INDY'S WEEKLY ALTERNATIVE NEWSPAPER HIGHLIGHTING ARTS, ENTERTAINMENT AND SOCIAL JUSTICE

Foufou, couscous and ginger juice

We were worried. Stepping into the scrubbed clean storefront on 22nd Street, we couldn’t detect any aromas of food drifting in from the kitchen. And no one was eating. Instead, the place seemed more of a hang out, and a cacophony of French accents rose as patrons chattered at each other or into cell phones. Red and blue banners announced “Grand Opening.” But only a few tables flocked with artificial flowers and menus on the wall told us we were standing in a West African restaurant open less than a month at the heart of the city’s near Northside. Our timid but helpful waiter informed us that, while the owners hail from Guinea on the west coast of Africa, the selection of dishes has evolved largely by request of people wondering if they could make a certain favorite dish that they remember from the continent. He pointed to a colorful quilted map of Africa, a welcome visual aid to those who grew up when many African nations still wore their colonial appellations. The dishes, he said, came from parts as distant as Morocco and the Congo. Two menus, one in peg-board letters and one handwritten, proved a tad confusing. Both seemed to repeat each other, though the handwritten one appeared to indicate what was more immediately available. While the menu offers two or three accompaniments such as beans or spinach, most of the dishes come complete. No house salads, appetizers or amuse bouche would ease us into this meal. Instead, we learned our first lessons in West African flavors via our drinks. Bissab ($1.50), a syrupy, bright fuchsia elixir that the waiter described as sorrel juice, made for good sipping. At the other end of the spectrum, the ginger juice ($1.50) proved a fiery lass of a drink, at once smooth and lemony but nearly scorching the throat on its way down. No wonder Africans praise its aphrodisiacal powers. Still, we had no food. Suddenly, our fears were allayed in dramatic fashion. Giant plates, platters really, of hearty food arrived, filling the table — and our eyes. Clearly, our waiter had made good suggestions. Attieke ($7.50), the national dish of the Ivory Coast, refers mainly to the starchy root of the cassava, grated to approximate the grains of couscous, which were piled high. A cheery salad of tricolor peppers rimmed the plate, and the dorsal half of a fried tilapia was plunked down on top of everything. Dressed in a light mayonnaise dressing, the salad was a crunchy and fresh foil to the somewhat bland but hearty “couscous.” And the fish flaked nicely and came easily off the bone. Memories of summer fish fries rushed to mind. But rarely had the fish been this tasty. Tieboudjap ($6.50), a slightly uncouth-sounding transliteration, combined stewed lamb and vegetables with sticky rice. The rice shimmered in a pristine mound surrounded by hunks of lamb on the bone and a few very tender onions and carrots. A slightly sweet sauce added a curious but unnecessary extra tang. Though the lamb required a bit of chewing, it packed a good earthy flavor that needed no embellishment. “You’re not used to it,” the waiter observed, almost apologizing, as he saw our yet somewhat full plates. But we were still taking it all in, still getting acquainted with a new continent of culinary wonders. A few diners had settled around us, and eventually steaming bowls of couscous arrived at other tables, as well as a good old American steak and potatoes. What was slow going at first proved a budding relationship with another great cuisine. A subsequent visit acquainted us with perhaps the best dish of the house, the somewhat misnamed Yassa onion ($6.62), composed of chicken stewed in caramelized onions, mustard, lemon and curry served with rice. The sweetness of the onions soothe the heat of the curry and meld the flavors into a decidedly sophisticated dish. This was another suggestion of our waiter, who had remembered what we’d eaten before. Fortunately, we hadn’t tried foufou, sometimes described as African mashed potatoes. That we would save for the next time. Or maybe the time after that.