Upon entering Mesob, I was instructed by my 6 year old tour guide, Muze, to wash my hands. He led me to the back of the restaurant, where there was a sink in the hall way and I was told everyone had to do this before they ate. In Ethiopia he told me, the waitress would come around to your table and wash your hands for you. This made a lot of sense as soon as the food arrived and utensils did not... I'd always wanted to eat with my hands. Not in a barbaric, "I'm too lazy to wash a fork" kind of a way, but in a cultural, "food tastes much better squished between bread between your fingers" kind of a way! I invited my friend and her recently adopted Ethiopian son, Muze, to join/guide Jason and I through Little Ethiopia. After two trips to Ethiopia, I considered her an expert on authentic cuisine.
Muze, considered himself to be in a position of authority seeing as he was the only Ethiopian at our table, and exclaimed we must order the dora wat, but that the (hardboiled) egg was all his. Twinkling eyes, curls tighter than curlycues and a pearly whites that were never not on display, made it hard to disagree with anything he said. We sat under an indoor hut in a semi circle around a table made from a drum. The table and chairs seemed more fitting for a child's tea party as we were raised less than two feet from the ground. Family style took on a whole new meaning when the food arrived on one large round platter with everything we ordered blending together. No utensils, no side plates. Dining quickly became an intimate experience in Little Ethiopia. I looked around and noticed there weren't any other white people there and realized as a culture that hates to share and insists upon excessive individuality, this must be why. Americans can't even order one wedding cake, they have to also order cupcakes so everyone gets their own individual cake... in the exact flavor they want... In Ethiopian culture, you share, end of story. So we did, we shared dora wat, yemiser wot, and collard greens. The platter was served with a basket of Inerja, that spongy, slightly risen bread that you tear off and then use almost as a tong to grab food from the community platter. It was a lovely lentil based meal with excellent seasoning. Our only mistake was the Tej (honey wine). It tasted like my compost pile smells, it was as if someone placed a glass jar under the barrel and collected all the juice that dripped out and then sold it to me. For days that rotten, grassy taste lingered in my mouth and nearly vomited several times. I would advise sticking with the beer.
After dinner, Jason and I wandered across the street to the Ethiopian market where they sold coffee beans, Inerja, and spices and flours I'd never heard of. Incense was burning, Ethiopian music was playing and there were no other white people in sight. Just 6 miles from my home, and I was in the warm heart of Ethiopia.
