Daily Archives: February 17, 2015

From Ceebu Jën to Spaghetti and Back Again

Blog post on a cultural experience

While studying abroad in Senegal, my most cherished activity was cutting tomatoes. I was given a dull knife – for my own safety – and only half the tomatoes – because I was so inefficient. But, I relished the chore. The family maid Adama ruled over the tiled corner room with efficiency and a terrifying orderliness. Only a year older than me, she was already a master of her craft and utterly confident in her domain. Not to be bothered by a clumsy American student. Plus, according to Senegalese tradition, men and guests were not allowed in the kitchen. Even when I had become more family than guest, I had the distinct feeling that Adama was only letting me help so I would stop pestering her. Nonetheless, someone had to cut the tomatoes – numerous tomatoes – which were crucial to the flavor of the quintessential Senegalese dish, ceebu jën (cheh-boo jen).

Ceebu jën literally means rice with fish in Wolof, the regional language. Although the meal sounds simple, it is actually a comprehensive dish that encompasses all the food groups. For casual dining, an entire Senegalese meal is one course, which consists of grain, vegetables, and a protein. This dish is served on a single large saucer, from which everyone eats. You have your own little tranche of the bowl. And, if you’re lucky, you have access to everything you want – some rice, cabbage, and fish – in your own sector. If you’re unlucky, a family member might have to push something over to your part, but you never grab from them.

Since my host family had shared so much of their culture and food with me, I wanted to share a bit of mine with them. Towards the end of my four-month stay, I gathered up the courage and Wolof vocabulary to convince Adama to give me free reign of the kitchen. I had decided to cook a “traditional” American meal, spaghetti and fried chicken. I was extremely proud of this slapdash dinner. For one thing, this gesture of cultural exchange had involved several expeditions to grocery stores and roadside vendors. I also had sheepishly asked Adama for help in bartering with the local halal butcher for the best cut of chicken. Even so, the challenge of gathering the ingredients gave way to a larger culinary adventure.

This was the first time I had cooked a meal from scratch in my host family’s kitchen. We cooked with a cast-iron pot sitting over an uncovered kerosene tank on the ground in one corner of the cubical kitchen. So, I had the pleasure of frying chicken in hot oil up close and personal. Inevitably, splatters burned my wrist. I endured this for an hour and half – a much longer cooking time than it would have been in my American kitchen. Even so, when I declared that dinner was ready, Adama and my host family were amazed.

“It’s done? Already?” My Senegalese family was equal parts surprised and indulgently amused, “That is truly an American meal and not an African one.”

During my four months in Dakar, I had learned that late dinners and a general indifference to timeliness were key Senegalese behaviors. The fastest food was at the school cantina. Even then, pre-prepared plates of maafe or yassa poulet required a ten to thirty minute wait. Nonetheless, I wasn’t sure what my host family meant by, “Already?” Martha Stewart would certainly say you were doing something wrong if cooking spaghetti and fried chicken took you ninety minutes. As I discovered much later, Adama had made a difficult and grueling task seem effortless.

I didn’t know how long African, or at least Senegalese, cooking actually took. That is, until a few weeks ago. I decided to make the classic ceebu jën to pass the experience of “eating around the bowl” to my American family. Just one plate of ceebu jën, how hard could it be?

Harder than convincing Adama to let me help in the kitchen. The dish naturally preserves all the flavors of each ingredient – meaning every piece of fried fish, carrot, or tomato had to be added and removed to ensure the essence of each element without overcooking it. I finally understood why Adama was so eager to have me out of the kitchen. Timing the addition and removal of ingredients was crucial – and difficult to execute with distractions. Channeling Adama’s gently assertive tone, I shooed my parents away from my kitchen whenever they asked me, “Is it done, yet?”

In the end, I spent five hours cooking ceebu jën. Five hours of adding and removing ingredients. Five hours of crumbling spices into the broth. Five hours of burning my fingertips. These were the same five hours Adama spent every day in the kitchen to cook for the family. The same five hours I never thought twice about while I cut those tomatoes. Cooking ceebu jën re-opened my eyes to the richness of a culture that is not as punctual as our own. Ceebu jën requires more time, but it is far more gratifying than a plate of spaghetti and fried chicken.

