Of German Beer Gardens and Indian Clay Ovens

My people have always had a thing with the new or the foreign, with little history of forced or brutal colonialism, we have always had a penchant for exploring, and it is quite possible that there isn’t a country in this world that doesn’t have some level of Nigerian participation. So it is not surprising that in a city like Abuja, everything has the word “international” or “continental” stuck at the end of it.  


It is with this in mind that I indulged my inner Indiana Jones and decided to explore the far reaches of the Indian subcontinent, to traverse large swathes of Indian hinterland and Jungle, to discover the secrets to spices and scents, to witness the wonder of wildlife and an alien culture, to take a right off the Ahmadu Bello thoroughfare and onto Aminu Kano Crescent; my exploration didn’t take me past Wuse II in Abuja. Visa application and fees are an expensive business; so it was with great relish that I swung open the doors of Wakkis Restaurant, Abuja’s premium Indian restaurant.


Wakkis is one of those places in capital that everyone seems to have visited- much like Salamanders- the place had been raved about by one and all, so this consummate experience was fuelled less out of a genuine hankering for Indian Cuisine and more out of curiosity in part and my need to induct myself as a complete Abuja urbanite. How could I not have been to this particular extension of India? Every consummate experience is aided by great company and on this particular evening I was in great company, in the persons of CE resident sidekicks Shephatiah, Onyinye, Donald and first-timers Ify and Mary.


I can’t claim to be the most astute student of interior decorating; my tastes tend to be more particular- for instance when I build my castle I will try and make sure that the master bedroom is decked out in all black; drapes, woodshutters, bedside lamps, lights, floors, wall to wall stunning black granite, and no, I do not belong to the Illuminati, I couldn’t afford their registration forms- but it always occurs to me that if a restaurant specialises in particular cuisine then it should follow that their presentation and furniture should reflect that region. It should follow.


When the doors of Wakkis opened to reveal what they had been shielding, if you thought you were in a German beer garden you would be forgiven, the amount of timber was something to behold. Benches and tables stacked in neat rows across the hall and on the upper floor. The interior decorator had obviously ruled out intimate or private dining, there were benches so you would be forced to sit close to your fellow diners, savvy business strategy when you think about it; if you were going to be digging into your meal elbow to elbow with strangers, you would ensure that you always came with your own crowd.


After you get over the initial shock of being transported to your boarding school cafeteria, you realise that the first sight when the doors swing open is the huge clay oven under a thatch roof with a chef in the customary white ensemble scurrying from end to end, it’s a good solid first hand-shake. Wakkis is brilliantly lit, there will be no romantic meals in dark quiet pockets; it was very much Covenant University complaint. It wasn’t the most Indian or Asian room dressing I had witnessed, truth be told it was not at all Indian, but it was different and for that it was welcoming.


After giving the dining area the inspection, our waiter ushered our contingent to a table where we all slid in one after the other, and waited for the menu to make our choice. As we waited I accustomed myself to the environs as other members of our contingent regaled the table with stories of previous experiences of the restaurant. I cast another eye over the restaurant and the more I looked the more accommodating the particular arrangement was; I had heard that on a busy night dinner patrons usually hit over 100 covers and I could now see how they housed that comfortably.


The menu arrived and perusing it, you were left in no doubt that it was very Indian and you can have a peep at it here, after careful deliberation and recommendations from others, I settled on Spicy Chicken Tikki as my starter and the Tandoori Lamb shoulder to be roasted over charcoal. Around the table, there were calls for tandoori wings dipped in yoghurt and mint sauce, Murgh Malai (Boneless Chicken nuggets in rich pepper marinade) Lasuni Machi (pieces of fish flavoured with crushed garlic and fresh cream), Grilled Lamb Chops amongst others. It was going to be an interesting night; there is something about paying for meals you can’t pronounce you just know that the final bill will be just as foreign to your wallet as the meal was to your tongue.


While we waited for the meal, the conversation around the table took different directions, as you would expect with a full table, and with the men being outnumbered on the table 4 to 2, the conversation inescapably drifted towards the battle of the sexes; the women on the table were musing over why men always felt the need to be right and in control, for the life of me I do not know what led to the conversation, I do however remember that as soon as I joined the conversation I automatically realised I had made a mistake, you see when debating, men are handicapped by their need to make sense (not my words ladies sharpen your dagger for Chris Rock). I have some interesting theories on the male-female dynamic, but I will hold my fire for now.


Luckily the meal arrived before we started tracing gender roles and subsequent missteps all the way to Adam and Eve; and as any man will gladly admit when you are arguing with one woman its really arguing with three women at the least; the woman you argued with in the past, the woman you are arguing with now, and the woman you will argue with inevitably in the future, please let’s see a show of hands if when jousting with a lady you have heard these words “This is how you did this the last time”, “You always do this and you are doing it again”, “You don’t get it, You will do this again”. Now do the maths for 4 women V 2 men; I was glad for the meal as a distraction. As the meal was placed on our table and we all marked our territory angling our elbows, I noticed that the only laughter I could hear was ours, I looked around and the restaurant was empty and I could see the look of anxiousness on the waiters face as he placed the food, he wanted to close.


