Fasika - December 12, 2015
My parents are not adventurous eaters. Northwestern European and Scandinavian palates, paired with weird work hours, led to very little spice and lots of convenience foods growing up. Homemade enchiladas, bread dough pizza, and the occasional order of takeout chicken chow mein were the extent of fare that might be considered culturally “different.”
My first experience with food in its cultural context was probably during the summer Swedish class I took when I was 8 or 9. I don’t recall much from that period, except how to count, but I think I remember trying some food.
The first culturally relevant food experience I remember though was during an excursion for Spanish class. We loaded up a bus and headed to the now closed, and personally missed, El Meson. A lot of my classmates were reluctant to try the various Spanish and Cuban inspired dishes, but I was hungry. Beans & rice, plantains, paella, and of course, flan, and more. I don’t think I ate myself sick, but I very well may have.
Until its closing, El Meson was a place, if not ‘the’ place, I liked to take friends. I was saddened when it closed, but some sleuthing and resurgent nostalgia has moved Hector Ruiz’ current restaurants to the top of the list I keep in my head but don’t always reference when choosing where to go.
Since that far flung past, I’ve enjoyed a lot more food from cultures not my own: shawarma in Saudi Arabia, tapas in Madrid, waterzooi in Belgium, full English breakfast in London, poi in Hawaii, plus numerous restaurants locally that specialize in various cultural fare. Sadly, my gustatory gallivanting hadn’t yet carried me to the African continent. Rachel changed that.
Rachel invited a few of us to share a meal at one of her favorite restaurants a couple weeks back. I was excited for numerous reasons: it was a dinner with good friends, a restaurant new to me, and it would finally mark my first foray into continental African cuisine via Ethiopia.
Rachel had briefly described the dining experience with reference to “eating with your hands.” This called to mind a scene from a movie I’m quite fond of. With Julia Ormond in the role of the titular character, and Harrison Ford playing Linus, “Sabrina”* has a scene that finds Sabrina and Linus dining in a Moroccan restaurant in New York. He reaches for the silverware and she urges him to use his hands, because it’s better. I’ll admit there was some fear that we’d be seated at floor height tables, but I would have gladly done so for the company and experience. *“Sabrina” is a remake of an earlier version with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart, it’s enjoyable as well, but quite anachronistic.
I have some friends that will not eat with their hands, barring things that have a bun or similar barrier to the contained food. No wings, no nachos, etc. I’ve always felt they were missing out, but I don’t think I could accurately contextualize why until now.
George and the Dragon Beer: This is my first Ethiopian beer, it’s good, if a bit malty.
Samosas: Crisp and flavorful.
The Ultimate Combination (Fasika) a beef, lamb, and vegetable sample platter of exquisite dishes, served on - and with - Ethiopian Injera (bread): I’m not familiar enough with each dish to indicate which is which off the menu, but I’m comfortable in saying I really enjoyed this. Onions, garlic, cardamom, ginger, cumin, peppers, coriander - these were the dominant flavors and they were symphonic.
Back to the eating with hands. When sharing a platter like this where your vessel is torn bread that takes on the role of spoon, fork, and tongs all at once - each reach for your next bite becomes a dance. You watch your dining companions’ movements: do they return to the same item indicating a favorite, do they still waltz around the platter trying to sample everything before deciding on what to return to? It’s sensual, not in the traditional sense, but in the sense of senses. You know the temperature of the food before it gets to your mouth because you’ve felt it with your hands because you’ve given up the insulating trappings of silverware; you know the texture too, how much did it yield when you scooped it up with the injera? It’s familiar, you’re sharing the same dish, occasionally rubbing arms, bumping knuckles. I’ve talked about my love of coursed dining and knowing that everyone is experiencing the same thing you are, but this? This is that on a far more intimate stage, you’re literally eating the same thing they are. The edge of the bread you tore fits like a puzzle piece with the edge of theirs, the spot on the platter you grabbed from is right next to the spot they’re going to grab from next.
To say I enjoyed my experience at Fasika would be an understatement. I look forward to sharing more meals there.