Academic Paper: Keeping it "Flo-cal": The Shaping of Floribbean Cuisine

  

Keeping it “Flo-cal”: The Shaping of Floribbean Cuisine

Kiva Talty

American Eating: Succotash, Spam, and Cultures of Food

Harvard Extension School

March 18, 2021

The Sunshine State appears as anything but “local” to the average visitor. This coastal paradise is chock-full of fast-food franchises, bottomless buffets, and exaggerated ethnic eateries. The need to cater to the unending onslaught of visitors that swarm the peninsula for three quarters of the year blends and blands the food scene to appeal to the masses. It is understandable that this leveling has occurred, but as of recent, due in part to a resurgence and desire to “shop locally,” a light has shone brighter on the Sunshine State’s hometown cuisine - Floribbean cuisine.

This portmanteau is arguably limiting terminology; the roots of this regional cuisine derive from beyond just Florida and the Caribbean. “New Florida” cuisine, as some call it, is “Southern-inflected, seafood-centric...nods to Spanish roots and down-home ‘Cracker’ and American Indian ingenuity, topped off with a bit of Latin and even Caribbean flair.”^[1] It expands even deeper and wider, incorporating Afro- and Indo-based ingredients and styles, influences rooted in historical and modern migration, as well as a healthy dash of Southeast Asian and Italian presence. For the sake of this paper, and for lack of a better term, “Floribbean” will be used in reference to the globally-influenced cuisine it is today, in which case an update later on should be warranted by a more inclusive name.

In a state that is oftentimes glossed over with a touristy sheen of sunscreen and sweat, a metaphorical covering of its truly wild nature, the local food scene is alive and thriving beneath it all. Broad socio-economic changes and attitudes surrounding food have reverberated across the nation and Florida is not exempt from feeling the effect. A resurgence and focus on what is local, what is fresh, and what is creative has popped up in the form of craft breweries, restaurants, eateries, and beyond, all across the state and especially in the Southern region of the peninsula.

This discourse aims to unpack the historical and cultural influences of the contributors to Floribbean cuisine and better understand the role locality plays in the food scene today. Although laying a historical timeline would be informative and telling of the progression of Floribbean cuisine, it is so much more appealing to use recipes as our vehicle of cultural discovery. In this way, we can explore through a sensory imagination the historical and cultural recipes of Floribbean cuisine that note style, choice, and availability. The recipes will follow a sweeping timeline in hopes of exemplifying both the multiculturality and locality of Floribbean cuisine.

 

Barbakoa, known modernly as barbacoa or barbeque

Lump charcoal or buttonwood logs

New-growth lumber

Mullet or snapper

 

Barbeque is found worldwide in a multitude of fashions, though it is said that its home is in the Caribbean. For the native Southern Floridians that inhabited this place pre-European contact, like those of the Taíno, Timucuan, and Calusa, the barbakoa was the “sacred fire pit,” serving the fundamental role of cookery and preservation.^[2] Dried, smoked, and grilled, the barbakoa was multipurpose for small game, such as rabbit, raccoon, and deer, and for seafood, like lobster, fish, scallops, mussels, and oysters. Structurally, the barbakoa would have constituted of green (or young) wood in a raised platform under which charcoal and burnt wood would heat the laid-out meal from beneath. Different cooking methods at various locations in relation to the heat source could amplify the use of this form of cooking - one could blacken grouper at the same time as smoking strips of deer meat. The choice of wood for smoking was as important as the created structure to allow for cooking. Native buttonwood (Conocarpus erectus) is a dense hardwood that burns slowly, providing for a longer burn and opportunity for cooking, smoking, or grilling, therefore preserving the meat. Harvesting native buttonwood would become a common trade for Southern Floridians from the middle to late 19th century. Sold as green wood or dried and used for cooking, buttonwood-smoked meals are synonymous with Keys cooking and swamp stories. Given the tropicality of the region and changing landscape due to the natural, cyclical environment, new growth is far more common and easily sourced than old growth, giving green wood preferential treatment for use for the structure. This green wood, or young wood, would not burn as easily and last longer under the duress of flames and heat.