Armed with that, we all decided to deal with the task at hand with dispatch; there was so much food on the table it was hard keeping track of what was whose, and that worked for me as it easily allowed me cross borders and taste as much as I would like. Since I had forgotten that I had ordered a starter, I dug into the shoulder of lamb and was met with what I can only categorise as the taste of dusk, if dusk had a taste. Most of the meals on the table were grilled over the clay oven so they all had subtle hints of ash and soot, which wasn’t altogether a discredit. It was however distracting at times, as every slice of meat was at first tarred before the gustatory sensors kicked in and you tasted the meat, but aided with the sides of yoghurt and mint, the one-two punch of twangy and tingly worked well with the slightly charred pieces of meat, which fell of the bone almost expertly. I particularly enjoyed the smell of the meat, it registered something natural about making meals, the smoke, the char, the roast all distinctively coloured me African.


I remembered as I continued with my meal that I had ordered a predecessor and quickly searched for the plate of chicken tikka, and threw it in my mouth, it was change of pace and immediately registered that it was less about the chicken and more about the spices, which was interesting. Had I had more time to muse on the tikka I am sure I would be able to come up with something more descriptive, but no sooner had I turned back to the lamb that I realised that a hand was shifting it off the table, I looked up to see the waiter on auto-clearing; he hadn’t asked if we were done with the meal or if we would like it packed, he was ready to go and that was all the mattered.


Understanding that we had stayed past the closing time we asked for the bill and he scurried off to get it, my fellow diners, most of whom had ordered tandoori meals themselves all commented on how singed the food was, and how it didn’t agree with their palate, I could only muse that it had done exactly what it had advertised. The waiter arrived with the bill and I instinctively reached for my wallet and remembered that Donald was from an Oil producing state, I was not. I left my wallet where it was. Geopolitics and zoning factors in everything.


We got the rest of the food packed in disposable units and made our exit with Donald twenty-something odd thousand lighter; as we made our exit I wondered to myself how a thatched roof clay oven would look in the middle of my all white granite kitchen in my future castle.


Wakkis is located at Plot 171 Aminu Kano Cresecent, Wuse ll, Abuja, Nigeria and can be reached on +234 (09) 780 2929, +234 (09) 780 3000, +234 (0) 80 33231908, and on info@wakkis.com or wakisfood@gmail.com and www.wakkis.com where their menu is accessible. They allow you bring your own drinks as well, but there is a nominal corkage fee.


Sidenote: All of you men that raised your hands when I asked for a show of hands, firstly you can put your hands down, secondly this blogger or this blog will not be held responsible for any rift in your relationships the showing of hands might have caused. And something completely unrelated, I left the takeaway ribs in my fridge for over a week and for the rest of that week and longer, it continued to smell dusky and foreign, I highly recommend it. 

Playing Marco Polo In the Capital

One of the advantages or the self-prescribed benefits of living in a city and being trendy is finding places on the whimsy. If Sitcoms are to be believed our generation finds their Eden or Zen place completely by whimsy, like Central Perk a-la popular sitcom Friends. We just stumble into places either because they are close and convenient or we are out of options, and once stumbled we settle and that place becomes the “spot”, or at least that’s how it works on TV. When I find such a place I will be sure to inform you.

No, this entry will not be about how I discovered Narnia in Abuja; although it was certainly in the hopes of that that this particular consummate experience came about. Abuja as I have mentioned many times before is a City of many talents, and lends itself to discovery and definition. The road networks are easy enough to ply and traffic is manageable; the result of this is that you often zoom past several places or “spots” without paying it attention; it is therefore easy to discover somewhere that had always been there and have your own little Indiana Jones moment.

On a night that had seen me put more hours at the office than my contract stipulated or the International Labour Organisation permitted, I felt famished expectedly and decided I wanted to taste the orient, and still remain pocket friendly. Cheap Chinese, it was then. Getting to Chinese Express I was met with a sign informing me that they had shut down for renovation. Perfect!!!

It was then I remembered that I had heard of a Chinese Restaurant not too far from where I was, and I must have driven past that road on many occasions without ever noticing. And so began my consummate experience for the evening. The restaurant was easy enough to locate, being on a prominent road in the Maitaima District of Abuja, after disembarking I realised that the restaurant in question was Marcopolo of Lagos fame.

I was in the company of one of our regular guests here on CE, we walked in with open minds, vowing to judge the restaurant on its own merits and not in the shadow the Lagos establishment. First thing you notice when you walk in is the space and the use of space. Marcopolo is carved into a larger building, and if you weren’t looking for it, you might not find it. The restaurant is L-shaped and neatly arranged two person dining tables along the walls; the end result is very intimate; it is almost like the interior designer didn’t want you hearing other diner’s conversation or even smelling their food. It worked.

The lighting was especially dim, and they had been placed in oriental looking fabric paper with a reddish/clay hue- much like the CE at the Chinese Express, where I had originally intended to dine-, and the room was also separated in places by movable wooden partitions that weren’t ceiling high, so this meant that if you were tall enough you could actually spy on other patrons who felt they were being private. Taking the room in one glance it felt like a Geisha would come out from the partition at any moment.

We were seated and our waiter went off to bring our menus, in that time I gave the room another once-over to observe other diners, seated behind us was the customary Abuja socialite- at least that is the face he wore- and his female companion, who also gave me a once-over and concluded in that same instant that I wasn’t in the same social circle. The witch! (Please feel to replace the W with a B. Thanks). Sitting diagonally from my table was a young couple with a new-born child whom they couldn’t stop doting over. It was a nice visual, and somewhere in the back of the L-shaped space there was revelry of some kind, and that place had been partitioned off from us basic people.

