TV Show Celebrates Houston’s West African Community

Chef Marcus Samuelsson, Dr. Crystal Obih, and high school principal Peter Uwalaka discuss Houston's African diaspora, its culture, and its cuisine, after Beats + Brunch, a weekend dance class and community gathering founded by Uwalaka and Obih. Houston's West African foods and culture are featured in an episode of Season 2 of "No Passport

BY GREG MORAGO

HOUSTON (HOUSTON CHRONICLE)--Chef Marcus Samuelsson’s face betrays a hint of trepidation when Kavachi Ukegbu asks this question as he puts a wad of fufu (pounded yam) swamped with Nigerian egusi soup in his mouth at Safari Restaurant in Houston’s southwest side.

Samuelsson’s intent was to swallow quickly — a nod of respect to Nigerian foodways. But the viscous stew of okra, goat and fish made that difficult.

“I’m chewing it because there’s big bones in this stew!,” he said.

A fail? Hardly. Not when there’s such an eager student intent on shining a well-deserved light on Houston’s West African food culture. The scene at Safari plays out during Season 2 of “No Passport Required,” Samuelsson’s PBS series exploring the food traditions and flavors of America’s immigrant cultures. The new season’s second episode, airing Monday, shows a side of the Houston food scene that might be unfamiliar to the everyday foodie. The city’s West African community — heavily Nigerian but also embracing Senegalese, Ghanaian and Cameroonian peoples — is rapidly growing, reflected by the businesses Samuelsson visits during the hour-long episode.

While one of the largest populations of Nigerians outside of Nigeria has made Houston home, the food of Nigeria “has yet to hit the mainstream,” he says. And after a short introduction to the city that he calls “the number one, most diverse city in the country,” Samuelsson jackknifes into the West African food scene.

First there’s a visit to Wazobia African Market, 16203 Westheimer, where Ukegbur, the chef/founder of The Art of Fufu, shows him produce, meats, fish and pantry staples of the West African diet, as well as the joys of jollof rice. Then it’s off to Safari Restaurant, 10014 Bissonnet, run by Margaret “Safari” Jason.

“You’re no longer in Houston, you’re in Lagos,” Samuelsson says of one of the city’s first Nigerian restaurants. It’s in Jason’s kitchen that Samuelsson learns how to make a few Nigerian dishes and then sits down to break bread — well, the starchy dough that is fufu — with one of the many voices of the West African diaspora.


Samuelsson is an ideal narrator to share the immigrant experience stories in “No Passport.”Born in Ethiopia, Samuelsson and his sisters were separated from their family during civil unrest in Ethiopia and were eventually adopted and raised in Sweden. He trained as a chef in Europe before moving to the United States where he made his name at Aquavit in New York; his work there earned him two James Beard Awards. In “Yes Chef: A Memoir,” Samuelsson — perhaps best known for his Harlem-born Red Rooster restaurant — details his childhood and rise to the top of the culinary world.

The Houston episode is an education for anyone wanting to better understand the city’s multi-ethnic food culture. Samuelsson takes viewers inside the doors of Suya Hut, 11720 W. Airport, where grilled beef and chicken skewers are coated with peanut sauce (suya is a Nigerian staple); Jolly Jolly Bakery, 6275 S. Highway 6, offering Nigerian bread; and Taste of Nigeria, 5959 Richmond, where he dines on Senegalese dishes. At the critically-acclaimed “neo-soul” Indigo restaurant, Samuelsson talks with chef/owner Jonny Rhodes about the contributions African slaves made to American food culture.

Sharing stories from Houston’s West African community is what “No Passport” is all about, Samuelsson said. And those stories are important at a “very divisive moment” in America, he added.

“America is about hope. Imagine what all these people left to jump borders to get here,” Samuelsson said. “I chose to come to America because it’s a beacon of hope. These stories are just as important today as they were 25 years ago when I got here. They’re all unique and different.”


Samuelsson said he hopes his PBS series not only continues to tell immigrant stories but surprise viewers by the depth and breadth of them. While in Houston, Samuelsson attended a pop-up dinner filled with music, dance, and food that perfectly illustrates the city’s melting pot palate: he was served a soup of Vietnamese rice noodles in a Nigerian pepper broth with goat meat. It was an only-in-Houston moment that makes “No Passport” an essential watch.

greg.morago@chron.com



twitter.com/gregmorago

In Independence, The Year-Old Nigerian Restaurant My Village Grill Is A Welcome Home Away From Home

Chef-owner Victor Ejelonu often pulls double-duty, greeting guests and dashing back to the kitchen to prepare their meals. Image: Zach Bauman

BY LIZ COOK

Here’s the thing: I’m not an expert on Nigerian food.

