The West Indian Day parade rules every Labor Day in our part of Brooklyn.  It’s the American version of Carnival.  No where else will you see Chuck Schumer plodding down Eastern Parkway followed by a tractor trailer loaded with twenty 56-inch speakers, a brass band, a DJ, and 15 half-naked women rapturously grinding like bikinied peacocks in the headdresses of a golden Aztec god.  These women always make me ashamed of my own stomach muscles.

This parade is stupendous in part because politicians seeking reelection are seemingly required to be there.  Who knew the descendents of Carribian slaves carried so much clout.  Hillary Clinton was a staple for her years up here.  This year, Governor Andrew Cuomo was the most shocking manifestation of a Ken doll that I’ve ever seen.  He gave a kid in front of me the point-wink-thumbs-up triple play.

Shannon is a parade person.  We’ve decided that such a category of person exists, that she is one, and that I am not.  I come for the costumes, to be reminded of countries I had forgotten existed, and to see so many people so happy.

And the food.  This is a food blog.

Curried goat, ox, fish.  Fried breadfruit and rice & peas.  Ackee fish and fish cakes and oxtail.  Grilled corn with its silk singed black and covered in butter, salt, and chili.  Sorrel sugar drink that tastes like root beer.  Collards and fried shrimp.  Young men trolling the crowds and hawking little six-ounce bottles of booze juice in all the shades of a pack of Lifesavers.

And mac and cheese.  I love mac and cheese, and I am suspicious of anyone who does not.  One of my joys and New York treats is S’mac, which appeared in the East Village a few years ago and, in spite of being a little too East Village’y sometimes, is totally fucking awesome.  They mix Brie and roasted figs, for God’s sake.  Sweet Jesus.

Such a specimen of mac and cheese was not to be found on Eastern Parkway yesterday, but there were ample options.  We decided to choose the two that looked the best and duel.

I picked the version served by R&S Jamaican Jerk Palace.  It looked to have a nice crust but without that slick glaze that sometimes comes from covering the top of the pan with egg before putting it in the oven.  R&S delivered.  It was creamy, and only some of that creaminess came from American cheese, the most useless, poseur cheese in the world.  The macaroni was the tiniest shade al dente.

Shannon chose a version from an unnamed Puerto Rican table.  We searched up and down a few blocks and decided that “macaroni pie” must be a synonym for mac and cheese.  For five bucks we received a paper plate of lukewarm macaroni tossed with some pre-shredded bits of cheddar.  When we learned that the dish was usually served with barbeque chicken on top, we asked for barbeque sauce.

What came next was tragic.  The seller smiled at me, said “barbeque sauce,” and picked up gallon container of ketchup.  Surely, I though, this must be a special mix of barbeque sauce in the Heinz container.  She’s smiling so happily.  She spoke the words “barbeque” and “sauce” while looking me in the eye.  And as the woman splurped three-quarters of a cup of red ooze on macaroni, Shannon stood across the sidewalk, mouth frozen in a “Noooo!” lost in the boom and squeal of the parade around us.

I held out hope until the first bite.  That hope will stand as a testament to my naivete.   Nothing, nothing, nothing in the world is as bad as standard American ketchup.  It’s like cotton candy and corn syrup thickened with guar gum.  It makes everything it touches the same blegh flavor.  I cannot wrap my head around the fact that people think ketchup is a savory condiment rather than pixie stix mixed with tomato paste as flavorful as cardboard.

So, anyway…I win!  We carried the plate of garbage around until we realized we couldn’t find a trash can, ultimately setting it daintily on a pile of garbage next to a trash can lost beneath another pile of garbage.

And then we cleansed our palates with ginger ale manufactured by beef barons and watched the fantastic peacock carnival dancers show off for the judges.