The waiter arrived with the menus and the evening became even more interesting. Running a curious eye over some of the offerings I had to admit that they had covered the spread nicely from Cantonese to Sichuan and Jiangsu cuisine, but some of the helpings and prices were suspect. For instance the waiter and I got into it over their Shark Fin dish; firstly Abuja for all its glory is landlocked, most of the bodies of water in Abuja are manmade, and while it is just over an hour to Lokoja where most of the seafood is sourced from, I am pretty sure that there are no Great Whites lurking in the depths of the Niger and the Benue. Nothing is impossible though, after watching Nigerians give new meaning to Free Willy with the stranded whale in Lagos, it is quite possible that we have turned our appetites to other aquatic predators.

After a spirited conversation with the waiter where I made the observation that the menu was probably printed off the web, I asked him to give me more time to make my decision. I had a craving for a duck-based meal and flipped the menu over to that section, and had another reason to summon the waiter for a round two of a spirited conversation. Their Roasted Duck meal was set at N15, 000.00; I simply wanted to find out why the duck was so expensive, and waited calmly to hear if the duck in question was Donald Duck of Disney fame or perhaps his not so distant cousin Daffy of Looney Toon fame or perhaps the mascot from the Mighty Duck movie franchise, as it turned out the duck was none of the above, the waiter did however have some interesting insights on agro-economics.

He departed a third time, while I perused the menu for something reason satisfactory, I settled for the Black Peppered Beef on a hot plate and the summoned my waiter for round three of what had so far proven to be an interesting series. I also decided in his transit to start my meal with a “cup” of chicken and sweet corn soup. When he took down my menu, I enquired what the difference between a full bowl and a cup of soup was, and he quite sternly told me that the former was ideal for two people, and in the same breath told me he would cancel my large order as he felt I would waste the food and the medium was a better choice for me.

After I picked up my jaw from the floor, I proceeded to ask our nanny why he felt that I wasn’t capable of making my own choices, he matter-0f-factly reiterated that I would end up being wasteful and regretting my choice. I looked at Nanny Mcphee and I was twice his size and it happened on me to mention that the reason for this was because I indulged my palate, but you rarely meet people in businesses who aren’t eager to take money off you; I figured he must be a Deeper Life member, so I allowed him place the order as he saw best.

While we waited for the senior prefect to bring our meal back, the restaurant received more guests, it seemed the soiree in the back was an all ladies affair, and various women in various stages of undress came walking in, looking straight ahead, with the kind of steely determined hypocritical look you can only have when you are half naked and don’t want to catch people looking in the exact way that such dressing would inspire. We were in good company.

The meal finally arrived, hot plate and everything, and the moment of truth arrived as I waited to see just how much these generous waste-inducing portions were. Well, true to the description the cup of soup was indeed served with a cup helping and I still do not understand how the cup would have adequately served one person, unless of course that person also wears a bib and is still mastering motor skills. The soup was uninspired and lacked any memorable moments, and the sizzle of the hot plate was the only thing distinct about the black peppered beef. It was the equivalent of watching a movie trailer with the baritoned voice-over, only to walk into the cinema hall and discover that the movie was in fact freshly served manure. It was Tonto Dikeh till she opened her mouth. It was false advertising. I have tasted more inspired meals and this particular meal in other establishments; shout out to the Dragon Chinese Restaurant in Port Harcourt!!!

In the middle of my experience, I had forgotten to notice that our waiter had failed to deliver my companion’s dish and when he was summoned for round four, he informed us straight-faced that after my order he didn’t feel it was necessary to place the second order, as surely I couldn’t finish that meal on my own and he didn’t want waste. I concluded at that moment that surely he was a member of Deeper Life and was opposed to any form of self-indulgence or whimsy, like cable television, Ice-cream, breathing excess oxygen, Coca-Cola, extra helpings, having more children that required to till your farm, spare change and facial hair.

I convinced him to please place the order, it was shredded chicken in green pepper, but as if he wanted to prove the point the food arrived late, at which point we had finished the first meal and really didn’t have the appetite to continue with the second meal, before our waiter par excellence could break into a self-satisfied smile, I countered him and asked him to pack it for take-away. As I broke into my own self-satisfied smile, I almost shouted “checkmate dumbass!!!” but I decided to be civil.

As we waited for the take-away packs, one of the mannequins broke away from the crowd at the back to answer the phone, unfortunately she drifted towards the young couple and their new-born and I honestly cannot make this up, as soon as she came close enough the baby started shrieking. Now the more scientific or practical among you readers will say that’s a complete coincidence, but I have it on authority that babies can sense evil more accurately than adults, and that’s what I believe; her marine spirit upset the innocent child. The mother and father obviously shared my opinion; they caught me in stitches and had a giggle themselves. It was good to see that some people in this life hadn’t placed a ban on whimsy or humour.

No sooner had I bonded with perfect strangers over the marine spirit than the coven of winches (read: witches or emere or ogbanje) and fleet of marine spirits made their way out from the back, flaxen hair, bright prints and all. I didn’t make eye contact with any of them, I have watched enough Nollywood movies, I glanced around for my barometer of evil, but his mother had taken him outside to pacify him. Our takeaways packs arrived; I had a lively conversation with Lurch our waiter, settled the N10, 000.00 tab and walked out as the restaurant shut down.