Illustration of Timucuan peoples by French artist Jacques LeMoyne circa 1591. Photo from College of Education, University of South Florida, 2002.

Barbeque has historically been an important foodway for various cultures. Providing a way to gather collectively while also cooking for the masses is a double-duty to those owning this process. Long-term cooking provided a means of gathering over a longer period of time, in turn building cultural resiliency through storytelling, language-sharing, and passing of traditional knowledge. Barbeque’s legacy has expanded beyond Indigenous use into mainstream food scenes and cultures, notably that of the African diaspora in the United States. Florida’s barbeque today mirrors that of the American South and Southwest flavor profiles, where pork and beef dominate the scene and saucy additions, beans, greens, and grains accompany the meat. For the sake of not doing justice to the full legacy of barbeque, which frankly requires an additional paper (and book, and movie, and more, definitely more), I will refrain from speaking to the reverberating influence of the art of the flame.

Mangrove snapper, artichoke purée, Everglades tomatoes, Cuban oregano salmoriglio, nasturtium, caper, and almonds. Photo by Fogg Cafe Chef Jack Raben, Naples Botanical Garden.

Hardly associated with “barbeque” in the modern sense, barbequed seafood is ever-present in Southern Florida. As is seen in much Floribbean cuisine, a preference for grilling is apparent in almost any dish or menu (“Would you like that fried, sauteed, grilled, or blackened?”), a distant and unbeknown ode to the first pitmasters. Mullet and snapper are both continually consumed today and even celebrated, as is seen at Stan’s Idle Hour Mullet Festival and the Everglades Seafood Festival.

 

Fromajardis, or empanadas

Flour or cornmeal

Baking powder

Butter

Salt

Oil

Cheese or other fillings (meat, fruit, spices)

 

Just as barbeque is shared globally, the stuffed pastry shares many cultures and people. In this recipe, cultures that settled much of Florida coincide - the Minorcans, Spaniards, and Latin Americans. Although the latter is geographically distant from the former two, their culinary legacies are synonymous with Floribbean cuisine today and are a considerable jumping point for much culinary creativity.

Spanish conquests led to occupation and settlement in Florida, physically and culinarily. The Minorcans, who settled in the Northern regions of Florida and notably the St. Augustine region brought with them cultural practices and subsequently eating cultures. The cheesy fromajardis, classically gifted during the holiday season, are the tart cousin of the well-known empanada.^[3] Empanadas have been adopted through colonial influence throughout all of Latin America, each country claiming and perfecting their own recipe, from the cheesy and beefy to the sweet and spicy.

Blue corn empanadas stuffed with beef, queso, and beans, topped with salsa verde. Photo by Jack Raben, Naples Botanical Garden.

The colonial presence that connected Florida to Latin America is apparent in the various recipes that pepper menus today, though you’d be inclined to refrain from tagging them as “Spanish” as they have established their own distinct identity now. To exemplify the empanada in relation to Floribbean cuisine, the Cuban populus that reigns supreme in Miami has made the ropa vieja empanada, found at Wynwood Kitchen & Bar. With a vibrant red sauce that owes its color to the annatto seeds of Bixa orellana, a native plant of Mexico to Brazil, the achiote color enlivens the shredded flank steak and veggies, yielding a heavy, savory stew tucked in a perfect pocket. Cuba and Florida, being only 90 miles apart, have a strong and interrelated history that lends to Miami’s and much of Southern Florida’s palate. As only one nation in the Caribbean, Cuba is only part of the tropical realm that has the largest influence on Florida’s cuisine.

 

Maduros, mofongo, and tostones

                        Green, yellow, and black plantains

                        Olive oil, butter, or lard

                        Broth or diluted stock

                        Salt

 

Clockwise from top left: Maduros, plantain chips, tostones, mofongo, banana bread, store-bought bananas, harvested wild bananas, green plantains, yellow plantains, black plantains. Photo by Jack Raben and Kiva Talty, Naples Botanical Garden.