Mexican Coke and Pokémon, a Few of My Favorite Things

Blog post on a cultural experience

It felt like an eternity had passed on the McAllen-Hidalgo-Reynosa International Bridge before we even reached the Texas-Mexico border-checkpoint. Cars were bumper-to-bumper, vying to get access before sunset. The wait was excruciating. I was eight-years-old and stuck in a small car with my older cousin Victoria and her cousin Matt. Mom was trying to distract us with promises of the famous Mexican Coke from Los Tres Hermanos, but all I wanted to do was turn the car around, back to McAllen, so I could watch Pokémon.

After hours of searching, we approached a desolate and dilapidated building. With no visible markings or signs to indicate its existence you could have easily missed it. The only way we knew about the location of Los Tres Hermanos restaurant was by word-of-mouth, a secret shared between locals.

However, the exterior gave no clues to the interior; inside Los Tres Hermanos was a five star restaurant, with silk tablecloths and fancy candles. The restaurant was packed, but magically a table was already set for my family. Mustachioed waiters in black vests and white button down shirts asked for our order like the penguins in the Mary Poppins movie.

“Quequierestomar?” He asked all in one breath as if there were no spaces for pauses in this language. Victoria and I just looked at each other, then back at our waiter.

Luckily our parents ordered for us. “Coke.” A universal word no doubt known on Pluto.

In less than a second the waiter returned with a glass bottle of Mexican Coke the size of my face for Victoria, Matt and me. We couldn’t believe our eyes. One bottle contained the same amount of sugar I would consume on Halloween night. Five Mexican Cokes later, Victoria, Matt and I were in a sugar rush so wild we convinced ourselves we should reenact the Pokémon theme song for fun.

With our five empty bottles of Coke in front of us, we each grabbed a utensil and proceeded to bang on the bottles in the key of annoying sounds. We each sang our lungs out, trying to prove who knew the complete lyrics of the Pokémon theme song.

“I want to be the very best…that no one ever was…” I began and soon we hit the chorus, “Pokémon, gotta catch them all, its you and me I know it’s my destiny!”

As we sang our voices reached the ears of every guest present. We were on the third refrain when my mother tugged my sleeve and said, “Sophie, you guys are REALLY loud.”  My cousin and I stopped our performance and found the whole restaurant had gone quiet. Though the restaurant was silent, the patrons looked on in encouraging smiles in appreciation for our efforts. A waiter watching us from the bar picked up an empty coke bottle and tapped it with a spoon and smiled as if in agreement. Even though everyone was silent, I felt as if he and the whole restaurant were giving us a standing ovation.

Music needs no translation. Though Pokémon may not have been on the radar of our waiters and the other guests, they understood the need for music and revelry. In fact it’s not uncommon to walk into a Mexican restaurant and hear the sounds of a mariachi band serenading the guests with folk songs. I’ve even heard that in some Mexican restaurants patrons entertain other patrons through songs or limericks. Since that entertaining evening in Mexico, I’ve had time to reflect on that waiter’s smile and I’ve come to the conclusion that singing is considered an art in Mexico. From backyard cookouts to fancy restaurants, live, unrehearsed musical entertainment is an invaluable currency. Don’t be surprised when you visit a Mexican restaurant if they ask you to sing for your supper.

Of course at eight I had no idea how influential a Japanese TV-show like Pokémon would be. It wasn’t long before I was watching Sailor Moon and listening to Japanese Pop music like a regular otaku, nerd. One night, I was watching a Japanese anime, cartoon, and the main character was hosting a business meeting at a karaoke bar. These old and graying businessmen in designer suits were discussing matters of international trade as they sang—off key—popular Japanese music. That night I was reminded of my performance at Los Tres Hermanos. Though the food and customs of Japan and Mexico are vastly different, I realized that they shared one thing in common, a love of music. Here I was this Hispanic kid who was a third-generation American, singing the theme song to a show originally made in Japan in a Mexican restaurant. Here I am now, a Hispanic student in an American college, studying Japanese. When I ever I think about that waiter’s smile I don’t worry, I know it’s my destiny.