Difficulties: one, the stares you draw as a black guy, a big black guy way too into your food. two, the suspicion you elicit when you have no office to go to - will you really pay your bill?, three, the transient nature of your life. Your best friends are in descending order of importance: your laptop, your techie cellphone, the waiter. Four, maybe, just maybe, you drink too much.
The future as prologue:
Your future may have caught up with you. After years of declaring yourself outside of the blandishments of the center, you have been consigned to the peripheries of the empire. Let's say you've pulled a reverse Said. The erudite commentator Said at the center explaining how Orientalism works has spawned an acolyte. less erudite, no keyboard genius, unless we count the Toshiba layout the equivalent of the Steinway, and even then generous allowance needs to be made for a lack of virtuosity.
Still, thanks Edward, you of the empyrean abode, you of the clarity of thought, you of the alienating ideal. Whenever I want to scare people on the plane, I pull out the fright wig that is the "Representation of the Intellectual!" I don't read too much of it at once, much too sweet a nougat for that!
Anyhow, let's start with today's (24th March 20--) lunch.
I peruse a beautiful menu at the "Bash" restaurant - is this a cultural reference of some sorts? Did a market researcher do a focus group test on this name? Is the name a reference to some obscure tenderizing method for rendering steak pliable? Or is that what the chef is authorized to do to you, if you don't utter the proper felicitations after you've wined and dined?
Anyhow these thoughts give way to more pressing matters. The reason why I am here is purely gustatory, not philological. And to the task I fall!
My man, I say to the waiter, an order of the calamari salad, if you will. Wait, a soup before that. What will it be? Hmm, that chicken soup (secret recipe, that sounds good, you just take your chances, I like that.) catches my eye.
When the soup is conveyed to my table, it turns out to be a potage, already thickened on the top, sealing in the goodness. I see the chunks of chicken that were so impressively highlighted in the menu. I see them, but it is not with the unaided eye. The little boost of magnification offered by my eyeglasses helps in this regard. We are in the realm of chickeness, but no matter.
It tastes hearty, searing at first spoonful, but when that initial shock is over, I recognize that the flecks of green are cilantro, and they provide a nice variety to what could have been an overly even presentation of chicken potage. Is this the "secret" recipe? Leavening the possibility of blandness with cilantro?
I ventured to ask the waiter, but alas, the Bash treats its secrets more securely than Coca Cola does its formula. He says he'll go to ask, but when he comes back I get the Liberian version of omerta.
Verdict: secret recipe chicken soup is a 6 out of ten! An engaging overture, but not a flight of sublime fancy. Let's leave it at that.
I then tackle the calamari salad. Initial impression? Nice calamari, generously arrayed over a bed of broccoli, greens, halved cherry tomatoes, cut up green beans. The calamari's been sauteed to a nice golden brown around its edges. The impression is definitely of charm. I'm charmed. The first bite is too lukewarm, I am sad to relate. There is no question that a degree or two more would have served this presentation well, just a hint more of warmth, the tenderness was just fine. Now, the calamari may be betraying a little hint of a stay in the refrigerator, but I can't swear to that. This would be a little jarring for a country with a long coastline. I don't want to believe that Liberian calamari doesn't make the cut at the Bash.
But I love calamari under practically any circumstance. I have been known to change positions on matters of minor principle when calamari has made its way into the discussion as a sop. This time the calamari has to fight a couple of battles: yellow broccoli edges, an overly long time spent in the steamer by the vegetables, turning the broccoli into something resembling a sponge, the cut green beans looking a little sickly, a little leached, a little less than firm.
And last but not the least, someone has been really generous with the oil and vinegar dressing. There is an inch or two of it sitting at the bottom of the bowl. Was this listed under soup? I may have not looked too closely when I ordered, the possibility that this was calamari and soggy vegetable soup strikes me with great force.
I ask the waiter what the dressing is, he looks at me as if to say, "what is this excessive concern?" If this had been another country, he might well be wondering whether I was really from the health inspectorate or not. Anyhow, kind, indulgent man that he is, he goes off to ask. I am told with a great big smile that there are no secrets this time. We are family! The oil is not olive, I don't think he said that, but there are hints of ginger infused in it. Delicious.
Verdict: An ambitious meal - broccoli in Africa? That alone is one mark for effort. Overall, the beautiful calamari by itself doesn't make a meal, the broccoli's sogginess, the sickly leached color of the beans, these are red lines. Ambition must be rewarded, but not with the lack of judiciousness that sends the wrong message. A final score of five out of ten, I believe is warranted today.
I can tell you, I really had a good time at lunch at the Bash, which is nestled behind the Royal Hotel in Sinkor. Now, this is a hotel that can meet your basic needs for a resting place away from home. Quiet, clean towels, access to good food.
