When the craving hits for gravy, rice, meat and breadkind, most of us already know exactly where we're going. Some Caymanians are fiercely loyal to Mango Tree. Others swear by Welly's. Then there are those little hole in the wall spots that somehow look like they haven't changed in 20 years but consistently produce some of the best cooked food on the island. If food travel shows have taught us anything, it's that you should never judge a restaurant by its storefront.

While every establishment has its own signature flavours, secret seasonings and fiercely defended recipes, there is one thing they all seem to have in common.

The food is already cooked.

The curry chicken has been simmering for hours. The oxtail is falling off the bone. The rice and peas are sitting patiently in the warming tray. The mac and cheese has already achieved that perfect golden top. Everything is there, ready to go.

And yet, somehow, once you've ordered and paid, that already prepared meal still takes another 20 to 30 minutes to make the final journey into a takeaway container.

Why?

It's a mystery that has plagued me for decades.

Not because I mind waiting for food that's still cooking. Good food is worth waiting for. But this is different. The hard part is over. The cooking has already been done. All that appears to remain is a serving spoon, a Styrofoam container and, if you're lucky, a plastic fork.

So, what exactly is happening between the pot and the box?

Over the years, I've developed a number of theories. None of them are based on evidence, science or any actual understanding of how a cooked food kitchen operates. They're simply the thoughts of someone who has spent far too many lunch breaks standing near a counter, clutching a receipt and wondering where exactly their lunch disappeared to.

Theories

Theory No. 1: The food needs a moment.

Perhaps, after spending hours simmering away, the curry chicken simply isn't emotionally ready to leave the pot. Maybe the rice and peas need a few minutes to gather themselves before embarking on the life changing journey into a Styrofoam container. The gravy, meanwhile, could be going through an identity crisis, trying to decide whether it belongs on the rice, the meat or absolutely everything. It's the only explanation I could come up with.

Theory No. 2: They've forgotten me.

This theory usually creeps in around the 18-minute mark. At first you're perfectly patient. You understand they're busy. Then you become observant. You notice people who ordered after you walking out with enough cooked food to cater a family reunion. You casually check your receipt to make sure you didn't imagine placing the order. By minute 25, you've convinced yourself your ticket has slipped behind the register, your number was never called and everyone in the kitchen has collectively forgotten you exist. Then, just as you're about to politely ask for an update, someone calls your number as though you've only been standing there for three minutes. Every. Single. Time.

Theory No. 3: It's a test of character.

I've become convinced that buying cooked food has very little to do with lunch and everything to do with personal development. Anyone can order a plate of curry chicken, but first you must prove yourself worthy. You must resist the overwhelming temptation to ask, "Is mine almost ready?" You must scroll through every social media app on your phone, read messages you ignored three days ago and pretend not to notice that the person who arrived well after you has somehow already collected enough food to feed the office. Only then, once you've demonstrated sufficient patience, humility and emotional resilience, will someone emerge from the kitchen holding your container and call your number as if time itself has stood still.

The Answer Behind the Counter

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, so I asked. Not Google. Not Facebook. I asked a real person, a real woman who spends her days behind the counter building these seemingly endless orders. Her answer was disarmingly simple.

"We're building every plate from scratch."

I'd never really stopped to think about what that meant. One customer wants white rice with no gravy. The next wants rice and beans with extra gravy. Someone else only wants chicken breast. Another doesn't eat cassava but wants extra breadkind. Throw in extra plantain, double vegetables, gravy on the side and the inevitable "just a little gravy," and suddenly it becomes obvious that no two boxes are ever the same. If there are five or six orders ahead of yours, every one of those combinations has to be assembled by hand before anyone even gets to yours.

Suddenly, what I'd always dismissed as "just scooping food into a container" became something entirely different. The cooking had been finished for hours, but the building had only just begun. Every order was a custom build, assembled one scoop, one piece of chicken and one special request at a time.

So, to all the ladies behind the cooked food counters across Cayman, mystery solved. You have my respect, my appreciation and, from now on, a little more patience.

That said, now that we've cracked one of the island's greatest mysteries, perhaps we can work on the next one.

After waiting 30 minutes for my perfectly handcrafted lunch, could we just make sure it's actually the lunch I ordered?