This confession shouldn’t come as a surprise. I grew up in rural Iowa and have the skin tone of someone who spent the last 30 years locked in a windowless basement.

But restaurant criticism seems to demand that one adopt an authoritative tone — that one make flat pronouncements about “insipid” soups and bluster about perceived gaffs in technique. What’s an ignorant critic to do?

I read, of course — as much as I can get my hands on. I try as many dishes as possible. But when it comes to the food at My Village Grill, the year-old Nigerian restaurant in Independence, I know I’m missing some culinary touchstones. I’ve never inhaled the raw scent of a stick of oburunbebe before it’s simmered to make banga, or tasted a bush mango seed before it’s ground into a coarse powder for ogbono soup.

Chef-owner Victor Ejelonu didn’t waste any time puncturing my self-consciousness.

“You are going to have an experience,” he told me after taking my order (efo riro with pounded yam). He sounded almost giddy, as if a voice could skip. “You’re going to be Anthony Bourdain.”

I looked around the restaurant, spotless and empty. I didn’t feel like Bourdain. I felt like a guest at a wedding in an Elk’s Lodge circa 2000. Black tablecloths were topped with glittery gold charger plates; colorful helium balloons were tacked to drop-ceiling tiles; strings of color-changing LEDs pulsed around the bar. Laugh, commanded a sign on the wall in curly silver script. On the eastern wall, a portable stage squatted beneath an electronic disco ball, both waiting to come to life.

I felt like turning on that disco ball when the efo riro arrived. The stew was smoky, spicy, and richly flavored. Although efo riro is often made with aramanth, My Village Grill uses spinach leaves cooked down until they’ve practically absorbed into the savory broth. The greens add a bittersweet pulse to the fermented funk of stockfish and the bracing red heat of the soup’s pepper base. If you’ve never tried Nigerian soups before, this is a great introduction.

Ejelonu has assembled a menu that represents a broad cross-section of Nigerian cuisine. Some of the dishes on offer are popular in the Niger Delta, others in western Nigeria. A few soups, such as efo riro, originated with the Yoruba people, others with the Igbo or Efik.

Part of the “experience” Ejelonu alluded to lies in the act of eating them. The soups are part of a menu of “swallow meals” — a reference to starchy accompaniments like fufu meant to be “swallowed” with your soup. My Village Grill offers several swallows, from pounded yam fufu (wispy and soft, with a texture like stiff mashed potatoes) to eba fufu (a toothier, grainier dough made from grated cassava). Forget your fork and use the fufu as your cutlery. Pinch off a little ball with your first three fingers, then shape it into a starch-spoon for scooping up soup.

Peppers are a key player in Nigerian cuisine; recipe writer Yewande Komolafe turned me onto a Yoruba saying, translated as “the soul that does not eat pepper is a dead soul.” But some dishes on the menu are naturally mild. The egusi soup relies on ground melon seeds to provide a nutty taste and crumbly texture while thickening the tangy, greens-laden soup into a hearty stew.

The okra and spinach soup is another benign option, though it’s not likely to convert okra skeptics. The soup showcases okra in all its mucilaginous glory, yielding gooey spoonfuls that trail away from the bowl like chewing gum. The tripe in my bowl was too tough to power through — I’d order it with the goat next time, which is mild and sweet and fall-off-the-bone tender — but the broth’s subtle flavors let the flavor of the okra shine.

On the other end of the spectrum: the whole grilled tilapia, which is one of the better-prepared whole fishes I’ve been served (and a great deal at $12). For years, I’ve resigned myself to ordering restaurant dishes with a “spice cushion” — which is to say, one step hotter than I actually want. (I don’t begrudge restaurants for grading on a curve; the spice distribution has been inexorably skewed by diners who find black pepper taxing).

But when I ordered the grilled fish “hot,” it came out exactly that, with a rich, round pepper burn from a fragrant, nutty spice paste dry-brushed liberally onto the flesh. I attacked the fish between lusty gulps of ice water: each morsel flaked easily off the bone but retained a plump juiciness.

