After our house burned in the Thomas fire, I became a vegetarian. My wife thought there was a connection.
“It’s how you react to the loss,” she suggested.
More potatoes for me than usual, steaming buckwheat with slick avocado slices and a lot of red wine. Easy.
But now, in Kitui, Kenya I have to put my culinary fetishes on hold. After a long day in the bush, our host, Peter, pulls his mud-crusted truck into a roadside by his favorite restaurant.
“You are not vegetarians, are you?” he pretends to be respectful to herbivorous creatures.
“I’m a facultative vegetarian,” I compromise “I can eat anything.”
The Equatorian night blackens the surroundings like the charcoal that stains this town.
Under a dim lamp I see the reflections. Round eyeballs with thick black marker streaks in the center.
“This place is called The Goat and that is the only thing they serve.” Peter opens his palms inviting us to come in. We sit down at a sturdy stained table while Peter talks in Kikamba to a sweaty man who pops in from the kitchen.
The man goes outside and comes back with a black goat following him, tied to a rope. The goat assesses us when passing by the table, his pupils narrowed to thin black lines.
“They don’t even have drinks here. I’ll go get us something. What would you like?” Peter’s ivory smile contrasts with the goat’s look. We ask for Tuskers, the Kenyan lager.
Chopping sounds and metallic banging come from the kitchen. The cloud of aromatic steam follows and percolates through the door.
Peter returns with four cold bottles. We sip beer, too tired for a coherent conversation. The kitchen gets quiet for a moment. The chef comes out with two steaming bowls in his hands and puts them on our table.
“Go ahead.” Peter invites us to dig in.
“Show us how it’s done.” Steve asks for a demo.
Peter grabs a bunch of juicy scraps and puts them in his mouth; we do the same. When I saw goats in the bush, they looked like marathon runners: fit, agile and stringy. This meal confirms it. There is almost no meat on the bone fragments. We suck up the juice and spit the bones into a pile. The blend of African spices overwhelms our foreign tastebuds.
A man from the kitchen brings a bowl with a white sticky mush.
“Oh yes, that’s the second item they have on the menu. For vegetarians! It’s corn.” Peter flashes an inclusive smile. He picks a chunk of polenta-looking substance and dips it into the meat bowl which by now contains mostly a goat soup. The dark sauce soaks into a white mush. Steve, Jeff and I do the same.
“Very tasty!” Steve comments.
“I like the flavor of the spices,” Jeff adds.
My mind is rushing to come up with another truthful compliment.
“Very fresh!” I offer.
INSTANT NOODLES 