Chapos:End of An Era
If you know me, you might have noticed I’m a huge fan of Anthony Bourdain (may he rest in peace). Reading and watching Bourdain compelled me to make something out of myself in the kitchen. Now, I like to think I’m a good cook. In a way, cooking for myself feels like therapy. Which I think is commendable coming from a place where we added water to everything.
But there are days when the kitchen is the last place you want to be.
When I moved here I scoured several joints hoping to find a decent eatery. Some left a lot to be desired. Villa Rossa Kempinski(not the one you know), for instance, had bland soup. They didn’t put enough tomatoes in their food. One of the waitresses kept looking at me like she knew something I didn’t know. They also had a large Samsung TV, which they shelved when guys started coming there to watch the English Premier League. They’d fill all the seats, leaving little room for those who came to eat. I don’t even want to talk about their chapos.
Next, is a well-hidden place within a walking distance from Villa Rosa. I’ve just realized that after all those times I’ve eaten there, I still don’t know what it’s called — It doesn’t announce itself to the world. Those who frequent it just go. They have good ndengu, and the place is clean. Their chairs are comfortable though packed too close. I like the young lady who manages it. She is welcoming, but stern. I’ve never seen anyone try to flirt with her. I once saw her one Sunday afternoon, out and about, dressed like she was going for fashion high tea. However, I think someone needs to tell her that those thin tin plates just don’t cut it. I only used to go there if Tausi Deli was closed.
Tausi Deli used to feel like home. It was a diamond in the rough. I’ve been going there for roughly two years, since my third year in uni. I’d go for chapo veges, pilau, mokimo, or sometimes chapo beef. It’s the chapos that anchored me to the place. They were made to perfection and were large enough to warrant a price of 20 shillings each. They were thick, had the right kind of brown, and if you held one in the air the way chemists hold a sample solution, it would get torn in half because they were soft like that.
The first time I discovered the place, I bought three chapos to take away. I took a bite when I got home, just to sample. Then a bigger bite, and another one and another one. I couldn’t help myself. They got me talking to myself in between mouthfuls as I gobbled them up. I ate them all before I even got to prepare the accompanying broth. I couldn’t decide whether to make the stew or call it a night.
I later came to find out that the guy who used to make them came in at 10 in the morning every day. A tall silent fellow, always in an old pair of white Air Force Ones every time I saw him. He listened to Ken Wa Maria as he kneaded the dough, but I’d heard him speak kiembu once. Wherever you are, my dear friend, we don’t know each other, but I know your chapos. If those are the best chapos I’ll ever have in my life, then I’m glad it happened because of you.
There’s a short Rwandese lady who used to manage the place. She was stunning as most of them are. Believe it or not, they called her Asifiwe, a Swahili word that could be loosely translated to, ‘praise be to her’. I always thought it was a nickname, but she later confirmed it was her real name. I still find it hard to wrap my head around it. You should see how guys looked at her. I once asked her how she liked it here. She said there is more money to be made compared to Rwanda.
Asifiwe lived up to her name. She could cook. Her stew was thick enough, and she knew how to pair food with the right spices. During the days I went there for lunch, I’d find her texting or watching a Mexican soap opera. She’d smile and wipe my table as she took my order. Then she’d warm the food, and serve me in classy China. I loved those little bowls.
I liked going for lunch around three when it was almost empty. We’d sit in silence, eyes on my kindle as I ate, her’s on her phone. Sometimes I’d catch her watching me like she had questions she was afraid to ask. I did flirt with her once, but it didn’t feel exciting enough. It made more sense not to go down that road though I regret not talking to her more. I wonder what stories she carried with her.
I don’t know what happened. I went home for Christmas and everything had changed when I came back. I asked around. They told me Asifiwe had gone home for Christmas. Just like that.
It didn’t take long for me to realize management had changed. It’s been a while since I saw the old chapo guy. They now change cooks like clockwork and most are bad at it. Since they took over, they’ve had more than five ladies take turns behind the counter. It’s like a family business, where cousins and sisters take turns to manage it. There’s no consistency. Is it that you can’t trust my fellow Kikuyus with food or what?
One time they started putting ginger in everything. I’ve got no qualms with ginger, but why the hell would you overuse it like that?
“Did you cook this?” I asked a guy I’d started seeing behind the counter. It turns out he was their new chapo guy.
“No, she did.” He said, pointing at yet another new girl.
“She put too much ginger in this. I’ve been eating here for a long time, so I know. Tell her to try black pepper maybe, but not too much. Or coriander. You can’t go wrong with that.”
He agreed with me, but I realized I’d have to find another place. Moreover, the new chapo guy talks too much. He always has something to say, and the ladies walk all over him.
Yesterday I found yet another new girl. She didn’t know what chapo veges was.
“Hiyo nayo ni gani?” She asked.
Asifiwe would never have asked me that. Anyway, I cut her some slack. Maybe she was a good one. She was just starting.
“Stew yenye iko na minji, waru, and cabbage or spinach on the side.”
She got it this time. I sat at the corner like I always have. She’d rolled the chapos together, not separately like Asifiwe used to. She served the stew in a tiny, stainless steel bowl. It hurt my feelings. It seemed like she had decided I’d gone there for a snack, not a meal. It made me feel like I was in boarding school again. To make it worse, the food was barely warm. I sent it back. The owner was around. I’d say he is in his late twenties or early thirties. The Mpesa till number bears his full name. A long catholic name starting with a V, that’s hard to spell.
The stew was better when he brought it this time. I forked one chapo and took a bite. And guess what? The chapos weren’t soft anymore. I had to bite hard into them. It reminded me of our neighbor in class six, whose chapos cracked like potato chips. Bite after bite, I thought about how good this place was before management changed. I felt neglected and unloved.
I missed Asifiwe’s modest sense of fashion. I missed watching her small arms mashing the potatoes while preparing mukimo, and how she’d wipe her hands before handing me change. Wherever she is in Rwanda, I’m glad we crossed paths.
That final meal felt like saying the last rites. I cleansed my soul of what had become of Tausi Deli. I have washed my hands of the place. I won’t be eating there again.
