My first personal encounter with Yvonne Yvonne was on my way to the doctor’s office. As I waited at the southwest corner of 71st and York Ave for the traffic light, I noticed that a tin-colored van named “Yvonne Yvonne” was parked a few steps away from me, with a nearby cooler box full of colorful juices. I recalled what my British New Yorker colleague Remy Chait told me after I described to him my adventure in a Jamaican restaurant at Union Square, “Jamaican? Ya don’t-a need-a Union Square—across the hospital on York Ave, ya’ll see a Jamaican food van”. I decided to check the van out even though I was already late for my appointment, because the light was not going to change any time soon.

The window was high, with small plastic boxes of rum cakes and bread puddings neatly stacked on the left side of the window sill. To the right side of the window, small, medium, and large Styrofoam boxes were posted and labeled as “Diet Size, $6”, “Big Strong Healthy Man, $7”, and “Charming Polite Little Girl, $9”, respectively. I laughed, returned to the window, and stood on tiptoes trying to peep into the dark interior. A woman turned from the kitchen bench to face me, and a warm smile lit up a youthful and dark-complexioned face. Recalling how impressed I was by the Jerk Pork from the Jamaican restaurant at Union Square, I asked, “Do you have Jerk Pork?” “Not today”, she explained, “we offer different things on different days. Today, I have curry goat, curry chicken, and oxtail.” I was a bit disappointed, and as I debated about which of the three I should try, the light turned green, and I said good-bye to her and crossed the street. Curry goat was too challenging—not many chefs can make the meat tender enough; curry chicken was too predictable, and oxtail—what was that, for heaven’s sake? Would it come with ox skin like how Chinese restaurants serve up duck feet? On the way back from the doctor’s office, it was already three. To my surprise, the van was still parked at the same place. I mused among the three choices again, and started to feel a bit ashamed at my cowardice toward trying new things. As I crossed the street, I made up my mind.

I walked resolutely toward the window, and the same sunny smile emerged again. “Oxtail, please”, I said. She asked, “What size?” I flexed my arms, which were buried deep inside my winter coats, and replied, “Big strong healthy man, of course, and… you’d better believe it!” She laughed full-heartedly. As she fastened the lunch box with a rubber band and put it into a take-out plastic bag from a restaurant called Wild Ginger, I inquired whether she was from Jamaica. Her face beamed, “Yes. Have you visited there?” I shook my head. I asked her name, and she pointed up at the van, “Yvonne”.

The oxtail completely took me by surprise: it was rich, flavorful, and tender, not like anything that I have had before. And, as a bonus, it was skin-free. I liked it so much that instead of finishing it in one meal, I distributed it into several aliquots to add an interesting Caribbean twist into my Chinese meals afterwards.
When I stopped by Yvonne Yvonne on my next doctor’s appointment, it was a Monday again. I hesitated in front of the van. Yvonne stuck out her head, looking inquiringly at me, and asked, “Miss?” I confessed to her my dilemma, “I liked the oxtail very much, so I am tempted to order the same dish. However, I wanted to write a review about your mobile restaurant, and as a good reviewer, I ought to try something else, like curry goat. But I am afraid that I will be disappointed because goat…” Her smile enlarging and spreading across the entire face, she asked, “Are you Japanese?” I was quite struck by that question, because I doubted that any Japanese will come even close to my bluntness. She pointed toward my left side outside the window, and spoke proudly, “My restaurant was reviewed in Japanese!” I looked around and indeed, there was a review written in Japanese with a picture of her radiant face. “Don’t worry,” she continued, “I know how to flavor goat meat.” Before I had time to explain to her that it was the texture rather than the predictable flavor that I was concerned about, she had already turned her back, and packed a box within a minute.

“Which newspaper are you writing the review for?” She asked as she tied up the box and placed into, this time, a shopping bag from the De-Chang Grocery store in Chinatown. I was amused. Pointing southeast, I answered, “Natural Selections, the official unofficial newspaper of the Rockefeller University.” She nodded, “Very good—bring ’em all here.”

I could not believe what Yvonne had packed for me in that Strong Healthy Man box—so full that it was ready to burst open at any moment: on a bed of rice laid my favorite oxtail. In addition, curry goat, curry chicken, fried plantain, steamed cabbage, and collard greens—all of generous sampler size—crammed on the rice unoccupied by oxtail and in the two small side-boxes unoccupied by rice. The curry goat was impressively tender, and collard greens had a zesty spice so that I actually enjoyed them rather than consuming them out of an obligation to balance my diet. From that day on, I would visit Yvonne even on days when I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment, for I had found her van a convenient alternative to going to Chinatown or Queens for tasty and inexpensive meals.