As we walked out I wondered why I had not asked the waiter if he was a Deeper Life Christian, and reflected on a night borne completely out of whimsy and the subsequent rebel against the whimsical.

Marcopolo Chinese Restaurant is located at 70 Usuma Street, 911 Plaza, Maitiama, Abuja.

Accepting Compromise In The Clubhouse

Abuja is a city of many talents, by my considerable standards and that of many it remains the flagship city of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. No doubt as they read this, many of the Lagosians will bite on iron and swear that theirs is the best city on the living planet, bear in mind that many of the lads and friends that have visited me here in the capital from Lagos remark on how peaceful (before they who should not be mentioned became resident) and well-kept the city was, and in their moments of clarity many of them wished that their jobs or family would relocate them to the capital.


Of course they have since returned to Lagos and have inhaled the smog that is Lagos air, and naturally they have taken leave of their senses (I no yab una o!) and will now swear that Gidi is the best. This debate between Lagos and Abuja can rage forever, admittedly there are many fine things about Eko, dynamic leadership, a city that never sleeps, vibrant entrepreneurs and equally vibrant social life, the sea, and that Lagos mentality where everyone is wiser than his neighbour often leading to the general state where no one is wise at all.


But Abuja is for the cultured man, nothing is rushed or hastened, because we generally understand that quality and good decisions take time, the city works at everyone’s individual pace or pulse. If you want the city to go fast for you, it will and if you need it to crawl, it is just as likely to do that. If you live in Ibadan please remain silent, this debate is for town dwellers.


For all the sophistication of the capital, one thing that it has constantly failed to do, is  offer a decent serving of milkshake, make no mistake, it does try but somewhere between throwing peak powder milk in with ice cream, or in some cases with yoghourt it fails woefully. It has now become a pet project of mine to order it wherever I see it appear on the menu, holding out hope that, that one time, someone would hit the mark.


It was no different when I spotted the choice on the menu of The Clubhouse, my default setting is to order it and then select the meal later and this is exactly what I did. The Clubhouse is located in  Life Camp of Abuja City, and while technically no one location in the Capital is too far from the other, Life Camp automatically gives you the sense that is deliberately removed from everywhere else.
This might have to do with the fact that most of the senior management of construction giants like Julius Berger, Gilmor and their ilk reside in this part of town. Abuja is a manmade city, this is a noted fact, and is forever in a state of development, to live in this city is to be constantly aware that a new road might appear tomorrow, new headquarters for yet another government agency will spring forth, but Life Camp allows a sense of finish and calm, I have never heard any ruckus or disturbance anytime I have been there, and this might not be an accurate measure for it overall but Gwarimpa is easy. Like Sunday Morning. I paid Lionel Richie for that, I swear, he didn’t want money so I bought him Petals hair relaxer. True Story.

Coincidentally it was a Sunday morning, and the idyllic nature of  Life Camp is the perfect setting for The Clubhouse which is a little cut-out of paradise, it features a little botanical space complete with swings and jungle gym for the children, it also has a pool that is actually used by patrons, unlike some other establishments I have reviewed (sneezes: Blue Elephant). The pool also allows patrons to dine al fresco, and while it became clear upon arrival that regulars of the restaurant were disproportionately Lesbianese, there was also a fine cross-section of the indigenous.

One such family was sitting by the pool, four little ladies, their mother with the skin of a Greek cruise ship waitress and the father, who’s build would easily qualifying him for the protective services, but whose scowl assured you he had once made a living standing on street corners selling drugs; like Benylin, Strepsil, Flucodin, Tylenol and the rest.

The moment of truth eventually arrived and the milkshake was presented to me, it was chocolate flavoured and while the menu has promised me a mug, I was given a glass. I took the initial sip. It wasn’t a milkshake, I took another sip, and I was now certain what I was drinking was not a milkshake. I took yet another sip, at which point I was able to confidently ascertain that what I had just being served was indeed the famed milo ground with a lot of milk and ice.

What! The audacity! The sheer chutzpah of the waiter and the bar man! I summoned the waiter, and couldn’t wait to let him have a piece of my mind, and when he arrived…………..I simply ordered another glass.

The truth is I don’t care what he had put in that glass, and yes Abuja is still hopeless at serving milkshakes; whatever they concocted was simply delicious and I wanted in. The second class of their compromise arrived, just in time for the Entrée, which included shrimp salad, Baba Ghanoush, Grilled Cheese Sticks and Cream of Chicken soup. It was a full table of friends, all of whom have made at least one guest experience on the consummate experience.

Word to the wise, if you are preparing to have a full meal, do not get zealous with an energy food beverage beforehand. I clearly marked a corner of the table, where I landed the plate of chicken soup and went to work. And while it didn’t have the thickness I am usually accustomed to, it made for that in richness, and it was a very generous portion. I order this soup almost every other review, so at that point I was on autopilot and the engines had begun to fail. I had gorged myself on the compromise-shake and was beginning to suffer the effects.

As I deflected the chiding of my colleagues on the table I looked up to the heavens from whence cometh my help, and noticed that while the interior decorating for the clubhouse wasn’t elaborate, it was easy to miss the finer details; such as the roof being supported by massive tree trunks, or pillars encased in a tree trunk. I am not an architect so I cannot speak to how it was done, but added to the botanical space outside it was clear they were going for an organic feel.

