by Edward Lee
“Once you lose that stage of childhood where you free and happy, it is harder to make friends. I was in a stage in my life where I had no friends and no money.”
His family encouraged him to do what he had always wanted to. He opened Sabo Suya Spot in 2010. Though business was slow at first, and selling skewers for $1.25 apiece was no way to get rich, he continued, working seven days a week and greeting customers on a first-name basis. Word got out about his food. Now there is a line every night. Adamu ships his food to a Nigerian soccer player who lives in London. His food goes to Toronto, to Dubai, he proudly exclaims. His dream is to open a place in New York, to bring Nigerian food to a wider audience.
I order more skewers to take back home with me. The drive to the airport is a foggy haze of watery eyes and swollen tongue. I check my skewers into my luggage. I run to the gate, only to find out my flight is delayed two hours. I settle into a vinyl seat and check my e-mail. My heartbeat slows. I see an e-mail from a Nigerian princess. Normally, I don’t open these scam messages, but I can’t help myself.
Dear Beloved,
I know this message will come to you as a surprise but permit me of my desire to know you as more than just a friend. I am Amadia Abacha, the daughter of Sani Abacha, the late Nigerian Head of State. I am presently in distress and in needing of your kindness. I am currently under house arrest while my family is undergoing trial in Lagos. The government has frozen all our family assets and auctioned all our properties.
To save our family from total ruin, I have managed to ship through an undercover courier, the sum of US $6,000,000. It is deposited into a secure account which I will disclose the name and contacts to you if I get a positive response.
I have sought you out because you are a man of deep understanding and compassion. I believe that with your positive response, we can move forward to a new life together with all the wealth needed for a happy life. Bear in mind that Love has no colour barrier, no educational back ground barrier, no religious, language, nationality or distance barrier, the only important Thing there is love. For it is in that enduring Love that we can build a new life and finally live in the beauty of new home that accepts the both of us. I am waiting for your e-mail my love.
Sleep overcomes me like a warm blanket. When I arrive home, I open my bag to find the skewers missing and a note from the TSA saying they inspected my bag. My anger turns quickly to sadness. I had wanted my wife to taste those skewers. I had planned to give them to my cooks. My packed clothes smell of oil and peanuts and curry. In the familiar surroundings of my Louisville home, it is the only reminder that the food I ate back in Houston was real, not a dream.
It was through my friendship with Tunde that the world of Nigerian food was introduced to me. But it is remarkable how easily accessible it is. I realize that I’m only a few degrees separated from this rich culture that thrives in the southwest part of Houston. It is an easy cab ride there from downtown Houston. The people are friendly, and eager to explain the dishes to you. It is so close and yet it is also a very distant cuisine.
Still, I realize I will never fully learn the true complexity of Nigerian food. Just as I may never understand the motivations of someone such as Tunde. One of the more confusing though delicious things I ate in Houston was a meat pie, a carryover from British colonial times. It was delicious and could easily have come from a London bakery. I wonder how many layers of history the food of Nigeria contains. I’ve had to learn a lot about Nigeria to understand the food in a way that is different from just noting spices and cooking techniques. I read Nigerian poetry, listen to Nigerian spoken word, recite their names, and study their religions, their history, their music. I learn that Nigeria has hundreds of languages and dialects, many of them without a written alphabet. I learn about Fela.
Studying the food of Nigeria makes me connect to the foods in my backyard. It is true that you don’t necessarily need to read the local poetry to enjoy a regional cuisine, but it does give you a greater understanding and respect for it—just as it does for the foods that surround me in Eastern Kentucky. When I think about Lora and her farm in Egypt, Kentucky, I think about Wendell Berry. I hear the music of Michael Cleveland and Bill Monroe. I think about the storytelling and the laughter that surround their dinner table. It is impossible to tell the story of Lora’s food outside the context of her culture, and that is why I’m on this journey. It is because every insight I gain from learning about another culture brings me closer to the one I find myself in. This project, this entire process of discovery and adventure, is about trying to find my own America and where I belong in it. For someone like me, who traverses numerous cultures, the answer isn’t always obvious. Sometimes that means I wander through the bluegrass hills of Eastern Kentucky. Other times, I have to travel somewhere as foreign to me as a Nigerian café in Houston. Both get me to the same place.
