AT A TIME in my life when I can use all the juju I can get, I drove right past a place called Luck, a Chinese restaurant in Albany, I think, or Berkeley, looking for somewhere to eat. I was starving. I wasn't in a hurry, but I didn't have time to be picky, either. Luck was on my side of San Pablo Avenue. There was even a parking lot. I saw it, I wanted it, and ... I just kept driving.

Couple blocks later there was a gas station, and another thing I needed was gas, so, determined not to make the same mistake twice, I pulled in, pulled up to the pump. Got gas. And then when I went to start the car afterwards, of course: nothing.

Just: click.

See? Juju-related miscalculations aside, there's nothing worse than a dead car before dinner. After dinner, with a belly full of Luck, OK – the car doesn't start, you just kick back and take a nap. Or walk away from it, come back tomorrow.

But I was on my way to band practice, and I was supposed to bring a little something leftoverlike for my brother, who was just getting in from L.A., and for Crawdad, who was just getting out of work. So there was more than just me depending on me, see? There was half a band.

So I popped the hood and went to go have a word with my battery. It's not a bad battery, just has a temperamental connection to the positive post. Which, now that I mention it, is another way of saying bad juju.

"Hey there, little guy," I said, giving the cable a friendly little wiggle. "How you doing? Everything OK? Need anything?" Another little wiggle, tried to start it. Again: click. "OK, look," I said, back under the hood. "We're in this together, right? Me and you." I gave the cable a hearty handshake. Tried again. Nothing. Back under the hood, I shook my head and didn't say anything. I didn't touch it.

Then I said, "If you want purple soup, put beets in it. If you want pink soup, try red cabbage."

Bingo. Started right up. Gave the little battery a wink and a nod while I closed the hood and got the hell out of there. Couple blocks later I thought: What the hell am I doing? I've got to go back to Luck and get me some. I was going to need to start the car at least two more times that night in order to get back home. So at the next intersection, I pulled a U-turn and, bam, there was Jamaican Soul, falling out of the sky like manna from – like ganja from heaven. "Jamaican food with a touch of soul." All colorful, cool-looking, like a warm little corner coffeehouse with nobody in it. Parking spot right out front.

Guidance! That's what my Trinidadian steel drum tuner down in Santa Cruz says by way of salutation. And this was it, a classic example of guidance. I glided into the parking spot, turned her off without even thinking about it, and followed my juju into Jamaican Soul.

A sign on the window advertised a fish tea soup special, and when I asked at the counter, he said fish head soup. Fish head soup. What could be luckier than that? And it had okra, corn, carrots, potatoes, black-eyed peas, and tons of face bones to pick around. Great soup. I think it only cost a buck.

You order either a small meal for $4 or a large meal for $7, and that comes with rice and peas or brown rice, and plantains, or a dumpling, or a fritter. If you want any other sides, like fish head soup, add a buck.

So I ordered curry goat, large meal, because I like curry, I like goats, and I love a calypso song that rhymes curry goat with rubber boat. They have curry goat on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I highly recommend it. I mean, I'm a big fan of jerk chicken – which they always have, and which I got to go for my hungry bandmates. It was good too. But the curry goat was something special. Like fish head soup. The meat was tender and juicy and ridiculously flavorful. And in case it's not flavorful enough, they have jars of homemade hot sauces on the tables – mango, and tamarind, and ...

But it's flavorful enough, I'm telling you.

What else I tried, sidewise, was the fried plantains, which were good, a sweet potato garnish, which was good, and this plop of spinach creamed in coconut milk with garlic and onion. Which was good.

Great place. Good music, if you like reggae, some colorful carpet art, a nice patchworked wood floor, dominoes. And, yeah, my car started right up afterwards and hasn't let me down since. Guidance.

Jamaican Soul. 2057 San Pablo (at Addison), Berk. (510) 704-4083. Mon.-Sat., 11:30 a.m.-10 p.m. Takeout available. No credit cards. No alcohol. Wheelchair accessible.

Email Dan Leone

Dan Leone is the author of Eat This, San Francisco (Sasquatch Books), a collection of Cheap Eats restaurant reviews, and The Meaning of Lunch (Mammoth Books).