By the time my mind and eyes wondered back to the table, my main dish had arrived Chicken Scallopini and the portion was generous. In retrospect, I suppose I could have just asked them to take-it-away for me, but I soldiered on even in the face of apparent discomfort, much like our First lady speaking English, a language she is not accustomed to……. Ok that was a cheap shot, I shouldn’t  malign the person of the First Lady like that…but I’d rather speak behind a person’s back than gossip about them………get it…….

Chicken Scallopini is a meal prepared from chicken breasts that is then drenched in lemon juice and sautéed with breadcrumbs. That is all I know of it, and I am sure it tasted great but I was already stuffed and was simply going through the motions. My meal was completed after a stretch, and after another stretch I pushed myself from the table and proceeded for the exit.

As we walked out, with me in discomfort, I wondered if this was how Atiku felt when he tried by force to win an election. Sometimes you have to know when to walk away……

The Clubhouse Resort is located the TAK Continental Estate in Gwarimpa, and can be reached on either of the following 0807-704-0404 or 0808-989-0700

Sidenote: Forgive the cheap swipes at notable figures, as we approach the 51^st year of our Independence as a country, there is precious little to do other than laugh. If you believe in God, take a moment to pray for our Country, Nigeria, we need it. On a lighter note, fine cuisine is nothing without fine wine, and I have been remiss in my duty in not including it in my reviews (no be my fault, wine cost for these places). Luckily a friend of the Consummate Experience has a fantastic place to get tips and recommendation on wine and can be accessed on http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002258693175

The Elephant in the Room

Consistency is key. When you find something that you enjoy and have decided to share; that thing is only enjoyable to the extent that it is consistent, and I realise readers that I have not been consistent, for this I apologise. For those of you, who just happened upon my page for the first time, forgive my delusions of grandeur. It has been a busy few months, and I seem to have only documented my consummate experiences in my head alone. But now we remedy that.


Home is where the heart is, this well-worn refrain is necessary, because this consummate experience takes place in the fine city of Port-Harcourt. My claim in my previous reviews to be a Port-Harcourt boy are now validated, I am well aware this review was established for Abuja, but I take Abuja wherever I go, so it still holds. 


The City of Port Harcourt is for all intents and purposes one of the four metro-cities in Nigeria, its oil wealth and its dynamic leadership have certainly put it on the map in recent times. The denizens of this fine state possess a certain way about them; and to the keen observer it is a curious mix. They are constantly reaching for the finer things in life, Moet & Chandon, Cristal Champagne, The Best in Swiss Watches, while only a moment removed from a good old-fashioned brawl. The average Port Harcourt man will go to great lengths to prove himself worthy of his great wealth and affluence, but will always remind you he came up; that he too is from the streets and cannot be taken advantage of. This is the spirit of the Niger Delta.


In this there is always a smile, there is always laughter. Port Harcourt understands the groove. As I no longer enjoy loud music, cramped spaces and ladies in various states of undress (Jesus Saves!), when I am in town I seek out what pacifies my soul. Food.


Good food can solve any problem is my sincere belief, it can stop wars and restore peace, toss the amnesty plan! Let’s rehabilitate with food! One place in the Port Harcourt metropolis that always meets my criteria for war-ending, peace-restoring, family-restoring, children-laughing, flowers-growing food is Blue Elephant.


Blue Elephant is a located in GRA Phase ll of Port Harcourt; it’s a non-distinct building save for the Blue Elephant head proudly mounted on the gate. Why it is called Blue Elephant, no one seems to know; was a blue elephant killed and buried in the foundation of the building? Did the Lesbianese Lebanese owner have a pet blue elephant when s/he was a child? Maybe it was a stuffed animal? Is there a song called blue elephant that it’s named after? These are all the questions you might wonder till the sheer genius of the food stuns your olfactory and gustatory senses. (Yes, I too dey form knowing English, go find dictionary).


The non-descript nature of the place adds to its allure; there is not much by way of interior decoration indoors, as though the owner feels certain that food is all that matters and everything else is a side distraction. There is a bar outside, at the back, with tables arranged around a pool that no one ever seems to use, this feeble attempt at ambience is what attracts most people, as most if not all the patron prefer to sit outside.


I have asked before whom the pool is meant to serve and have yet to receive a credible answer, personally I believe that the pool is meant for the Blue Elephant the owners and the staff pray to, to make their food so good. The pool is where the elephant comes to wash and drink water. Curiously the restaurant is never open on Monday, this must be when they bring the elephant out of its hiding place and pray to it; their prayers must work. Anonymous sources have confirmed to me that every Monday about 2-3 massive trucks can be seen parked outside, this must be how they transport the elephant. 


As you can tell by now, I am not a newbie to Blue Elephant, we are well acquainted. (But I do not worship it, Jesus Saves!). I have some pull in Port Harcourt, (I command you to be impressed!) so I was able to place my orders before getting to the restaurant by calling their direct line and making my order. Whatever!! I still have some pull.


A consummate experience is always better in the company of friends, and on this consummate experience I was joined by Onyinye and Donald, my colleagues and featured guest in my last consummate experience. We walked in and were ushered to our table, shortly after which, our food arrived.