As corny as it sounds, I consider that spiced-to-order fish an act of trust. Eating at My Village Grill feels like dining in a new friend’s home. The chef and servers are eager to share their food and invite you in; friends of the restaurant cheer on your entrée choices or lean over from the pool table to advise on fufu technique. On one visit, a friendly waitress brought my table a little dish of chin chin, crunchy wheat crackers with a subtle sweetness, because she thought we might like to try them. On another, Ejelonu insisted we try the palm wine: a milky, naturally fermented drink made from the sap of a palm tree. The bottled drink was a little yeasty and a lot sweet — an ideal complement for earthy, spicy meals.

The neighborly hospitality extends to the décor, which evokes a pan-African vibe. The Nigerian flag shares wall space with the flags of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Zimbabwe, Ghana, and Tanzania, among others. (Before Dale with the bald eagle profile pic writes in — yes, there’s an American flag, too).

Newcomers to the cuisine have plenty of easy entry points. Take the samoosas — samosas, but twice as fun to say. The pastries come five to an order, each fried to a crisp sable brown and filled to the corners with mildly seasoned ground beef. They’re the perfect neutral vehicle for the smoky, velvety tomato sauce served alongside. Ejelonu called it his “secret sauce” and declined to elaborate on the ingredients. “If I told you…” he began, then trailed off meaningfully.

Another crowdpleaser: the jollof rice (a generous portion runs $5). Each grain of rice is perfectly chubby and chewy, tomato-rouged and spice-mottled. For a couple extra bucks, you can add stapler-sized slices of fried plantains, crisped and caramelized on the edges but tender within, sprinkled with just enough salt to make the natural sweetness crackle on the tongue.

One of the restaurant’s most popular dishes is the beef suya: skewers of thin-sliced beef dredged in a peanut-forward spice blend and kissed on a grill. There’s a chicken version, too — and as with most dishes, the restaurant will customize to your spice tolerance. Still, I’d nudge first-timers toward the soup menu. You can order jollof or skewered meats at a few different restaurants in the metro; isi-ewu (spiced goat head) is harder to come by.

Sometimes I hear from diners who are wary of trying unfamiliar cuisines. “I don’t want an adventure,” someone told me when soliciting a recommendation. “I just want dinner.”

Everyone has the right to order what they like, but I find this sentiment puzzling. It doesn’t take courage to sit at a table and eat what someone else has prepared. It does take some curiosity. Enjelou had the measure of it when he called eating “an experience.” Adventures are ephemeral. You can have an experience, but you can also develop it.

Here are a couple sentences that are only marginally about food: You don’t have to be an expert at everything. You just have to be willing to learn — and to look a little foolish in the process.

I’m an expert at the latter. I’m sure I handled my fufu with the grace and poise of a famished warthog. But that didn’t seem to matter to the waitress, who dropped by the table to deliver a message with a shy grin: “I’m so happy you’re eating with your hands.”

I’m going to need to eat a lot more fufu before I master my starch-spoon technique. My Village Grill makes that practice an attractive proposition.

SOURCE: THE PITCH

Culinary Correctness: Jerry's Place Restaurant

"Have you been to Jerry's Place yet?"

"What's that?"

"Oh, you mean you don't know and haven't heard about it?"

"No, I haven't! What's that, and what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the latest Nigerian joint in town. There, the food is great and you will love it. You will be glad you did.

"Oh yea'?"

"Oh yeah, man!"

"Hmmmmm, so, where is this new restaurant located? Is it around my neck of the woods?"

"Yeah man, in Hawthorne!"

"Where in Hawthorne? I know the one on Imperial and Hawthorne Boulevard run by the Cameroonian lady had been out of business a while ago. So, which one, and where exactly in Hawthorne?"

"It's 'past' the one on Imperial and Hawthorne, all the way past the police station, on the corner of El Segundo and Hawthorne Boulevard."

"That use to be my hood until the spooky bad cop image Hawthorne Police began their tussle with civil society to raise money by all means for a desperate, broke, City of Hawthorne, remember?"

"Yeah, long time ago, I remember."

"So, you want us to go there now, on your tab?"

"No, I'm busy, maybe next time."

"No wahala! Nothing spoil!"

