With Bowls of Soup Joumou and Platters of Griot, Haitian Restaurateurs Are Educating Their Communities

Haitian Americans have a firm understanding of a bold cuisine forged by flavor and history.  | Cara Giddens

What Haitian chefs, restaurateurs, and scholars want you to know about Haitian food and history.

Whenever my late grandfather would stop by my childhood home, he would bring with him true delights, like pate kode, warm patties filled with smoked herring. My late grandmother would spend hours lovingly cooking boulèt, spicy fried meatballs made with beef and seasoned with epis — a spice blend and marinade. My mother would simmer up poulet en sos, braised chicken in sauce; fry up bunnan peze, or crispy fried plantain; and steam diri blanc, fluffy white rice (always, lovingly, allowing her children to eat the biggest chicken legs in the pot and take extra plantain). On New Year’s Day, family friends would generously provide us with their homemade soup joumou, a slightly sweet and savory pumpkin soup with beef, sending us home with full Tupperware as they wished us a Happy Independence Day. When I decided as an adult to finally learn how to make the cultural dishes I was raised upon, I immediately turned to griot, braised and fried pork. I spent hours butchering pork shoulder in my kitchen, blending herbs and vegetables to make my epis, and sauteing aromatics. To me, and to others of Haitian descent, this is what it means to eat like a Haitian.

Haitian Americans have a firm understanding of a bold cuisine forged by flavor and history. But recently, Haitian eating practices have been vilified by none other than former President Donald Trump and his 2024 running mate, J.D. Vance.

“I was mortified [by the comments] because immediately I understood the repercussions that [they] would have on real people’s lives,” says Nadege Fleurimond, author, chef-owner of BunNan in Brooklyn, and owner of Fleurimond Catering. “Which they did; people were fearing for their lives, people were escaping, people were running, people were getting threats.”

The Republican presidential ticket began spewing the racist dribble in September after an unconfirmed Facebook post alleged that a Haitian woman in Springfield, Ohio — a town home to approximately 12,000 to 15,000 Haitian immigrants — had stolen, slaughtered, and consumed a neighbor’s pet cat. Despite being repeatedly fact-checked by moderators, Trump alleged on a presidential debate stage that, “in Springfield, they’re eating the dogs, the people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating the pets of the people that live there.” Though the claims were immediately debunked by Springfield city officials, the Trump campaign continued to elevate racist falsehoods, fueling a rise in anti-immigrant rhetoric across the country. In Springfield, college campuses and hospitals had to shut their doors due to threats of violence, while Haitian businesses as far as those in New York experienced a sharp decline in sales.

“You walk in here and you only see one table [occupied],” says Wesly Jean Simon, chef-owner of Brooklyn restaurant Djon Djon and sister location Market Bar. In the aftermath of Trump and Vance’s comments, Simon says sales at Djon Djon dropped by 50 percent. “Even Haitians don’t feel like going out and eating. They don’t get excited about hitting the streets and going to the restaurants and having a good time anymore.”

While Trump’s racist actions have sparked fear in immigrant communities, Haitian families and chefs have turned to food — their real food — for comfort, and as a tool of education.

Courtesy of the Children’s Services of Roxbury

Gourmet Kreyòl is the first Haitian food truck in the greater Boston area.

“There’s a very, very soulful savory cuisine that comes out of Haiti that really is good for everyone,” says Gregory Gourdet, chef-owner of the James Beard Award-winning restaurant Kann in Portland, Oregon. “Just like other cultures, we’ve been able to reclaim a lot of ingredients that were brought over through challenging situations.” These challenging situations include several centuries of European-enforced slavery, and years spent fighting a worthy and ultimately victorious battle for Haitian independence. Dishes emerged through movement and cultural exchange that occurred during colonization and the transatlantic slave trade. Espagetti, for example, was introduced into Haitian cuisine by American soldiers who brought over dried pasta, hot dogs, and ketchup during the first U.S. occupation of Haiti. And soup joumou, also known as “freedom soup,” was a delicacy enslaved Haitians were forced to cook for their French colonizers and has since been reclaimed as a celebratory dish, eaten every Haitian Independence Day.

“Just like other cultures, we’ve been able to reclaim a lot of ingredients that were brought over through challenging situations.”

Chef Stephan Berrouet Durand, founder of the Haitian Culinary Alliance and of Miami’s annual Taste of Haiti food festival, attributes the diversity in Haitian cuisine to refugees from all over the world who’ve sought shelter on the Caribbean island. “[Haitian food] is not only very centered from Africa,” Berrouet Durand says. “We’ve had influences from Spain, France, England, the United States, and from immigrants who’ve come to Haiti and who brought their own culture in, from Italians to the Portuguese, Syrians to the Lebanese.” Some of Haiti’s biggest culinary staples — namely rice, okra, and beans — were introduced to the island by enslaved West Africans. Fresco, a popular Haitian sorbet-like dessert, was directly inspired by Italian immigrants in Haiti. The national dessert of Haiti, dous makos, a fudgy candy, was invented by a Belgian Haitian entrepreneur and inspired by Spanish turrón.

