It started with a coffee shop conversation in Trinidad.
Nothing formal. No microphones. Just a table, two people, and a story that began to unravel over sips of coffee and casual curiosity. Mr. Surujdeo Mangaroo spoke with the ease of someone who has told this story before.
He spoke of his father, a man who spent 35 years selling doubles on the streets of South Trinidad. Not from a stall or a storefront, but from a bicycle. A handmade wooden box affixed to the frame, pedaling from Debe to Mod Sec School, ASJA, T&TEC, and every other Friday, outside the Siparia council office. The doubles were hot, the channa spiced just right…but behind that bicycle was a family, each with a role, each part of the flavour.
This is a story about one man’s doubles, and the many hands, names, and lives that shaped it.
Some called him Mooni. Others, Gopie. To some, he was Mamoo. But all of them knew his doubles.

Global Cravings, Local Roots

Doubles may have started within East Indian communities, but today, it belongs to everyone. Afro, Indo, Chinese, Syrian Trinidadians, and migrant Venezuelans. Doubles doesn’t care who you are when you’re standing in line, sweating, and waiting to say “gih meh two with slight.”

It’s affordable. It’s filling. It hits at after a lime, and at noon on your lunch break. It’s nostalgic, messy, and forgiving. What’s worth mentioning in this story is that doubles, that same humble street food, has now gone global. I ate one at the Canadian National Exhibition last summer. I spotted it at Scotiabank Arena during a Raptors game. Imagine that! Doubles at the concession stands alongside hot dogs, nachos, and pizza as part of the nuevo North American “game food” lineup.

It’s the cousin of chole bhature, a North Indian dish of fried dough and spiced chickpeas. But doubles, as we know it, evolved locally. The original bara wasn’t even made with wheat flour. Ingredients changed. Spices shifted. Techniques adapted. This isn’t just food, it’s a reflection of Trinidad itself: resourceful, creative, always changing, always holding on.

Globally, doubles is making a name for itself, but its roots remain in Trinidad and Tobago. Forged in hot oil and resilience, transported on bicycles, and carried in the memories of children who once woke up to the smell of bara frying before dawn.

This is where the story begins…with the son of a doubles man.

A Legacy Built on Bara

Mr. Surujdeo Mangaroo is a well respected figure in Trinidad’s business and cultural circles. He’s the director of one of only 40 registered Insurance Brokerages in the country and serves on the board of the NCIC, a long-standing cultural association. He’s built a solid, reputable career. But long before that, before the board meetings and brokerage business, he was waking up before dawn in a doubles-making household.

We met for breakfast a few days before his flight to Canada. I ordered an espresso and a bagel. He had a fruit bowl and hot chocolate. We talked casually at first: family, work, the weather in Toronto. But eventually, I asked the question that had brought me there:
What was it like growing up in a house that made doubles?

He smiled. “It was work,” he said, “but it was life.”

The Family Behind the Doubles

Everyone in the family had a role to play. Mr. Surujdeo, as a child, was tasked with prepping the chutneys. His mother and older brother did the cooking, another brother was responsible for the daily cleaning of the box and the bicycle. Before sunrise, while the rest of the country was still wrapped in sleep, the Mangaroo household was already in motion. The day’s doubles had technically started the night before. Dough for the bara was left to rest “overnight to soak,” as Mr. Surujdeo put it, allowing time for a slow rise, a quiet ferment that would yield a soft, yet sturdy product come morning.

The evening prior, channa was cleaned, chutneys prepped, ingredients sorted. In the wee hours of the morning, channa would be cooked. Bara, fried crisp and golden, filled the kitchen with the scent of hot oil and yeasty dough before first light. Then came the packing, the careful placement of all that work into a wooden box that would be strapped to a bicycle and pedaled through town.

Mr. Mangaroo Samlal was a vendor, and also a fixture in the community. People knew him by different names depending on where he was selling. If someone referred to him as Gopie or Mamoo, they might’ve known him from either ASJA or Mod Sec (secondary schools). Mooni? That name might’ve come from a Siparia regular. These names weren’t just nicknames, they were location stamps, informal signposts of where his father had left an impression.

And his mode of operation was just as distinct. He didn’t stay in one place. With his doubles box strapped securely to the bike, he cycled his route day after day, through sun and rain. I asked Mr. Surujdeo – What did your father do when it rained? Without hesitation, he smiled. “He would still pedal,” he said. “He used a big tablecloth to cover himself.” Just picture that: a man hunched beneath fabric, balancing hot food and handlebars, committed to showing up.

Mangaroo Samlal sold outside schools, government offices, council buildings, wherever the crowd would gather. And if there was resistance? There was charm. His son told me a story about a time his father wasn’t allowed to sell in front of Skinner’s Park, San Fernando, during a big event. Instead of turning back, he offered the security guard two doubles. Problem solved.

“My father taught me to work hard and to value every cent. He used to say every dollar had 100 cents. That stuck with me my whole life.”

The Story Behind the Dish

What my conversation with Mr. Surujdeo Mangaroo reminded me is that food doesn’t just fill bellies, it builds futures. Behind every dish is a story. Behind every paper-wrapped serving is someone’s early morning, someone’s sacrifice, someone’s idea of a better life.

These are the kinds of stories that stick with me.

They explain why people do what they do. Why certain dishes taste the way they do. Why food, in the Caribbean especially, is never just food. It’s narrative. It’s economy. It’s culture, hot pepper optional.

This is only the beginning of that story. There’s more to dig into. But for now, I leave you with this moment …one man, one memory, and the quiet pride of being the son of a doubles man.