Beef Skewers with Cashews, Curry, and Black Pepper
Trying to re-create a dish you’ve had at a restaurant is always tricky, especially when it’s a dish as fine-tuned as Adamu’s skewers. I won’t claim to have mastered the techniques that he has taken a lifetime to perfect, but I was so fascinated by his peanut powder that I worked on that one recipe for weeks to get it right. I ultimately liked the flavor of cashew powder best, making it with the technique I learned from Adamu. The cashew powder is key, so focus on making it as fine as you can. Once you get a taste for the spices in this recipe, you can be more adventurous and substitute lamb for the beef, for a gamier flavor.
If you have a charcoal grill, use it for these skewers, but roasting them in the oven works well, too. Use bamboo skewers that have been soaked in water for the best results.
Serves 4 as a first course
½ cup unsalted raw cashews
1 pound boneless beef short ribs
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon white pepper
1 tablespoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon onion powder
1½ teaspoons smoked hot paprika
Scant 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus more for drizzling
garnish
Sliced onion
Lemon wedges
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Soak bamboo skewers in warm water for at least 20 minutes.
Pulse the cashews in a food processor until you get a fine, granular powder. Put the ground nuts on a small baking sheet (or in a pie pan) and toast in the oven for 3 to 5 minutes, until dry but not too toasted. Remove and pulse again in the food processor or chop to get the texture even finer. Return to the oven and toast for another 2 minutes. Repeat the process until you have a fine powder that is aromatic and dry to the touch; it should feel like coarse cornmeal. Set aside.
Cut the beef into thin strips and put in a large casserole or baking dish.
In a small bowl, mix the salt, white pepper, garlic powder, onion power, smoked paprika, and cayenne pepper. Wearing latex gloves, massage this spice mix into the beef. Let marinate at room temperature for 20 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 400°F or prepare a hot fire in a charcoal grill.
Mix the cashew powder with the vegetable oil in a small bowl to make a paste. Rub the paste on the meat and let it sit for 10 minutes.
Weave the meat onto the skewers by making an S-shape out of each strip of beef and then piercing the meat with a skewer; leave as much of the rub on the meat as possible.
If using the oven, place the skewers on a baking sheet and drizzle with a little vegetable oil. Bake for 10 minutes, turning once. They are done when the beef is cooked and the cashew rub is toasted and aromatic. If using a grill, oil the grate and grill the skewers, turning once, for 3 minutes on each side. Be careful not to overcook the meat as it will burn quickly.
Serve the skewers warm, with onion slices on top and lemon wedges alongside.
Spicy Tomato-Braised Chicken with Turmeric
and Cashew
Almost every Nigerian restaurant in Houston has a variation of this spicy tomato stew on its menu. Each version I ate was slightly different, yet the flavors were all familiar. Still, the dish was unlike anything I had ever tasted. It is spicy, so beware—if you want a less hot version, cut down on the habanero peppers. This dish gets even better if it sits overnight, so if you can, make it a day ahead and reheat it when you are ready to eat.
Serve the chicken over plain steamed rice. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, get a box of instant fufu, the Nigerian steamed bread made from cassava flour; it’s easy to find online. Follow the instructions on the box. Fufu whips up in minutes and though the flavor is neutral, it has a texture that is perfect for sopping up the rich sauce.
Serves 4 as a main course
4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup canola oil
1 cup sliced white onion
1 cup sliced celery
3 tablespoons tomato paste
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 tablespoons ground ginger
¼ cup unsalted raw cashews, ground into powder (see preceding recipe)
2 teaspoons ground turmeric
1½ cups chicken stock
½ cup coconut milk
3 plum tomatoes, coarsely chopped
3 small habanero peppers (leave whole)
5 sprigs fresh thyme
Season the chicken thighs with the salt and black pepper.
