Pikliz.

Every fried-food culture develops something acidic to eat alongside, and pikliz is Haiti's answer. It descends from the same European pickling habit that produced piccalilli and the French pickled crudités, but the balance is different: no sugar, no mustard, and a quantity of Scotch bonnet that would be unthinkable in either. What arrived as a preservation technique became a condiment defined by heat, and Haitians treat it as a fixed part of the plate rather than an optional garnish.

On the street it is inseparable from fritay. The vendor fries the griyo, the tasso, the akra and the plantains; the jar of pikliz sits on the counter, and a spoonful goes into every paper cone. Nobody asks whether you want it. In homes a jar lives permanently in the fridge door, topped up as it empties, and the vinegar left behind after the vegetables are gone gets used to season stews and marinades — Haitian cooks call that liquid too valuable to pour away.

The heat level is not standardised and is often mischaracterised abroad. Household pikliz can be moderate, made with one or two peppers for a big jar, while street versions can be brutal. What is consistent is that the heat is fruity rather than flat, because Scotch bonnet carries a distinct apricot-like aroma alongside its capsaicin. Removing the seeds and membranes tames it considerably without losing that perfume, which is the sensible move if you are cooking for a mixed table.

Pikliz gets better with time up to a point. On day one it tastes like salted cabbage in vinegar; by day three the pepper has moved through the whole jar and the vegetables have softened just enough to yield. Past three or four weeks the crunch fades, at which point the remaining vegetables are best chopped into a stew and the jar started again.