The Caribbean is home to a mosaic of subcultures and diasporas. A significant portion draw their roots from the African diaspora of the Triangular Trade; along with enslaved individuals from the homelands came staple foods, one of particular importance being the plantain (Musa spp.). This starchy sibling of the banana family is usually received with hesitation by most European-Americans, many unsure of what exactly a plantain is or how to use it. Being an ingredient of importance and familiar to the African diaspora, plantains were quickly incorporated into Caribbean cuisine and dishes and have remained there ever since, often taking on new yet eerily similar names. Although believed to have originated in Southeast Asia, archaeological evidence suggests that plantains made their way to the African continent earlier on that previously thought, passing through India, the Middle East, and dispersing through various parts of Africa and then the Americas and Europe.^[4] The worldwide voyage of the banana means it is included in nearly every culture in some way, shape, or form.

Maduros, although seen as Cuban by many that delight in the sweet snack, are found across a multitude of lands outside of the Caribbean region. In their most mature form, maduros are made from overripe bananas, which have had the opportunity to break down their sugars over a longer period of time resulting in a blackened skin that holds the secret to the addictive caramelized edge that is so craved when cooked on the skillet. Sliced and cooked or grilled, most often one can find this dish served alongside other Cuban, Dominican, and Puerto Rican plates and is widely conceived as a sweet dish rather than savory. Plantains wear many hats, however, and take on a variety of forms and uses in all phases of its life - a winning attribute to the chef.

Mofongo, in comparison, celebrates the savory nature of the plantain fresh-off-the-bunch. As with many Caribbean dishes, mofongo is the child of both the Indigenous and African experience, coming from the Angolan and Indigenous techniques of mashing large amounts of starchy food as a base before liquid and fat are added.^[5] Found in many Caribbean nations, it goes by the name of fufu de plátano (Cuba), mangú (Dominican Republic), cayeye (Colombia), and tacacho (Amazonian region and Peru), all stemming from the Angolan Kigongo term mfwenge-mfwenge, “a great amount of nothing at all.”^[6] Most often prepared with garlic, olive oil, and chicharrón, or fried pork skin, this Boricuan dish hosts ingredients from middle Asia and the Mediterranean, altered by colonizing presences and tastes over time to form a distinctly “Caribbean” identity.

If maduros are the sweet and mofongo is the savory, then tostones are the snackable, salty, anytime addition to the banana family recipe book. Named after the Spanish colonial currency el Tostón, these disc-like snacks are the perfect vehicle for a variety of dips, dishes, soups, stews, and toppings (my personal favorite is using these as an edible dish for ropa vieja). Their creation process is an exciting transformation - chunks of plantain from green or light yellow fruits are deep-fried, pulled out and smashed (oftentimes dramatically), then deep-fried again until golden brown and traditionally paired with mojo verde, a garlicky-lemony-herb sauce.

Within Floribbean cuisine, plantains are oftentimes incorporated as a side dish or snack to accompany a larger meal, though their subsistence nutritionally equates to the starchy staples other cultures use such as potatoes or yucca. Their versatility is telling of the various cultures that are familiar with this fruit and have harnessed its unique characteristics in a variety of ways. In all their forms - sweet, savory, and salty - plantains are a fundamental member of the Floribbean platter.

 

Green papaya salad

            Green (unripe) papaya

            Chinese celery

            Mint

            Pickled carrot

            Cilantro

            Seasoned fish sauce

 

Environmentally similar, Southeast Asians have found Florida to be like home. Fruits like plantains, papaya, jackfruit, and mangoes, all indigenous to Southeast Asia, grow significantly well in the peninsular bottom of the state, and seasonal similarities like the hurricane and wet season emanate Southeast Asian weather cycles. Likely not initially thought of as finding Florida familiar, Southeast Asians, particularly those from the Philippines, Vietnam, Thailand, and other parts of Tropical Asia, have contributed greatly to the hospitality industry in Southern Florida. Following California and New York, Florida hosts just over 15,000 J-1 Visa holders, a significant portion contributing to the tourism and hospitality industry which is inherently tied to the food industry.^[7] Those who come on the J-1 Visa usually know others in the area and tend to group together, creating an insular community that is hardly experienced by outside cultures.

