Barry's patties

Once upon a time, I lived in Kingston, Ontario. While I was still single, I found a cozy little rental on Wellington Street, downtown, above a dental practise in a fairly old red brick house.

Next door was a charming little restaurant, L'Auberge, specializing in French cuisine. It was in a very old limestone heritage building. The place was run by a Paris-trained Morrocan chef named Mohammed Bahri (spelling?). Everyone called him 'Barry' for short. His kitchen was in an add-on to the main house (now gone) and the back door to this kitchen was right next to the door leading to my apartment. Almost every day when I got home from work (in the military), Barry would come to the door, greet me and ask me to try some new concoction he was creating in his kitchen. He was the kind of chef that made everything from scratch. The things he would spoon or fork into my mouth were scrumptious. Does that sound lewd? It isn't meant to be.

I was planning for a party one time at my place and wanted to serve up some Jamaican meat patties at the gig, since those were the fad food of the day back then in my circle. On a whim, I asked Barry if he knew what these were. He didn't, so I described them. He had a good idea what I meant and so I asked him if he would consider making me a large batch for my party. I knew they would be great because of his talents. He agreed to do it.

So I ended up serving Jamaican meat patties at my party made by a Paris-trained Moroccan French cuisine chef. They were spectacular.