Heat 2 tablespoons of the canola oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Place the chicken thighs skin-side down in the pan and sear until browned, about 3 minutes on each side. Transfer the chicken to a plate.
Add the remaining 2 tablespoons oil to the pan, then add the onion and celery and cook for 2 minutes. Add the tomato paste, garlic, ginger, cashew powder, and turmeric and cook for 2 minutes, stirring constantly, until the spices give off an aromatic perfume.
Pour the chicken stock and coconut milk into the pan and stir well. Return the chicken thighs to the Dutch oven. Add the tomatoes, habanero peppers, and thyme, cover, and simmer over low heat for 30 minutes, or until the chicken is tender.
Pull out the chicken and keep it warm on a baking sheet covered with aluminum foil. Bring the cooking liquid to a boil over high heat and cook until thickened and reduced by almost half.
Arrange the chicken on four plates. Spoon the sauce over the chicken. Serve with rice or fufu.
Chapter 14
German Mustard
On New Year’s Day, my wife always cooks up a mess of cabbage and black-eyed peas for good luck. I make Korean rice cakes called duk-bok-ki. Same reason, different tradition. We always eat my mother-in-law’s sauerkraut with some schnitzel because that’s what I crave. We squabble about how much food to make. It’s our tradition. In the evening, I head over to a local bar by myself. Every year, the bar hosts a Townes Van Zandt tribute. He died on New Year’s Day. In remembrance of him, a bunch of musicians get together and perform his songs. One of my favorites is called “German Mustard.” It’s less of a song and more of a guitar meandering, with nonsense lyrics strewn about. I sit alone at a table in the back nursing a cold beer. It always chokes me up to think about someone dying on New Year’s Day. It is the irony of dying at the beginning of a new year, when we are supposed to be hopeful. My grandmother also died on New Year’s Day. I always take a few minutes to talk to her on this day, to tell her what I’ve been up to. The last line of the Townes song comes abruptly: “German Mustard ’tween your jeans . . .”
Why does German food get such a bad rap? I am bewildered that it has never received the same attention that Italian, French, Spanish, or even Scandinavian food enjoys in America. German is one of the great cuisines of Europe. During the 1800s, more than six million Germans immigrated to America, and brought with them many influences that remain ingrained in our cultural systems: kindergarten, Amish furniture, and Santa Claus. We owe our beer culture to German beer barons such as Pabst, Schlitz, and Miller, all of whom were from Milwaukee. German immigrants also brought pretzels, sausages, frankfurters, and hamburgers to America, not to mention a strong tradition of pickles, mustards, and thinly pounded and fried meat. These are all things I love.
When my wife and I travel, we are always on the lookout for German restaurants. We have found some good ones: Metzger’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan; Hessen Haus in Des Moines, Illinois; Schnitzelbank in Jasper, Indiana; Laschet’s Inn in Chicago; and Wurstküche in Los Angeles. Sadly, most of the German restaurants we try are caricatures of a cuisine now reduced to a menu of rubbery fried meat and store-bought sauerkraut served by surly waiters dressed in lederhosen. We have suffered many a meal knowing that the sauerbraten was not properly marinated, that the strudel dough was not hand-stretched. I’ve lived an entire life imagining what the pinnacle of German food could be, and I can tell you one thing: it is not to be found in a dusty beer hall decorated with fake antique beer steins and German flags. So much time has elapsed since the early German immigrants settled in American cities and towns that there remain only fading traces of their food’s flavor in today’s German restaurants. Cuisines such as Cambodian and Persian have a more recent connection to the homeland, and the food is less diluted by generations of assimilation.