The crowd was lively, livelier than I remember Blue Elephant being, but admittedly it was a weekend, and a cross section of the restaurant revealed the customary solitary babe waiting on her order, playing on her blackberry, removed from the environment with a look of cerebral detachment on her face, while at the same time parting her Brazilian hair every once and again to see how many guys had checked her out. There was the mandatory business group in another corner, thrashing out some high-profiled deal, just loud of enough to hear the financial details but too low to hear the specifics. In another corner was the obligatory Port Harcourt big boy and his date, who wore a look that expressed he would much rather be in Tima’s on stadium road eating afang soup, and his bleached and patched counterpart who wore a look that expressed she had a test first thing the next morning and hadn’t studied yet. The most interesting sight for me was an older white gentleman, weather-beaten with leathery features, who sat quietly in his corner drinking his Gulder from an Ice Bucket. Who does that!!!! I have seen him there everytime I have visited, I am quite sure he is the High Priest of the Blue Elephant. 

The first indication that this experience might not tally with my former experiences, was the orders came in wrong. I had ordered cream of mushroom soup, and Spaghetti Carbonara which already comes with bacon bits, the attending waiter on the phone heard cream of mushroom soup,Spaghetti Carbonara & Pork in pepper, because that’s what arrived. With my dish came an assortment of other dishes, Donald as usual ordered Hummus and King Prawns with Fries, Onyinye as usual fell into a predatory stance where she waited for her meal and ate off everyone else’s plate. Her meal eventually arrived and it was a grilled fish dish, but at this time I had tuned out to make sure I was paying rapt attention to the task ahead of me.

For frequent visitors to this page, you will realise that the meal that was ordered was very similar to the meal ordered in the first consummate experience, and blue elephant was the original inspiration of that selection. As usual the soup was thick and elastic, I could use it to hold up my trousers, it worked and I enjoyed it. My attention was somewhat distracted as the waiter had managed to crowd the table with food, with dishes that weren’t in the order, like the pork dish which I had to go through as I savoured the soup.

The pork lacked any lasting impression; the only thing that can be said about it was that it was so well done; if I had the time or inclination I would have argued with the waiter on whether we had been served swine or bovine. (See what I did there? A little rhyming, genius!). After devouring the soup and the pork, I moved onto my main course. The pork was eaten like a starter, and I must have been stuffed or overwhelmed, because the fireworks I was certain I would experience, didn’t come.


To make certain that I wasn’t going off on a tangent, I asked around the table and it seemed that I wasn’t the only one unimpressed with our dishing. I looked around to make sure we were still in Blue Elephant, the water in the pool was still full so the Elephant god wasn’t thirsty, the oyinbo high priest was still drinking his libations in the corner, so what was wrong? Did they not pray to the elephant last Monday? I continued with the meal, but it didn’t have the usual cream or texture that I am used to, while all the ingredients were there, they weren’t confusing my senses. 

I had to call the head waitress and ask if the chef had recently broken up with his girlfriend; she laughed and assured me that he was fine, but for all her good cheer, the food was not fine. It tasted like it was prepared by a broken hearted man; like someone who was hurting, who was going through the motions but didn’t put his soul in anything anymore. The food didn’t have its magic; it had lost its jazz. The Blue Elephant god was obviously not happy and neither was this consummate experiencer.

As we walked out, N17500 lighter, I did a little mental calculation and wondered what the cost-benefit of hiring a private investigator to look into the restaurant’s activities every Monday. 

The Blue Elephant restaurant is located on 85 King Perekule Street, GRA Phase ll, Port Harcourt.

Sidenote: Blue Elephant is usually a stand-out culinary experience in Port Harcourt that probably doesn’t worship an elephant, if you happen to be in Port Harcourt area, visit and please look out for their Mexican Salad and their Ice Cream cake. You will thank me.

Arabian Nights in the Capital

One unassailable fact of life is that, it (life) is remarkably easier to get through with good company, and while I am yet to discover my super-human talent- be rest assured I have one, if Magneto can control metals, and Professor Xavier can bend, read and control minds, I can probably plank in between the time President Jonathan took office and the time its taking him to form a government - or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I have made my way through life thus far, with the good fortune of meeting interesting and good people.


This good fortune caught up to me over an interesting weekend, where some of my cronies from out of town and time (Coughs #Williams) visited the capital for what we called a retreat- but in reality was just a group disregarding age and wisdom and taking the absolute piss. There was eating, and drinking and attempts at the moonwalk, the running man, the electric slide, the butterfly, ballet, the waltz and all other antiquated closeted dance moves, there was also singing, in all, general pisstaking.


I have spent some time in the south-south of this our fine country, to be precise in the creeks staking out Boyloaf and Tompolo with the 81^st Army Airborne Division out of Kafancha in Kaduna……I see the look of awe on your face… it seems I forgot to mention my daytime job, I am a Special Ops Army Officer and I…..back to our regular scheduled programme. I have spent some time in Port Harcourt and has Duncan Mighty has already told you, I am a Port Harcourt boy!!!! But the biggest takeaway from PH for me was the people I met there, one of which is Mr. Donald Okudu, Mr. Okudu is handicapped as he doesn’t understand anything if not explained to him in art, design or animation (it will be interesting to see how he reacts in a delivery room), no Donald isn’t “special”, he isn’t autistic, this is just how he chooses to enter the world.


Another huge takeaway from PH is Mr. Williams Derrick, entertainment Impresario & stage manager extraordinaire, now Mr. Williams is my slightly more advanced colleague, let’s just say for the purpose of this entry, that Mr. Williams was around when Nigerians were still spending Shillings, scratch that Cowries, scratch that he discovered River Niger, scratch that he personally knew Solomon Grundy. Straight Face. He however is the most honest person I have had the pleasure of meeting, and if his heart were any bigger he would need surgery.


