The cab driver didn't blink when I told him what I wanted.
It might have been one of the most unusual requests he'd ever had. But he
didn't even look back at me or take a glance in the rearview mirror. He pointed
his diminutive blue taxi up the wide boulevard and asked where I was from. As
we turned on to Chechnya Street, named because of the apparent anything-goes
debauchery that takes place here when the sun goes down, he turned into a de
facto tour guide, pointing out the places where one might encounter a
prostitute.
But I wasn't seeking thrills of a sexual nature. I wanted to
eat. And to eat at a place I may never find on my own. Welcome to Culinary Cab
Confessions, a short series about letting cab drivers decide where I'll be
eating. There's a long-standing belief that taxi drivers hold the secret to a
city's best eateries; not the upscale variety, but the affordable, no frills
type; the places where we may never think of going and in neighborhoods where
we might rarely venture. Wherever I'm traveling in the world or if I'm home in
New York City, I'll be hopping in cabs and telling the driver to take me to
wherever he--or she--likes to eat. And then I'll be writing about it. If the
driver is hungry and inclined, I'm always happy to have a culinary guide to the
restaurant. Lunch is on me.
Today I'm in Addis Ababa, the chaotic capital of Ethiopia. I
walked out of my hotel, the Hilton, and jumped in the first taxi I saw. I got
lucky. Fekadu Kebede, 27 years old, said he had a special treat in store for
me. He looked excited. I'd been here already for almost two weeks and was slowly
tiring of the usual local fare. I hoped he had something different up his
sleeve. After cruising down relatively tame Chechnya Street (it was still
daytime), we made a few twists and turns before navigating onto a bumpy dirt
road. "Okay," he said. "We're here." I put my hand on the
door knob and then paused. "Come on," he said, beckoning me to get
out with a wave. There are no street lights on this road--somewhat typical of
Addis--and so at night we would have been wandering into the blackness. Wherever
it was Fekadu was taking me. There was no sign to indicate what it was, just
two open gates and a hallway flanked by ceiling-to-floor bamboo. "Welcome
to Yohannes," he said. "This is the best kitfo in Addis."
I needed no introduction to kitfo. I had read about it in my
guidebook and hoped to try it while I was here. Kitfo is an Ethiopian
specialty: raw hamburger meat. I know what some of you are thinking: eating
uncooked meat in a developing east African country would be about as
questionable a decision as Justin Bieber deciding to make a sudden, unexpected
appearance wearing ass-less chaps at a NAMBLA convention. The guidebook and
everything else aimed at non-Ethiopians strongly recommended to get the cooked
version of kifto. But I wanted whatever Fekadu was having. He ordered for us
and within minutes small cast iron bowls were set in front of us, each one
layered with an ensete leaf. The server plopped a huge mound of minced, raw
beef in each bowl, garnished with dollops of soft, spiced cheese. I was nervous.
Was this going to be a turning point for this trip? An Ethiopian version of the
Delhi Belly, the Addis Ababa Bowel Effusion? Fekadu went first and I followed.
It was delicious. Imagine steak tartar but imbued with mitmita, a spicy chili
powder and then doused with niter kibbeh, a spice-and-herb-infused butter.
I ate mine so fast that Fekadu scooped some of his kifto
into my bowl. As we ate, sometimes with the spoon, other times scooping it up
with injera, the ubiquitous spongy bread Ethiopians use as edible silverware,
my new friend told me about how he dreams of taking his wife and their
seven-year-old son to live in San Diego where his older sister has been living
for the last 20 years.
"We will not find kifto there," he said. "But
I think that's an okay trade off, no?"
And with that I raised my beer, Fekadu his soda, and our
bottles clinked, echoing for a long second to the high ceilings of a restaurant
I would have never found on my own. In the end, I took his picture next to his
car--yes, that's really Fekadu above--and he drove me back to my hotel.
So, where, you're most certainly wondering, is Yohannes? I
couldn't tell you. After all, that's what cab drivers are for.
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