Green papaya salad with Chinese celery, mint, pickled carrot, cilantro, and seasoned fish sauce. Photo by Jack Raben, recipe by Chef Andrew Foyt, Naples Botanical Garden.

Following the “tiki boom,” of which Florida was certainly a foundational contributor (Southern Florida especially, as exemplified by tales of rum-running gangs and gun-slinging traffickers earlier in the century^[8]), Southeast Asian influence became apparent and popular in the area. Marco Island, my current home and one of the last islands to be developed in Southwestern Florida, is visibly influenced - in fact, the entire design of the JW Marriott on the island is intended to emanate a Balinese shrine, sporting a pointed roof that skirts out and sufficient indoor-outdoor space wafting spa-like scents of jasmine and ylang-ylang. Homes in the area that were built in the mid-20th century sport boxy and pointed Bali-style roofs atop ranch layouts, accompanied by telltale thick greenery with big-leaf foliage and the occasional distasteful totemic sculpture. Finding Southeast Asian influence in architecture is easy, but pulling out specific instances of authentic Southeast Asian culinary influence can be challenging in this region.

Given the insular nature of this community, finding eateries that cater to non-Asian or non-working class demographics is difficult but not impossible. On the surface-level, Asian influence is undeniably present through tiki culture and sweeping, generalized “Asian” food - rum-based cocktails, blended fruity drinks, and eggroll creations can be found on virtually every menu. Branching out beyond the American expectations of Asian food offerings, ingredients and food stuffs with Tropical Asian influence have started to surface into the mainstream.

Jackfruit scone. Photo by Jack Raben, Naples Botanical Garden.

Jackfruit tacos are a fantastic example of this phenomenon, where a formerly unusable and unfamiliar fruit becomes a fan- and fad-favorite. Jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus) for a long while was unapproachable for a few reasons - spiky, chewy, and difficult to work with. When eaten fresh, the texture reminds one of an endless wet mass of Juicy Fruit gum (both contain isoamyl acetate), but when cooked, it becomes tender and shreddable - very similar to pulled pork. By altering the aesthetics and form of the flesh, jackfruit became understandable and approachable to the modern American eater, omnivores and vegans alike.

This change in attitude surrounding unfamiliar fruit is at the core of Asian influence in Southern Florida. Typically, influence can be spotted through the use of fruit, as exemplified by the green papaya salad recipe.

Starfruit and Thai basil tart with lemon curd, lavender, basil buds, Costa Rican bush mint, and marigold. Photo by Jack Raben, Naples Botanical Garden.

American understanding of fruit has been historically straightforward and tends to serve the purpose of healthy, well-rounded diet choices or are incorporated into sweets and treats. From earlier arrival onward, fruit was oftentimes cooked and many advised against eating it fresh. ^[9] Other cultures have been more resourceful and creative with their produce, finding uses for every part at every stage of ripeness. Papaya (Carica papaya), although typically eaten when ripe and golden-orange, is also commonly consumed when underripe and maintains a crunchy, mildly-sweet flavor reminiscent of the texture of coleslaw. Other appearances of Tropical Asian cuisine come from seasonings and spices, like ginger and togarashi, and familiar handhelds like bao buns and banh mis. Though still emerging into mainstream use, Southeast Asian cuisine slides naturally into Floribbean cuisine and tropical food cultures of Southern Florida.

Gochujang duck bao buns with sesame, mint, and scallion. Photo by Jack Raben, Naples Botanical Garden.

From Calusa and Taíno ingenuity and Spanish-colonial legacies to Latin American and Caribbean migrations alongside Southeast Asian work and travel, South Florida is a repository for creativity and culinary impact. This multicultural conglomeration of food legacies has created what is generically pinned as “Floribbean” cuisine, a misnomer as the food scene has grown incredibly beyond simply Florida and the Caribbean. Some food writers now call this cuisine “New Floridian,” shining light on menus that highlight ingredients part of this American region. Think of Florida beef, peanuts, mullet, datil peppers, alligator, remoulade, and tropical fruits - all found locally or natively to the region. From Florida Cracker to New Orleans Creole and beyond, Florida is becoming a flourishing fountain for the food scene.