"I'll let you know when I'm ready."

"Ok now, we go holla!"

That was the 'kinda' chit-chat I had on the phone with structural designer, Ben Tokumbo Obafunwa, who had in the past called me all sorts of names when I criticized the horrible services of Ronke Bernadette's Lagos Cafe.

A couple of days after our chit-chat on Jerry's Place, Obafunwa called me again to find out if I had stopped by the newly arrived Nigerian eatery in Greater Los Angeles everybody is talking about:

"You don go the place?"

"Which place?"

"The place wey I bin tell you naw."

"Nooooo, u know say na money now for dis kain economy wey don dabaru kpatakpata!"

"Ah, you wey be baba nla."

"I see say you won begin run your mouth again! Basket mouth!"

"Ah, make man no talk o before you begin your wahala."

"Ok now, we go yan!"

It was like a must that I should visit Jerry's Place even though for some reason -- doctor's warning of high cholesterol, greasy Nigerian dishes -- that my intake of anu ewu, goat meat, nkwobi and all that ngwongwo stuff be limited. But 'man must wack,' you know! Also, there was no mention of a do-nothing, jumbled and bellicose Nd'House of Los Angeles gathering in this new eatery, which showed an indication of originality.

However, as it happened, and for a new eatery much had been said and talked about, I made up my mind to check it out. Not much of a drive though, and placing my order of okra soup, midly spiced, coupled with mixed meat and a bowl of pounded yam, I called Obafunwa to join me, on my tab, at Jerry's Place. Obafunwa ordered olugbo soup, bitter leaf and a variety of meat with dried fish and said "I will be there shortly." He arrived in about twenty-five minutes and his food was ready. Mine, too, was in order as justice was done the normal way -- eating with our fingers and swallowing the pounded yam, orishirishi soup pasted. It's tasty, Obafunwa would say, and I would agree.

Jerry's Place Restaurant, located at 12631 Hawthorne Boulevard in the City of Hawthorne, is run by Nnobi, Nigerian-born Geraldine Chinwe Okafor. Growing up in Uruala where she attended secondary school, she was friendly, showing an element of dignity on how to operate an effective and efficient eatery by way of engaging her customers into relative discussion, knowing who they are, and getting to ask questions about her service.

On my second visit, I had called and ordered a combination of okra and egusi soup to be swallowed with cooked, ground oat flour. "Your food will be ready in twenty minutes," she said. I arrived on time and my food was ready. Without a doubt, I liked the food and service, which is what I had looked for in a typical African-related restaurant, excellent customer relations. Practically, customers were trooping in picking up their orders of rice and stew, Jollof rice, fried akara, olugbo soup, porridged yam, ogbono soup, cooked, sliced cassava roots, what we Nd'Igbo call akpunkoro or abacha depending on dialect, and other varieties of menu too numerous to mention.

So far, Ms. Okafor, owner of Jerry's Place Restaurant is not doing badly, and for a start-up, and in these hard times, a B+ in my assessment.

Jerry's Place Fine African Cuisine is open from Monday to Saturday and closed on Sundays. For contact:

Jerry's Place Fine African Cuisine
12633 Hawthorne Boulevard
Hawthorne, CA 90250
Tel: 310-970-0411
Fax: 310-970-0042
email: jerryplace13@yahoo.com

DIARY: That Art & Soul Festival In Oakland, California

BY AMBROSE EHIRIM



The last time I was in the Bay Area, I did not pay much attention to the goings on, particularly Oakland from around which I hadn't been anywhere in the city for quite some time. It had been in and out, business as usual, so, not much to talk about in that regard. But this time around, a whole lot turned out differently. I wasn't aware of the turn around of things in downtown Oakland and for not to have checked in for a while, I was impressed. The city changed, indeed!

The raggedy, skid row, home of the Black Panthers and the classless sleep on your door step, ghetto-crawling neigborhood is no longer what it used to be. Oakland is totally transformed, and thanks to Jerry Brown who as Mayor of Oakland saw the necessary steps required to making things happen for folks long abandoned. The story of Oakland and its overnight transformation is overwhelming.

