh, cut the onions long and luscious, were generous with the allspice, and talked like they knew me.
There are so many places just like Yammz that, in all the ways that count, could never be Yammz. There’s C.A.S. West Indian on Kingston, where the old regulars play dominoes ‘til dusk. Oxtail is yesteryear’s rate, decently tender and savory. There’s Soldier’s near Utica, a workman’s buffet, and Fisherman’s Cove closer to the Parkway with a fine red snapper. Each have their merits. But my little auntie who ran Yammz took every order with reserved and studious surprise for my extra-something tip. (Not enough people tip for carry-out and they should.) When I’d go there to pick up, a big line of DoorDash and Uber e-bike soldiers would huddle near the entry ramp, night riders shielded by helmets and handlebar mittens.
Yammz got loads of orders from what I saw, but then in 2023, put the place up for sale. Auntie and her mom, mainstays from past generations, seemed tired of operating it alone. Within a few weeks of the sale notice, they had left. They were from St. Elizabeth side of Jamaica, and I don’t know how their people are doing after the hurricane. They packed up and closed Yammz well before the storm; I regret not taking their number.
Now there’s a new spot there and it’s not as good, except for the common “z“ in the name making me laugh a little at my people. Viewz Bistro not only took over my favorite neighborhood haunt, they brought with them the Instagram aspirations of tasteless urbanites. Sugar-shocked cocktails and maniacal excess.
Where Yammz had a sturdy, traditional menu, Viewz was shoveling oxtail flesh into everything: plating droopy tacos and stuffing baked chicken with it, to my utter disdain (Why would anyone stuff a chicken with oxtail? Have you no shame?). They advertised game nights and happy hour rum creams. I tried to play along, popping in for a Sunday brunch only to be disappointed by near-raw breadfruit fries (wedges??), and jerk chicken tacos you might find on a Royal Caribbean Cruise’s abandoned steam tray. It was both busy and uninspired, chaotic and poorly rendered. The 18-dollar cocktails made it like many overpriced generic Brooklyn bars, except the staff got flustered while detailing the rotating cast of specials. Plantain-stuffed jerk chicken? Sure. Jerk salmon in a barbecue-glazed butternut squash gourd. We’ll take two.
This ambitious new owner was making waves with everything but my taste buds. Yet, the strangest thing happened when I scoured for reviews to validate mine. I only saw positive ones. The Twilight Zone swallowed me when I spied fans actually enjoying the curious combos and writing 5-star recommendations!
How real was this internet fanfare?
Hefty helpings of oxtail mac-and-cheese stuffed into patty pie crusts or whatever this unhinged madman woke up thinking that day. You really want me to believe the anonymous legions are going to war for Jamdown Jubilee? I pass this empty spot every day and my eyes wouldn’t deceive me even if my tongue somehow did.
I dug deeper. I unreeled Instagram to find creators who’d reviewed the place, and again, all positive. In my few meals, the meats were too salty, too sweet, or both. Who were these palates? Under the influencer tag, a strange trend surfaced. The micro-creator accounts (<10,000 followers) were reviewing any neighborhood spot they could get their back-facing cameras on. With the pre-baked templates — a viral “hook” about a business in trouble or a hidden gem — they could amplify small businesses and collect some coin in the process.
This isn’t some broad conclusion. At my last gig, I’d enlisted some creator mercenaries to grow new accounts, including one from Houston, who held the local restaurant industry by the balls. He’d threaten to give bad reviews or skip them altogether in favor of spotlighting the competition. I had no idea he was extorting restaurateurs for exposure, or promising to tank them if they didn’t play by his rules. Instagram Reels is a cold game for the nation’s taco trucks and bao buns, but it’s also the best marketing tool for basic palates and domestic dining. Not everyone needs Michelin star fare on a Cheesecake Factory budget. The few Instagram videos I saw for this hollowed-out Caribbean lounge suggested payola, but nothing could save this spot from itself. At night, the windows were dimmed too low for visible allure, the TVs didn’t work when big games were on, and the interior looked like a commercial restaurant supplier’s idea of hookah chic.
Then, one day three weeks ago, all that changed. A creator I’d never seen before popped up during my daily scroll. His on-screen headline:
“Solo Dinner At A STRUGGLING Black-Owned Small Restaurant, With The Sweetest Hospitality And Talented Chef.”
The keywords pulled at gooey sentiments that tap into subliminal value systems. (“Struggling,” “Black-Owned,” “Small” are doing crazy work). As it occurred to me this was Viewz, I locked in.
The creator put on a silly wig because, of course, he’s too famous to enter New York restaurants as himself. He is the DiCaprio of short-form New York City mom-and-pop hut videos. Then he ordered oxtail ravioli, a glazed whole jerk chicken, and drinks. Dramatic influencer bites followed because slow chews make food look tempting. The review, unspecifically positive, hit all the right notes. The premise was off, though, and maybe because I work in social media, I could spot hallmarks of a staged campaign.
First, he shows DMs from the owner asking for his help. Innocent enough but this establishes contact between creator and potential client. Solicitation and need follow closely behind. Then, he enters the place, and if the bad wig wasn’t enough of a giveaway, he’s wearing Meta Ray-Ban glasses to record his material. In the influencer age, a wig and sunglasses don’t scream casual daytime patron.
I trust my taste but the world is falling apart. Cousins DM me AI gruel as authors and screenwriters surrender language to chatbots and our preferences feel less and less discovered and earned, more and more curated and served. I tie my stomach in knots over takeout because so little food agrees with me. Each UberEats click triggers my colon’s One Battle After Another. So what does it matter if this Caribbean place was a disappointing, bad-faith replacement of my favorite? People love it. Influencers celebrate it and, presumably, profit by making the restaurant popular — which also leads to money for the struggling owner. I don’t have to resent their criminally dubious palates. I can just choose not to go.
But no.
I choose to loathe a world missing real word-of-mouth, a world where the arbiters of what’s good and consumable sit miles away vibe-coding fake reviews and inflating influencers. I choose to reject a keyword-rich subtitle or a brazen caption in favor of a friend’s nudge to check out a place next time I’m on that block. Jerk chicken is an experience, not a post. Jerk chicken is a heritage, and not one to bookmark for later.
I hate the new jerk chicken spot on my block. And I won’t start saying otherwise for some likes.