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When I found it I had already eaten. The disappointment of the previous night's meal had driven me towards the Jamaican stands of Electric Avenue, green black and yellow flags protruding from various areas. To see the words “curry goat” provided a comfort that had been smothered by the exaggerated sheen of “jerk sauce” that constituted last night’s frustration. The immediacy of rectifying my hunger took over, and before long I found myself seated with Jeff the Chef’s curry goat accompanied with rice and peas inside of a bleached styrofoam container. Just after inhaling the escaping aroma I knew I would be more satisfied than before. The sauce was the right consistency: not too dry that the rice would be left with nothing to soak up, but also not too loose, no long watah curry. The balance of curry powder to cumin to turmeric to herbs and such was proportionally pleasant. But the missed marks still persisted, despite my efforts to convince myself otherwise. The salt and spice had cautious presences even in spite of the latter’s harmony. Sometimes it broke out, only to become hidden again as quickly as the sun above me in the indecisive London sky. Even as a side the rice and peas too lacked assertion, fulfilling the role of plated companionship but little else. When I had risen from the table to dispose of the remains I felt as though part of me was still missing. It was futile; I could neither obtain nostalgia from what these cooks that lined the streets of Brixton offered, nor could I physically stomach another attempt. So I began to head back to my flat, the eyes of displaced Caribbean residents watching my steps as I moved along. Our similar past and present statuses should have allowed me comfort, but the gazes emphasized my feelings of disconnection. So when I found it I had already eaten. A tiny stand off to the side, down an obscure alley I had previously overlooked. Behind the sole woman manning the stand a sign proclaimed “Guyana Roti.” My body’s progression stopped as I tried to get a look at what she was serving. I willed my stomach to be empty. This was my food in the hands of another, a food that I knew only to exist in the pots and pans and ovens of my mother and her family. Even the word “Guyana” had existed only audibly to me before, in a culinary context, in broken stories recounted at abandoned dinner tables. Guyana was never a visible, concrete reference. Yet there it was, beckoning and mocking. I could only know its legitimacy by tasting what was on offer. I couldn’t. The past was still too close. Reluctantly I turned away, forcing myself forward. Maybe one day soon I would be ready to face it. Maybe one day soon I would be able to walk past all the other stalls with the temptings of other culture's cuisines and straight to my own. But for now anything goes.