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.