These two fine PH/Lagos Imports formed part of that motley crew over the weekend, completed by my regular casts of bandits, Ms. Onyinyedamola Iroha and Mrs. Shephatiah (it’s in the bible, one of the names before Adam was created) Obadan, my colleagues in the bullpen. What these gentleman and myself have in common is a unique taste in soul music (Kem, Raheem Devaughn anybody?) and an even bigger taste in fine cuisine. And so began another memorable consummate experience.

After a complete weekend of activity as described above, on the last evening of our weekend we all decided to end it by having a meal, and yours truly was asked to suggest and promptly I named Al- Basha, the upscale Lesbianese Lebanese (I will address this in another post) restaurant, and I picked it for no other reason than I had yet to experience the restaurant.

Al-Basha is located in the Maitaima District of Abuja, one of the high(er) brow areas of the capital, the entire district is remarkable for its dual ability to seem unassuming but at the same time display such diabolic wealth and then manage to keep a straight face, as though surprised that wasn't how all humans lived.

We drove into Al-Basha and like all other reputable restaurants in the city, it is housed in a house that has been converted into a restaurant, the first thing to tick of the box for Al-Basha was the attempt at providing adequate parking space like they understood that most of their patrons wouldn’t parachute into the premises or emerge from the pond in the middle of the restaurant – sorry my military mind at work, what? I am serious. Walking into the restaurant you immediately notice that the owner had gone through great lengths to keep the theme of the restaurant Arabian, there was a courtyard, giving you the choice to dine in the open or walk into the restaurant for more personal dining.

The walls had a mustard colour to them, and were in perfect rhythm with the lighting, which at first I as a well groomed Nigerian, figured was low current from our national carrier NEPA, on inspection I realized that the lights were dimmed. The overall effect was the room welcomed you like you would expect an Arabian hut would, it was charming.

We all sat and the waiter, decked out in complete garb or costume reminiscent of Aladdin approached us, he reminded me of the Genie in Aladdin, I would have asked his name but I was very certain if I made eye contact I wouldn’t keep a straight face. He handed us the menu’s, I said “Open Sesame”, but the menu didn’t open as I expected, awwwwhh schucks !!!! We all made our orders, and in the many things asked for, there was Lamb Chops, Grilled Lobsters, Black Pepper Steak, Baba Ghanoush, Chicken Wings and a salad. Our waiter jumped on his magic carpet and whisked away to sort out our orders. 

As we waited for the food to arrive, I noticed that the deliberate dim lights seemed to brighten intensely periodically; I thought this was once again the work of NEPA, till I noticed that it seemed the energy was being generated from our table between two people. The rest of us watched in amusement as topics of athletic performance and artistic skill were bandied between the two, and noticed with equal amusement how the lights brightened every time more information was passed between the two. Upon closer inspection, Onyinye and I realized that it wasn’t actually the lights in the rooms that were brightening, but the glint in her eyes every time they spoke. Hmmmm.


As we watched our own version of Jacobs Cross play out in front of us, the food arrived and it was all over the place, Steak here, Grilled Lobster there, and while that was fine for the recipients of the meal, it didn’t really allow me strategize on how to pick off everybody’s plate. So I did the simple thing and concentrated on my own meal, and dear Lord, the lamb was sublime, in fact I have since decided that the lamb was descended from the one Abraham sacrificed for Isaac in the bible, it was a holy lamb, and gentleman lamb. It tasted good. The farmers or Shephatiah shepherd must have fed the thing, gravy, lollipops or candy-floss all its life. The meal was served with rice, I am sure, I don’t recall how the rice tasted, all I know was the lamb was on my plate and there was bone in it separating me from another slice of meat.


On my right Onyinye had decided to take the average of all the meals, having ordered a salad herself, ‘cos her plate had at least one thing off everybody’s plate, Shephatiah was cutting away like the Queen into grilled lobster, Williams was cutting his way into steak and Donald was deciding what colour to paint his lobster. No, seriously he was cutting away into his meal as well. You know a meal is good, when people who had previously spent time chatting and yabbering are all suddenly mute. I can’t suppose for anybody else, but my lamb was good, infact it was so good it should have been part of the X-Men. It should have been Professor Xavier’s sidekick, ‘cos sure as hell, the meat on the plate was reading my mind.


After a session of bantering, and I had said a prayer for my lamb, we exited the restaurant, complete in the experience for the night. We got into the car, I looked up to see if I would catch our waiter silhouetted on the moonlight on his magic carpet, no such luck. We drove out the gate, and It occurred to me that the President didn’t have to look to far in solving the energy problems, he just needed to hook up two of the dinner guest to the national grid and let them flirt, problem solved.

Al Basha is located on 11 Cassandra street, Off Usuma Street, Off Gana Street, Maitama. They can be reached on   + 234 -807-6909-993 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting            + 234 -807-6909-993      end_of_the_skype_highlighting, +234, 807-7667-766.

** Sidenote: Mrs. Shephatiah Obadan is actually a Ms. Shephatiah Obadan, and I am available for all comments.  Baba Ghanoush is actually hardened Pap with stew on top. True Story. Everything else aside, Mr Okudu and Mr. Derrick are extraordinary talents, and should you ever need to express yourself creatively, I am available for comment. 