As it happened, the 9th Annual Arts & Soul Festival in Oakland had to be my calling since I have not seen the city in many years, and besides, each time I pop up in the Bay Area, Oakland never crossed my mind for I had thought of where it's jamming -- San Francisco, San Jose, Berkeley, Saratoga, Stockton, Santa Rosa, the farming-vineyards of Sonoma County coupled with other big recreational neigborhoods in the Bay Area, of the Woodstock and Coachella type -- for the groove and all that stuff.

But nevertheless, this time around, there was an event and I had to be focused to see how it unfolds. Quite fascinating.

August 14: I arrived Oakland and checked into the Ambassador Hotel on the corner of Franklin and 13th Street. A little bit tired, I made some calls to see who is around town. Not much, though, and for Friday night, I couldn't figure out what's it I was going to do before the festival kicks out the next day. I decided to go to bed and get some rest. No, I did not go to bed immediately; I popped up the news networks to see what's happening in my neck of the woods and what the Republican airheads are talking about.

However, it turned out to be the same old song -- the mud-slinging so-called conservatives who only think for themselves and how to protect their ill-gotten wealth negating the fact that under any circumstances in a democratic fabric, that there are people, underprivileged, who will always need help of some sort to overcome their predicament. It is natural and the Republicans and the newly coined Blue Dog Democrats, whatever that is, don't seem to realize and unfortunately they are not getting it. I still don't get it myself and I am not going to be part of a debate that does not make sense at all in a situation a desperately dying fellow should be allowed to die on the grounds of having no medical coverage.

What are we talking about here?

An organized society?

Well, since politics, they say, makes strange bed-fellows, let's believe in the rule of law, upholding and respecting democracy; and hopefully the Republican airheads would come to terms with reality and do the right thing. Cable News Network and all that news-related channels, including Fox, had become a bore.

August 15: I got up fresh and ready like Freddy for the festival. There wasn't much happening on the streets of the high-towered downtown Oakland when I peeped through the window of my hotel room.

At 10:45 AM, I was already on Broadway and 14th Street checking out the vendors, the area's local press and patrons who had showed up with delight for the festival's 9th year anniversary. The streets and sidewalks had already been flooded with the four stages ready to explode with performances of the day. On the stage at 12th and Clay, Loquet, BoDeans and Grammy Award winning artist, Shawn Colvin, were scheduled to perform. The stage in front of Oakland City Hall scheduled Abby and the Pipsqueaks, Jump Street and some local voices. The stage on 12th and Broadway had a Gospel showcase presented by Edwin Hawkins and the Community of Unity featuring Bishop Walter L. Hawkins of the Love Center Choir, Terrence Kelly and the Oakland Interfaith Choir,Sharon Wynn Davison, Sunny Hawkins and the Music Department, Men of Edurance, Derrick Hall and Company, while on 12th and Jefferson it was an all out jazz enssemble. The crowd was awesome and with summer almost winding down the vendors and organizers did the best they could to go with the flow especially in a 'slowmo' economy.

I walked around the four points of the festival and bumped into an artist whose booth had displayed all her finest works with the husband setting up the gallery. We chatted for a moment before the festival rose for the day. She was optimistic the festival "will eventually" be one of the big shows to be talked about in the near future despite its 9th-year of existence. I strolled down to the Oakland Convention Center on Broadway and 14th Street which is about 12 minutes away from the Oakland International Airport. Going inside the Convention Center sits Oakland China Town, The Preservation Park and some shopping complexes. A few short blocks took me to the Waterfront, Jack London Square and the Paramount Theatre which also is blocks away from my hotel room.

At about 7:45 PM, I checked back to my room for some rest before my buddy, South African-born, Berkeley-based sports freak, Johnson Boipelo Andile, comes around for some crazy sports talk and all that follows in a night of showdowns and pub-crawling. Andile had arrived late and we still hanged out anyway, talking about boxing which turned out to be his favorite sports, and he is really crazy about it going back to the heydays when boxing was real and very entertaining.

He talked about how boxing "is" no longer what it used to be and that all the fuss about Dominican Republic born undefeated Fernando Guerrero who now fights out of Salisbury, Maryland, is being overrated towards his upcoming fight August 29, when he meets Louis Turner in the middleweight division at Fitzgerald's Casino in Tunica, Mississippi. I'm not sure if I have been following up nowadays in what's been going on in boxing ever since it was commercialized nobody takes the sport seriously anymore. I had no idea who Gurrero was until he popped it up and on a critical note, he agreed with me "boxing ain't longer what it used to be."