Why hasn’t a chef taken up the cause of reinvigorating German cuisine for the food-obsessed world we currently live in? This seems like the perfect time for a German food resurgence. Having asked chefs, critics, food writers, and enthusiasts, I have narrowed down the reasons to five common misperceptions about German food. Here they are, in no particular order:
reason 1: Germans food is heavy, clunky, unsophisticated, and unappetizing.
I turn to my wife, Dianne, over coffee and ask her to come with me to Wisconsin. For what, she asks? German food. She gives me a weary look, the look of someone who has accompanied me on previous food trips. Though it may seem like a riotous good time, the reality of these trips is more about obsessive scheduling, painful overeating, and a lot of driving around looking for places that my GPS doesn’t recognize. Then, during dinner, I may ignore her for long stretches while I catalog flavors and ingredients in my notebook. After dinner, I will disappear into the kitchen to talk to the chefs, and usually enjoy a shot of whiskey. Indigestion is common, and mornings are often filled with regret and empty promises not to eat so much.
I tell her this trip will be a lot of fun. Also, I want her opinions of the food. Her family is mostly from the Black Forest and Alsace. She can trace her lineage back to the Dürholtz clan. Yet, after seven generations, she no longer identifies as German. She does not speak German, nor does anyone in her family. They do not travel to Deutschland on vacations; they do not hold fast to any old-world rituals or traditions. But something in the food remains steadfast in their consciousness.
Every fall, Dianne’s mother makes sauerkraut with cabbage that she grows in her backyard. And something in my wife’s eyes lights up every winter when she bites into a fresh batch of her mom’s sauerkraut. It’s the best sauerkraut I’ve ever eaten. With everything else forgotten, Dianne still has the food to link her to her homeland. We celebrate Christmas with stollen (sweet bread), and roast lamb with asparagus and potato dumplings for Easter. “Like Oma used to make it,” my wife jokingly says.
The drive to Wisconsin is warm and pleasant. Our four-year-old daughter is singing in her car seat. I have mapped out a dozen places for us to visit. Dianne likes to drive. She takes in the open highway like a bird coasting through a sun-dappled field of corn. I fell in love with Dianne on the day we met, more than fifteen years ago. She has the austere bones of a Teutonic statue, but underneath, she is the embodiment of a love so pure, it makes me cringe.
I am entertaining our daughter with a puppet show. She has my nose, small and bouncy. Having a kid
is a challenge for us. We both work a lot; we both travel a lot. And neither of us wants off the hamster wheel. I promised Dianne a vacation in Paris—two years ago. Wisconsin isn’t even close, but it’s time together. And for a few days, our daughter gets both of us.
Our first stop is in Fitchburg, at a German store called Bavaria Sausage. An unadorned sign outside reads “Makers of Old World German Sausage.” Inside, the shelves are packed floor to ceiling with German products: packaged goods from Germany, shelves of mustards, cheeses, frozen strudels, smoked fish, and a dizzying array of sausages and forcemeats. Everything is clean, organized, and accurately labeled. My wife squeals with joy. Seeing a neatly labeled store makes her unreasonably happy. Meats are laid out in sections. Summer sausages and smoked meats are in a refrigerated display case right by the entrance. The prepackaged wursts are displayed in another area, behind a glass deli case. Next are the hams and specks. Working my way down the spotless glass case, I see a section of salamis that includes Hungarian salami, pepperoni, and something called gypsy salami. After that is a section of headcheeses and creamy forcemeats, including a veal loaf and Fleischkäse, then a thorough selection of fresh brats, wursts, and wieners. Jerkies and smoked livers finish out the display. Everything in this case is made in-house.
I start at one end of the deli case and sample a bite of everything I can. It is late morning, and the shop is starting to get busy. The girl behind the counter hurries me along so that she can get to the next customer. The clientele is a mix of locals and people who drive in from all over to stock up on their German provisions. I overhear a conversation in German among a group of older women. My wife is in the condiment section, stocking up on more German mustard than we can consume in a year. My daughter is munching on German gummy bears, or, as they call them, Gummibärchen.