A Lesson In Victors House

The French seem to have the market cornered when it comes to things that go in and out of the mouth; they have given us language, a patented display of affection, and cuisine. I must admit that I am not familiar with all three cultural exports (sly grin); I am the least familiar with French cuisine, outside of occasional crepes- which are really pancakes- croissants, French wine and the odd experiment in French Class, I haven’t really been exposed to the French Palate.

 It was with this in mind that I made my march on Chez Victor, the quintessential French restaurant in our nation’s capital, Chez Victor or Victors House is located in the Maitaima District of Abuja, the Maitaima district of course been the haven of the nouveau- riche and others with ill-gotten wealth- yes if it is Nigerian Wealth it is more times than none stolen, and No my Fada doesn’t have a house in Maitaima.

The general architecture of Maitaima whispers, almost as though it doesn’t want to reveal the insane, almost grotesque amount of money it takes to build and live in such abscess luxury, the place hides itself behind hills and trees, and Chez Victor is no different, it is very easy to drive past it. It is unassuming, almost as if the owners didn’t care if you drove by, it stays there unnoticed, shy-if not for the solitary sign indicating that you were indeed at Victors House.

It is in a walled compound with a rather bland gate, that doesn’t grant you view to see if Victor has opened his doors or not, I had to knock on the gate to make sure they were open. Just before I stepped in a Jeep pulled up to the gate, it was the United Nations variety, white, sturdy and ordinary looking. The window wound down and Mr.UN asked me if “we” were open for the night, we? Oui? We, the Federal Republic of Nigeria? We, Joint Chiefs of a can of whoopass?

It took me a second to gather if he automatically assumed I was a member of staff because I was “indigenous” looking, or because I was standing at gate and resembled the gateman, or maybe because my wardrobe looked like the waiter attire-to him- my taste in fashion is unimpeachable, my wallet is another thing. I decided it was a harmless question and spared him my Amistad rhetoric, and told him “it” was open. Discarding Mr UN, I walked into Victors house for what would turn out to be a consummate experience.

At the entrance, Victor had put a waiter to welcome you with a smile and open the door, walking in you notice that the restaurant is actually a house that has been decompartmentalized and the expanse used very well to accommodate a busy hall, the dining hall has been maximised to contain a healthy crowd.

I noticed a bi-racial family tucking away into their food, I could only imagine that Victor had stunned their mouths into silence. I was right. I asked the waiter to show me a quiet table, and he translated this to mean I was embarrassed at eating alone and gave me a table away from plain sight behind a wall. This in the end worked for me, as I was waiting to see if they would forget me behind there.

They didn’t, they were swift in bringing the menu and lighting the candle on my table, as though I told Mr. Waiterman I wanted to fall in love with myself, but it was standard operating procedure I suppose. The menu had a good range of meets, seafood and sweets to choose from, from continental French Africa to France itself. I was looking forward to the wine list and didn’t find it, I assumed it wasn’t available and settled for a coke on the rocks, with lime. (Cokes on the rocks sounds so classy), I should do a Bond Impersonation one day and ask the bartender for Bournvita shaken not stirred.

Anyway, back to Victor, I later found out that the wine menu was separate and in retrospect my wallet was better for it, I ordered for my starter the Bisque de Langoustes- which was Lobster Soup with crab, carrot, fresh tarragon & cream served with Parmesean Crustini and garnished with Prawns. So somehow it was the equivalent of a Lobster eating a crab, then chewing on a carrot while swimming in cream and then being eaten by a prawn. It was heavenly and I am still not convinced that Victor didn’t spike it with syrup, ‘cos i checked the constitution nothing is allowed to be that sweet, hell just thinking about it is likely to induce diabetes. It was like an aquarium of dead (RIP) crustaceans, and they were everywhere. In fact the more I think about it, Victor spiked the meal, at one point I attempted to lick the bowl and remembered I was in civilized company. Although it arrived later the soup was served with freshly baked bread rolls that released their centre in one glorious surrender of steam, everything that touched them melted, including my palate. Resistance was futile.

 The main meal, Langoustes braisee a l’ail pommes sautees persillees – which was Barbecued Lobster served with sautéed potatoes with garlic and parsley.

As you can probably tell by now, Victor’s menu is deliberately declarative and so is the cooking. The main course arrived shortly after the starter, and Mon Dieu, from the presentation to the finished article, Victor couldn’t have done it any better. The lobster had been split into two equal parts, and barbecued till the white meat was hard but soft enough to be swallowed, like a sponge, it cut away with the littlest difficult and my brain had trouble computing what to put in first, the golden potatoes or the lobster meat- in the end I took them on in equal measure which is how I Imagine civilised people eat.

I suppose a Chef hasn’t done his/her job till you are confused as to how to divide your attention on a plate, I have heard Victor makes the round in the dining hall, he didn’t that night and it was safer for him, ‘cos at that moment I wasn’t above blindfolding him with a table napkin and kidnapping him to a life of servitude in my kitchen.

Somewhere in the background there were hearty attempts at some birthday song, I could care less I was only grateful Victor had been born. I paid my bill and walked out, N8100 shorter. As I walked out I wondered why the French hadn’t colonised the land mass north of Cameroon.

Chez Victor is located on 7 Ganges Street, Ministers Hills, Maitama, Abuja, they Can be reached on +234 805 746 7032 or on +234 803 591 1997. The email address is chezvictorabuja@aol.com