We had talked extensively about the good-old days of boxing when all division were powerhouses. The days of Jeff Chandler, Azumah Nelson, Roberto Duran, Mustafa Hamsho, Salvador Sanchez, Eddie Mustapha Muhammad, Mathew Saad Muhammad, Dwight Braxton, Cornelius Boza Edwards, Michael Spinks, Sugar Ray Leonard-Thomas "Hitman" Hearns' "The Showdown," Marvellous Marvin Hagle-John "The Beast" Mugabi duel, Larry Holmes-Gerry Cooney race war, Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Ken Norton, Ernie Shavers and numerous other superb pugilists of the day.

After all these talks on boxing greats over some drinks at the hotel lobby, we drove out on San Pablo running through University Avenue where it meets Oxford at UC Bekeley. We found a spot, a bar and hangout, kind of, continuing our discourses on boxing retrieving "The Spinks Jinx," "Thriller in Manila," "Rumble in the Jungle," "Aaron Pryor-Alexis Arguello 1 & 2," and things like that related to boxing of the profound era when boxing had class.

August 16: It's been fun all over the previous day and I'm already up to deal with the happenings around downtown Oakland. The show continued with style and the performances were all great. Smooth jazz artist Bobby Caldwell had played and the crowd he had pulled was unbelievable. A night of jazz. The two day festival reached its climax.

August 17: I had traveled to Concord meeting Emmanuel Onyeador at his friend's ranch and vineyard. We talked more over some fine wine. David Iphie who lives in Pittsburg had stopped by to join us. Iphie picked Onyeador and myself and we drove to his house in the embrace of his wife and uncle, UC Davis trained agronomist, Humphrey Ezuma, who was visiting the shores of this land for a moment. The usual local politics popped up which I will be writing about in a different essay, while Iphie's wife prepared a delicious ofe olugbo, bitter leaf soup with varieties of meat and dried fish. We talked more and I enjoyed the company.

August 18: Back to the crazy-dubby Los Angeles-Hollywood where every 'damn' soul is really freaking out, and business as usual, I guess. It was indeed a trip to remember, and Oakland, for your excellence in the arts, I think I would like to visit again.

Lagos Cafe's Arrogance and Horrible Services is a Culinary Disaster

The problem with what happened to me this past Sunday afternoon, March 29, 2009, was that, I had woken up and had developed an appetite to eat some home kind of made food; the ofe olugbo, bitter leaf soup, coupled with the orishirishi, the ingredients and varieties of meats and dried fish that comes along with it.

Actually, there was no pub-crawling the previous night, quite unusual, which normally should have justified my quest to fill up my stomach from partying hard. And, precisely, not that I even went to see a show ending up hanging out where I'm not suppose to have been getting up the next day with some hangovers, headaches and things like that.

I was clean and sober. It's just that I did not feel like going to the popular Tak's Coffee House around my neck of the woods for lunch. I wanted bitter leaf soup and garri to do justice to my stomach. And here I am in my journey. And what a way to learn a lesson.

I had made up my mind to go to different Nigerian or African restaurants in the LA area, a place I am not a regular. Feeling like swallowing garri with a paste of deliciously prepared bitter leaf soup, I landed at Lagos Cafe run by Ronke Bernadette, located on the 1400 block of Crenshaw Boulevard in Gardena, California. It took me about half an hour to get there, driving through the Crenshaw thoroughfare of "Black Township", and combing on the cultural festivities of Leimert Park where a series of African American women dance and beat the drums on Sundays as if it is a spiritual revival. Crenshaw Blvd., from my destination to Gardena stretches through four different suburbs -- "The Jungle" around the Mid City area, Inglewood, Hawthorne and Gardena.

I was hungry and had anticipated a good meal, especially when breezing into a place I'm not a regular. But restaurants of the African ilk in the Los Angeles area are not just regular cuisines some few dollar can get you something to chew on. These are restaurants you have to spend at least 15 bucks for a regular meal, and 15 bucks for a regular meal in these days of belt-tightening is not a chicken change.

Anyways, here I go. I walked in to a place that looked totally deserted. The owner, Ronke and her friend who had told me she came from Togoland sat on one corner running their mouth -- without paying attention that a customer had arrived. I made my request: bitter leaf soup with mixed meat, dried fish and garri. I sat down and waited until only God knows when a waiter, apparently my home boy, popped up and told me my "food will soon be ready."

