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