Despite this culinary diversity, Haitian foodways remain woefully underrepresented in the United States. When it comes to food from the Caribbean and Latin America’s African diaspora, empanadas, jerk chicken, and Jamaican patties lead conversations. Haitian dishes like diri djon djon (black mushroom rice), lambi (conch), and akasan (a shake made from cornmeal and warming spices like anise and nutmeg) are excluded from such talks. Although Haitian immigrants make up one of the largest foreign-born populations in the U.S. — maintaining a strong presence in cities like Boston, New York, and Miami — Haitian cuisine has not reached the same levels of mainstream popularity and acceptance as other foreign cuisines stateside. Across the country, Haitian chefs like Gourdet are working to change this, introducing Haitian cuisine and culture to their communities and to those who have never before tried a Haitian dish.

“There’s tons of educating,” Gourdet says. “A lot of people hadn’t had Haitian food before. So we are doing our part to highlight [Haitian] ingredients and share the stories of these ingredients.”

Courtesy of Eva Kosmas Flores

At Kann in Portland, chef Gregory Gourdet’s griyo twice-cooked pork is an introduction into Haitian cuisine.

Haitian chefs recognize that their food is many Americans’ first introduction to Haitian culture, and see their role as not just “chef,” but also as an educator. “I think food is universal and food brings people together,” Berrouet Durand says. “If you really want to teach someone anything about your culture, food is a driver for that.”

This education comes in myriad ways. At Kann, servers offer a brief explanation of every dish and its significance to the Haitian people. There, customers learn that griot is Haiti’s national dish and that epis was originated by enslaved Haitians.

For many, this education is about reinforcing the inherent value and dignity in Haitian cuisine, and responding to long-standing racism stemming from the American public.

Chef Nathalie Lecorps, daughter of Haitian immigrants and owner of Boston’s Gourmet Kreyòl — the first Haitian food truck in the greater Boston area — requires all of her customers to order their food in Haitian Creole. While Massachusetts is home to the third largest Haitian population in the country, Lecorps finds that a majority of her customers are not Haitian. She uses her business as a means of teaching other elements of Haitian culture to the Boston community. “For me, it’s not only about eating the food, it’s about experiencing the culture,” she says. “You’re going to tell me what you want to eat in Creole, because my menu is in Creole. And then under it, it’s in English where we describe what each meal is so they can have an understanding. It’s a learning experience for my customers.”

For many, this education is about reinforcing the inherent value and dignity in Haitian cuisine, and responding to long-standing racism stemming from the American public. Lecorps recounts her parents’ stories of dealing with anti-Haitian discrimination when they first immigrated to Miami in the ’70s. “Their experiences coming into this country weren’t very welcoming,” Lecorps says. “When my dad went to high school, there was actually a ‘Beat Up Haitians Day.’” I personally remember hearing similar stories from my own father, who was raised by Haitian immigrants in Long Island, New York. When classmates overheard them speaking in Creole, my dad and his best friend would lie about their heritage to avoid being attacked for being Haitian. During the HIV epidemic, Haitians were subject to routine criticism connected to a commonly held belief that Haitians were infecting American citizens with the virus.

“All these things they’re saying about us, that we eat cats, we eat dogs, it is not new to us,” says Simon. “Back in the ’90s, it was, ‘Oh we give every American AIDS.’ And we’re still standing. We don’t have time for your rhetoric.”

Haitian restaurateurs find the rhetoric ridiculous, as it demonstrates the lack of education about Haiti’s contributions to the U.S. throughout the nation’s history. On January 1, 1804, after a 13-year revolution during which enslaved Haitians fought against their French enslavers and overthrew French rule, Haiti became the Western Hemisphere’s first Black sovereign nation, and the first enslaved country in the world to earn its own freedom. The Haitian Revolution had ripple effects across the Caribbean, Latin America, and the United States, inspiring numerous slave rebellions and uprisings in the U.S. “I think sometimes we think of Haiti as just Haiti, but when others ask why Haitian people love to mention the Haitian Revolution, that’s because that one revolution impacted so many other places and so many other aspects of history,” says Fleurimond.

Yale professor of French and African diaspora studies Dr. Marlene Daut has written extensively on the Haitian Revolution and corroborates Fleurimond’s research. “The entire geography of our country would look completely different if it were not for the Haitian Revolution and for Haiti.”

As the election looms closer and anti-Haitian rhetoric continues to be a talking point of political candidates, Haitian restaurateurs remain determined to show the world what Haitian history and culture are actually like, one plate at a time. “I get to share my cuisine with the world. To have somebody come and tell me, ‘Oh, I’ve been to Haiti. I remember this,’ that touches your soul,” says Berrouet Durand. “That touches right into your soul because you know that you’ve not only shared a piece of Haiti with someone, you have people who have been to Haiti and recall their experience as so positive.”

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