Blackwell is white, speaks with smooth British diction, and, as a former big-shot music executive who founded Island Records, casually begins stories with otherworldly phrases like “I saw Mick last night” (Jagger, of course, whose birthday he celebrated at a party in New York before flying in). But Blackwell was raised in Jamaica, and when he speaks about food, his undeniable Jamaican-ness comes through. Like every other islander I've encountered, he's quick to praise food not just for its flavor, but for its power. A few days before, Lanky, a fisherman in the village of Oracabessa on the north side of the island, insisted to me that black mangoes make you sweat. A farmer I met in Free Hill is convinced that the roots of the coco plant, a relative of taro, put “lead in your pencil” (tips for enhancing virility come up so frequently they start to feel like prescriptions for a problem I didn't realize I had). And then there are the yellow yams of Trelawny Parish, responsible, according to some, for sprinter and native son Usain Bolt's world-record-breaking speed.