CHOICE TABLES | ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA:
Where the Dinner Table is an Altar of Thanks
By Danielle Pergament Published March 18, 2007
On a trip to Addis Ababa last year, I became increasingly intrigued with the cuisine. Everywhere from dingy streets to polished hotels - - I saw people of every age, class and occupation eating the same food and embracing the same traditions. The food is a source of national pride, and a daily reminder of this country's history.
Habesha
The first place I tried injera was at this candlelit tukul, a traditional hut with low wooden tables and colorful ceiling murals on the city's main drag, Bole Road. As I sat down my friend Tariku Warigtay, a local guide, local residents were drinking St. George beer, and pretty waitresses in white cotton dresses were scurrying about.
After a moment, a young waitress approached with a silver tray and pitcher. In the tray was a bar of soap.
"It's for washing your hands, "Tariku explained. "There are no utensils, so we must have clean hands."
It was the most decadent hand washing I've ever had: after I soaped up, the waitress poured warm water over my lathered palm, then gave me a warm towel. She lighted a stick of incense on our table, and the room filled with the scent of sandalwood. A minute later, she brought over two bottles of St. George, and as far as I was concerned, the meal could have almost ended right there.
Luckily, it did not. Tariku ordered the specialty of the house, injera with mixed vegetable wat. Our injera arrived on a woven grass mat otherwise bare until the waitress returned with a collection of ceramic bowls. On our injera she spooned sautéed spinach with caramelized onions, spicy potatoes with red peppers, yellow lentils hummus, fried green beans with garlic, mashed chili peppers, refried beans with tangy pepper, crushed chickpeas and a crisp, green salad.
I ripped off a small piece, and gingerly dipped it into the chickpea sauce. Then I watched how Tariku – who's been eating the stuff for 30 years – approached his half. There is nothing delicate of refined about eating injera. He ripped of big sections and dunked them in the savory dips until his fingers were dipping with onions and spinach. I rolled up my sleeves and joined him.
Eating injera is a sensory feast – the sweet smell of sandalwood, the rhythmic drumming from a trio of musicians, sporadic bursts of flickering candlelight, and a sweet and spicy meal that clings to my finger. All five senses are abundantly fed, and the entire meal comes on only 100 birr or roughly $11 at 9.4 birr to the dollar.