Chakula Kizuri Maisha Mazuri
Zanzibar, the island of endless beaches stretches out lazily and invites both visitors and hosts to do the same. My first day is a pleasant surprise. Since the storm warnings have forced the organisers of the Stone Town Food Festival to postpone their event until December, I’ve arrived expecting torrential rain.
Though the sun is beginning to set, the heat and humidity remain steadfast in their efforts. I’ve sweated through my jumpsuit, surveying the side streets and compact alley ways of Mji Mkongwe, but there’s no time to change into a fresh outfit because my afternoon stroll has run longer than I’d anticipated.
As I climb the countless flights of stairs, I begin to lose my breath. Hankering down, I keep my head low and concentrate on the task at hand - there food on the other side of this vexation. Just as I’m about to concede, resign to my room and come up with an excuse in the morning, I stumble into a group of Americans who, themselves, are headed in my direction.
“We’re almost there,” one announces, and it is obvious she is encouraging the newest member of the sufferers in arms. Their excited chatted is a welcomed distraction because, not after too long, we reach the summit.
Emerson on Hurumzi boasts a beautiful view of the island. Corrugated roofs canon their way to the shoreline, and then it is ocean for as far as the eye can see.
After removing our shoes, we are ushered to our seats. “You don’t mind Turkish-style dining do you Inga?” It’s unnerving that the staff know my name and I don’t know any of theirs. Before I can ask, the hospitable stranger has slid me behind my station and is attending to the guests who’ve managed the trek a few paces behind us. Apart from the Americans and I, there are six other groups dining with us - all couples.
I’m feeling out of place as I haven’t been to a new country on my own since interning at the Cannes Film Festival when I was 21 years old. I am beginning to collapse into myself. “Would you mind taking a picture of me,” I hear myself ask before fear robs me of my voice. “Yeah sure, of course,” one of the bubbly brunettes in the group says, “I’m going to take a few so you can pick and choose.”
After I’ve taken a few pictures of the view from the rooftop, I fix my eyes to my phone to inspect the shots. This little device is also providing me a great comfort amid my social anxiety.
“Have you come to Zanzibar alone,” the American sitting closest to me asks.
“Yeah, for work” I begin. “Normally, I manage to convince someone to come with me but this is the first time I’ve done a food tour by myself.”
“You’re a food and travel writer,” she marvels, “that’s fantastic.”
Jodi and I introduce ourselves and quickly get to talking about some of the best places we’ve been to on the continent. The founder of Connecting Growth Globally is passionate about coaxing Americans out of their comfort zones to explore the weird and wonderful world that lies beyond their borders. So enthralling is the conversation, we don’t notice that the in-house band has been playing Taarab music until our waiter comes to get our drinks order.
I’ve stolen Jodi from her group, but her anecdotes about bundu bashing in spice forests and meeting Maasai rappers are enthralling.
We have to pause our conversation though, because the meal is about to begin.
The starter is a serving of spiced salted squid. Setting the tone for the rest of the meal, the seafood dish isn’t holding back on flavour. Every mouthful reveals another layer to the flavours created with the generously seasoned and perfectly cooked cephalopod.
Next, we are given beetroot tahini, and artisan flatbread to eat with. The consistency of the dip lends itself more to a hummus than tahini but I am grateful because the bite gives my entire culinary experience some diversity. Dipping warm, doughy bread into a thick, sweet mixture of beetroot, lemon, sesame seeds and garlic is something I’m happy to do all evening. Before I realise, I’ve reached the bottom of my bowl. This doesn’t concern me. Hefty platters of our main meal have begun to arrive.
“How are you finding the meal, being a food critic,” Jodi asks and I quickly clarify that I don’t make it my concern to fustigate food, but rather share my experience in an effort to encourage people to push the boat out in regards to their own gourmand adventures.
What is presented to us is Sarmaki wa Chicha, which is a kind of fried fish. Pumpkin tagine, goat curry, green salad, rice and a medley of other traditional trimmings arrive too. I don’t know where to begin. Often, when I’m presented with heaps of food, it intimidates me and I lose my appetite. Offending my gracious hosts is not an option, so I take a deep breath and head into my second feat for the evening.
I tackle the tagine first. Mom always told me to start with my veggies so I can enjoy my meat with no looming sense of responsibility, and that’s what I do. After one spoonful, what I thought would be a chore becomes an absolute delight. The humble dish isn’t dressed or garnished. It is simply a modest bowl of butternut, but the flavour is anything but. There is a creaminess to the sauce that soothes the audacious smokiness that comes through. Garlic and a mixture of herbs is evident, but the growing burn of either a spice or chilli confuses and excites my palate. Adding a morsel of chutney to the tagine brings out the sweetness in the squash.
Moving on, I extend my spoon into the bowl of what appears to be potatoes. After a single bite, I abandon the yams and tear a piece of fish off for myself. The flavour is mild, and the notes I’m picking up are unlike anything else I’ve tried so far. Though fried, the fish is light and flaky, falling apart in my mouth. I strip it, and combine it with the greens to make a refreshing salad for myself. My enjoyment of the meal has begun to pour out because I am humming to myself - something a good friend and former housemate noticed I would do whenever it came time to eat.
Before leaving South Africa, my West African friends had prepped me on unconventional protein that is served throughout Africa. Arrogantly, I had assured them that since I’d eaten crocodile, zebra and buck at Carnirove Restaurant in Johannesburg, I could handle anything thrown at me. I’ve eaten mopane worms in Windhoek for crying out loud. But for some reason, I am apprehensive about trying goat. I’m not a huge fan of lamb or mutton, and since goat meat is a not so distant cousin, the chances of my enjoying it seem slim. After spooning a ridiculous amount of rice ‘round a chunk of meat, I hazard a mouthful.
The meat is incredible; succulent from spending hours softening in a curry. Ginger, garlic and onion give the dish a sharp bite, but the thyme and bay leaves balance it out. While I’m not a fan of rice, the combination is perfect. I cannot fault any part of this curry as I eat it desperately.
Since food is my comfort, I’ve eased into the environment now and chatted to some of the other diners on the rooftop. “For all we know, they could be calling us the foulest things,” I joke with the English couple to my right about the live band. “Look, they keep giving us these charming translations but none of us speak Swahili so we can’t but trust them,” Tiff responds.
By the time we've negotiated what we could of the platters, there’s no space for anything else. I cannot manage another bite.
I’ve never been one to turn down dessert either.
When the Zanzibar delights of date truffles and fruit salad arrive, I unlock the vault to my second stomach. Thankfully, the pudding portion takes our entire meal into consideration.
Many friends and family have been the unwilling audience to my impassioned Fruit Is Not Dessert rant. While in Mozambique, Jess received an amended version when paw paw was added to a side salad I ordered at Dhow. Because I’ve just met everyone, I reserve my befuddlement caused by the inclusion of avocado in what should be a breakfast item and enjoy the sesame seed bar and truffles.
Our dinner ends with a cup of ginger tea which is customary, as it aids in digestion and is an effective stress reliever that will usher us to bed in comfort. Jill invites me out to the night market in Forodhani Gardens with herself, Yung, Jen and the rest of the American party I’ve met, but the meal has me beat. After thanking the wait staff and live band for a wonderful evening, I descend the stairs to my bedroom.
Growing more sluggish as I go, until I sleepily stumble into my room, shimmy into my jim jams and shift into bed.
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