With any booming industry comes issues and challenges, however. As of recently, “shopping local” has surged as an environmentally- and socially-conscious choice for consumers. There are great benefits to shopping locally - sources are known, relationships are established, economical and ecological impacts are minimized, and communities are strengthened. Local purchasing comes with its own difficulties, on the other hand. For Southern Florida, “locality” in and of itself is the challenge.

Southern Florida is just different, and that is both a simple and robust issue. With considerable Indigenous, colonist, immigrant, and migrant presence, Southern Florida lives in a state of an identity crisis. Similar to dense cities, the state in its entirety hosts people from all walks of land for long periods of time, leaving impact in every corner. Where “Southern Florida” begins geographically helps to focus on the differences found in this particular area of the state. The region begins in Sarasota on the Gulf Coast and extends east to between Fort Pierce and West Palm Beach on the Atlantic Coast, encompassing everything south until you hit open water, eventually running into Cuba. Southwest Florida is home to cities like Fort Myers, Naples, Marco Island, Bonita Springs, Estero, and Cape Coral among others. Southeast Florida houses more notable and populated cities like Miami, the Keys, West Palm Beach, and Fort Lauderdale. When speaking about locality within Floribbean cuisine, one must take into consideration a variety of factors in the Southern part of the state, including growing season, tourist season, and supply and demand.

Florida due to its extended tropical locality has an entirely different growing season. Whereas most of the nation is frozen or mildly melting, Floridians are growing the entire contents of any salad - from beets to turnips and just about anything between.^[10] Due to this natural blessing, availability of produce is far more varied during late fall, winter, and early spring, making menus robust and plentiful in terms of variety and offerings. But because the growing season is opposite of the rest of the nation, many visitors to the area are not inclined to order what really is in season but is perceived as out of season (some find ordering a watermelon gazpacho off-putting in early December). This in turn influences how restaurants, chefs, and eateries consciously make their purchases, regardless of availability. To a certain extent in this way, the population dictates the menu, oblivious to the natural bounty available year-round.

Tourist season, on the other hand, is another one of Florida’s seasons, with increased visitation and long-term stays between late November to mid-to-late April, skipping the swampy summer and hurricane season but staying for the mild winter and spring break season. Florida residency increases insanely during the most comfortable months, cities and townships experiencing an onslaught of out-of-state business - this is good for the Florida economy but has a great determining factor for the food industry here. It may be a bold statement, but tourism dictates the success of the Floridian commercial scene - shops, organizations, clubs, restaurants, bars, and farms are only open seasonally to coincide with this increased visitation, closing during the summers due to the less varied growing season, comfort of the atmosphere, and slim visitation. This proposes a major challenge to grocers and restaurants, as half of their suppliers take off for the summer along with the “snowbirds” that flock back home to their northern realms, leaving a gap to be filled or ignored.

Supply and demand become a major challenge then, forcing restaurants and grocers to opt for less desirable suppliers. Oftentimes, small local farms cannot accommodate for the sheer quantity of ingredients needed during tourist season. In fact, it is not uncommon to visit a local farmer’s market and find Dole pineapples and Chiquita bananas being sold by vendors, or stop into your local farmer-grocer and find produce tagged as Publix. To accomodate for demand, grocers, suppliers, and vendors sometimes have to cut corners, ordering from big-brand businesses because they have a stronghold on what is needed to appease the demand. Moreso, “small local farms” are becoming increasingly sparse as available land is scooped up by developers hoping to create the next living community, a frightening reality when one considers the state of coastal erosion and the impending climate crisis we are living through.

Finally, the restaurant industry in Southern Florida is competitive and fierce, forcing entrepreneurs to clash amongst themselves in order to serve the swelling demographic. With the waves of new businesses opening and closing, pinning down local suppliers with consistency is the least of many owners’ worries. Even when considering these factors, Floribbean and “New Florida” cuisine remains strong and growing, and it’s likely that it will continue to grow along with the increasing population.