As it happened, my friend, Ardis Hamilton, whom I have known for many years dating back to the "read my lips" era called me, and I told him exactly where I was and how I got there. Immediately, he picked up interest to join me, in order to have a feel of a well-prepared African dish. In about 20-minutes, he was in. He was turned off right away because of the owner and her Togolese friend's attitude, loquaciously erring in French. Yes, they spoke French and did not care if a customer had arrived.

Meanwhile, I had waited long enough and my stomach was burning for some reason. I requested for some water to drink. Lagos Cafe had no water, absolutely no water for its customers which had me wonder why this garrulous woman and her friend are in business, in the first place. They drove down the street to buy some water after my request. In a restaurant and no water. Imagine!

At Veronica's Kitchen which sits on Manchester in Inglewood, the service is always great, the environment conducive and the waiters and waitresses well-behaved which is why the owner, Veronica Ogbeide, beats them all, hands down, and presumably from learning how to run a restaurant, effectively and efficiently.

However, they got my water while I waited for the so-called 'finest food' to arrive. Ardis, too, was looking forward to something special. To my friend's surprise, these talky women and the attendant who is also my home boy, changed their tone of language, all of a sudden, and just like that. Ngbati-ngbati, the normal Yoruba noise making kind of stuff, typical of a gabby Oshodi market women, became a trend, and it baffled my friend because they all knew he's a Yank as in "no speak English" a Hispanic would pretend to tell you.

My food finally came and I wanted my friend, Ardis, to taste the soup before ordering his own on my tab. Ardis has not recovered. His ass has been burning from the overseasoned habanero pepper and some other chili stuff that was used in cooking the soup.

In my own case, I'm the kind of guy who would eat up everything served and face the consequences later. Money is hard, these days, you know, but how could I have gotten myself into a situation where I now live in my restroom until the whole mess is flushed out from my system?

Not only that the service at Lagos Cafe was horrible, it was also ridiculously expensive. 20-something bucks and no leftover to take home? Come on, now, be real! At Veronica and 15-plus something bucks, you will have a whole lot of leftovers to take home, and you will be glad you did.

Lagos Cafe, Ronke, the talkative Togolese lady and my home boy, quote me, I will never be back because it really sucks, (excuse my language for I am pissed), and from my observation, you will be the last to earn a Michelin star.

Culinary Correctness: The Korean Eatery On Vermont

My friend and I had pub-crawled until the wee hours and still wondered where we might end up for after hours. The City of Angels and its glamour coupled with all that Hollywood wannabes is what keeps this amazing metropolis jamming, and without a doubt, it is happening all around the city 24/7; and you bet, if you get trapped you are then on your own.

As it happened, I had decdided to try something else to fill up my empty stomach which I do every now and then, that is, when the ofe olugbo, bitter leaf soup, egusi soup, okra soup, and all the nkwobi and ngwongwo got to be supplemented. Whenever I am in the need to supplement all the African dishes, I go for something entirely different, and that is how I found myself at Yong Su San Restaurant on the 900 block of South Vermont Avenue in Korean Town, and right inside the hub of the Wilshire Corridor. This normally happens after the all night pub-crawling.

And landing at these restaurants not of my origin has always been an attempt to free myself from the regular isi-ewu, goat meat, nkwobi-ngwongwo ritual.


When we found parking, we walked in and the waitress offered us a table which at all times makes me feel indulge. The've seen my face before so it wasn't a problem for them to think otherwise, I mean, wondering what the heck a black guy and his friend would be doing in Korean Town at 2-something a.m., especially during unholy hours. The waitress was nice, though. She served us well and was all smiles.

When I want a damn good Korean barbacue in Los Angeles, I know the best joints and Yong Su San Restaurant is one of them. The brisket, marinated boneless ribs, tongue and baby octopus plus that burning charcoal that helps you prepare the barbecue your self is just beautiful and nothing is as good as that. In addition, we had some spinach, roasted mushroom and some other vegetables I had no idea where they came from. We topped the entire dish with steamed rice, and of course, some Korean wine imported somewhere from South Asia.

The place sits a lot of people and it's always packed, and as usual, a hangout for University of Southern California students who are known to party hard. So far, I haven't seen the hood rats there. Check it out and tell me about it!