Growing up, Encona was the only hot sauce we had in our home. I can imagine telling that story to my grandkids, them only knowing a world with myriad chilli condiments, looking at me with a mixture of pity and boredom. The same look I would have given my elders when they told me their tales of meagre simplicity. But mine isn’t a memory of wartime rationing and hardship – that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Encona was the only hot sauce we needed. It brought everything to the table, making every dish it graced come alive. To this day it reinvigorates leftovers to transform them into something entirely different. It makes the most simple dishes sing. And with just a few drops, everything tastes both exciting and familiar.

I can’t recall the first time I had it, but I know that iconic square glass bottle, topped off with its little blue cap, has been in my life for as long as I remember. Its label was transportative, the palm trees evoking warmer climes and ingredients rooted in the West Indies; a place I had a connection to and had heard about through Dad’s vivid stories, but back then was still yet to see for myself.

Now celebrating its 50th anniversary, Encona has expanded its range of flavours from around the world, but Encona’s iconic sauce has reached an echelon that only the very best in food achieve – being known by its first name only. Its full name might be Encona West Indian Pepper Sauce, but in our home, and I know in the houses of others, it’s simply known as Encona. Like Nigella, Ainsley and Jamie, it needs no further introduction. Everyone knows what you’re talking about.

Encona’s roots lay in the Windrush story, the migration of people from the Caribbean by invitation from the British Government to help rebuild the postwar nation. Their numbers included my grandparents, who travelled from Jamaica to support Britain. 

In turn, Encona began importing ingredients sought by the Caribbean diaspora in the UK, and in 1975 the West Indian Pepper Sauce was released. Life was never the same again.

Its legendary status only grows. It’s an amazing achievement given the explosion of the hot sauce industry in the last decade, but it’s not surprising. 

Encona is the ultimate hot sauce, perfectly balanced. It has chilli heat but it’s neither macho nor aggressive. There’s just enough heat to let you know it’s there, but not so much that it blows your socks off and ruins both your tastebuds and whatever you’re eating. Want it a little hotter? Then just add a bit more.

It has tang, sweetness, and umami. And most importantly, it captures the unmistakable fruitiness of Scotch bonnet, the most fragrant and beautiful flavour to me, and one that was so important as a kid in Dorset where, to find an actual scotch bonnet would have taken more resources than I could have mustered.

Back then, growing up, I only put Encona with Jamaican dishes – at first. My dad’s ackee and saltfish, the red sauce pooling with the dish’s beautiful liquor creating a whole new third flavour at the meeting point. I’d tear off a bit of fried dumpling and dab it in that sauce, awaiting that unmistakable hit of flavour as it washed over my tongue. 

I’d find a spot of un-sauced rice and peas in a plate of curry chicken and stir it in, gradually
incorporating the Encona into mouthfuls of perfectly-spiced chicken.

But mine was a household of multitudes and Jamaican food joined foods from all over. My Mum is Maltese and expert at pasta dishes – her lasagne is legendary – and it provided an ideal home for Encona. Not the first plateful – I’d savour that as it came. But leftovers would be transformed into a completely different dish doused in Encona. And I did douse it – mum’s ricotta-based white sauce, spiked with parmesan, was the perfect creamy foil for a decent drenching in my favourite hot sauce. And mum wholeheartedly approved. I dread to think what might have happened if I’d dared to introduce tomato ketchup to the plate, but Encona was more than accepted, it was encouraged. 

Later, when I left my hometown of Weymouth to go to university in London, Mum’s lasagne and dad’s curries would come with me, taking up half my luggage with strict instructions for them to be frozen on arrival. A bottle of Encona came with me too, and in financially-lean periods where those care packages sustained me, Encona would make me feel as though I hadn’t been eating the same thing for a week.

At breakfast, I’d stick it next to a fried egg, or mix it with ketchup in a bacon sandwich. A cheese toastie, its insides freshened with spring onion, would be completed with a puddle of Encona for me to dab a crispy corner into.

Now food is my career, and Encona features heavily still. It’s always in my fridge, and I incorporate it into recipes often. I’ve added it onto a glaze for aubergines grilled over fire. I’ve made compound butters with it, slathered onto crispy chicken thighs allowing the butter to melt into the rice below. It is a brilliant addition in a barbecue sauce – it does a lot of the heavy lifting – and I love it in a cheese sandwich packed with slices of tomato and crispy, cool lettuce leaves. It has even made its way onto our cheeseboards – a cracker topped with a West Country cheddar and a smear of Encona is a treat that shouldn’t taste as good as it does.

Just the other day I finished another bottle of Encona. I had left it upturned on the kitchen counter, leaning against the splash back in order to allow those last dregs to slowly slide to the top so I can eek out every last drop. 

Foolishly, like always, I didn’t have a second bottle in reserve, waiting for me once its predecessor was empty. But it’s on the shopping list, and despite my own enjoyment of Encona now reaching its fourth decade, the excitement remains as fresh as though I was tasting it for the very first time.