            What does all of this mean for the future of Floribbean cuisine? Taking into consideration historical contributors and present stakeholders, there is a lot of work to do. These cultural corners are largely underrepresented or absorbed by majority demographics. Recipes with traditional roots are altered to the point of no return, oftentimes their ingredients being simplified or omitted entirely to appease a more generic palate and rendering the original recipe unrecognizable. This region has a considerable culinary platform to explore, represent, and claim with the potential to expand beyond just recipes, dishes, and meals but contribute to larger conversations about sustainable agriculture, seasonal foodscapes, and minority representation in the food industry.

 

Bibliography

Elder, Kara, “Mofongo: The beloved Puerto Rican mash with deep ties to Africa,” The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/mofongo-the-beloved-puerto-rican-mash-with-deep-ties-to-africa/2017/08/01/07e468e0-6252-11e7-84a1-a26b75ad39fe_story.html.

 “Fact Sheet: Exchange Visitor Program (J-1 Visa), National Immigration Forum, 2018.  https://immigrationforum.org/article/factsheet-exchange-visitor-program-j-1-visa/.

KM, “The History of Barbecuing,” The Food Network. https://www.foodnetwork.com/fn-dish/news/2019/6/the-history-of-barbecuing.

Neumann, Katharina and Elisabeth Hildebrand, “Early Bananas in Africa: The state of the art,” Ethnobotany Research & Applications, 2009.

Ogden, Laura, Swamplife: People, Gators and Mangroves Entangled in the Everglades,  University of Minnesota Press, 2011.

O’Neill, Molly, “Maggi Smith Hall’s Minorcan Fromajardis,” One Big Table, Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2010. https://d279m997dpfwgl.cloudfront.net/wp/2010/12/Minorcan-Fromajardis1.pdf.

Reiley, Laura. “Emerging New Florida cuisine is like history on a plate,“ Tampa Bay Times, 6 September 2014. https://www.tampabay.com/things-to-do/food/dining/emerging-new-florida-cuisine-is-like-history-on-a-plate/2196489/.

“South Florida Vegetable Gardening Guide,” Broward County Florida Parks and Recreation, UF/IFAS Extension Education Section, https://www.broward.org/Parks/ThingsToDo/Documents/VegetablePlantingGuideforSouthFlorida.pdf.

Wallach, Jennifer Jensen, How America Eats: A Social History of U.S. Food and Culture, Rowan & Littlefield, 2013. Page 30.

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^[1] Laura Reiley, “Emerging New Florida cuisine is like history on a plate,“ Tampa Bay Times (2014), https://www.tampabay.com/things-to-do/food/dining/emerging-new-florida-cuisine-is-like-history-on-a-plate/2196489/

^[2] KM, “The History of Barbecuing,” The Food Network, https://www.foodnetwork.com/fn-dish/news/2019/6/the-history-of-barbecuing.

^[3] Molly O’Neill, “Maggi Smith Hall’s Minorcan Fromajardis,” One Big Table (Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2010),  https://d279m997dpfwgl.cloudfront.net/wp/2010/12/Minorcan-Fromajardis1.pdf

^[4] Katharina Neumann and Elisabeth Hildebrand, “Early Bananas in Africa: The state of the art,” Ethnobotany Research & Applications (2009).

^[5] Kara Elder, “Mofongo: The beloved Puerto Rican mash with deep ties to Africa,” The Washington Post, https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/mofongo-the-beloved-puerto-rican-mash-with-deep-ties-to-africa/2017/08/01/07e468e0-6252-11e7-84a1-a26b75ad39fe_story.html

^[6] Elder.

^[7] “Fact Sheet: Exchange Visitor Program (J-1 Visa), National Immigration Forum (2018),  https://immigrationforum.org/article/factsheet-exchange-visitor-program-j-1-visa/

^[8] Laura Ogden, Swamplife: People, Gators and Mangroves Entangled in the Everglades (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011).

^[9] Jennifer Jensen Wallach, How America Eats: A Social History of U.S. Food and Culture (Lanham: Rowan & Littlefield, 2013), 30.

^[10] “South Florida Vegetable Gardening Guide,” Broward County Florida Parks and Recreation, UF/IFAS Extension Education Section, https://www.broward.org/Parks/ThingsToDo/Documents/VegetablePlantingGuideforSouthFlorida.pdf