The Calabar kitchen Panorama

I tiptoed sideward in my drenched black sneakers, bouncing off the side borders of the eatery carefully towards its backyard, with my right hand towered up clasping a table fork I’d picked from the kitchen few seconds back; I walked calmly close to where she’d laid now dozing off from her chair and I tapped her with my other hand – she’s stressed out I thought.

I had just found myself in the office of one of the best African food-joint owners; it was very small, scanty and substandard. “Shh! I won’t hurt you” I whispered. The fears in her crashed as she expressed my request surprisingly, “you want my secret recipes and not money?” she asked.

Still talking, “May I have two wraps of pounded yam, “Egusi” soup with assorted beef please” I ordered in front of a long queue. During this time, all the seats were all occupied and I spotted a man claiming his plate of “Ogbono” soup: “whata! Does he want to lick the plate?” The other guy was sweating furiously rushing to finish up his food.

I’d pondered what to do to own similar business? – attack the owner, get her secret recipes? The blasting crowd forced me outside “Calabar” kitchen as mostly called; I was soaked with my back glued to the wall waiting patiently for the stormy rain to stop which was pouring pitilessly on me.

Not long, the shower stopped, activities continue immediately, 3 mortals were rolled out accompanied with each pestle. The work rate was faster than usual: in preparing for the next couple of customers on their way. People (mostly easterners) walked in and out of the canteen to certify their appetite.

While a hand bends to pack steamy boiled yam into the mortal, two others beat its pestles against it to pound the content within. Another shared and wrapped the pounded yam into transparent nylon films. The rest picked, cut and sliced various vegetables to complement the different soups being cooked. As I walk away, my stimulated nasal cavity from the sweet aromas flying around giggles my taste buds.