It all started with a few simple words: “You have to try Ethiopian food”. Most of my friends had eaten Ethiopian food and they kept making references to this “spongey bread” that is served with the food. They made it sound so delectable that I too wanted to share in the experience, I too wanted to eat "spongey bread". I was new to DC and I wanted to get more acclimated with the culture, and since there is an Ethiopian restaurant in every major area of DC and since almost everyone I knew had tried it…I did not want to feel left out.
I soon found myself on a mission that was made impossible by the fact that my friends were somehow always busy on days I suggested eating Ethiopian food and all of a sudden they all had commitment issues when it came to making set plans. At the time, I (naively) did not give much consideration to their lack of enthusiasm.
After 6 months of living in DC, the opportunity finally presented itself in the form of my two unsuspecting best friends who came to DC for a visit. I had done a great job as a tour guide, taking them to the most popular attractions, the best places to eat and drink. At that time I earned a lot of credibility, so convincing them to eat Ethiopian was not that difficult.
It was the last day of their visit and it suddenly occurred to me that I had taken my friends everywhere, except Adams Morgan (with good reason). So I thought if we went there during the day, the chances of getting shot, raped or mugged would be a lot slimmer. Completely famished and desperately looking for a place to eat, we unexpectedly came across a sketchy looking Ethiopian restaurant, which I convinced my friends (and even myself) probably had “good, authentic Ethiopian food”.
Our waitress, who had a mustache and the most bitter expression on her face finally brought out the food in a round, communal dish. The "spongey bread" covered the entire plate and had different types of mushy food on top of it. It did not look too appetizing, but ethnic food rarely does and besides at that point we were starving. (Apparently the "spongey bread" is called “injera” and it is used as a utensil to scoop up food).
Injera in hand, I scooped up what appeared to be some meat and potato mush and I went in for the first bite. It was odd… but I thought I would try the next mushy dish… then the same thing. With every single bite, the food got worse and worse. I had no idea what I was eating and everything tasted the same. Everything tasted like paprika and I was not even sure about the type of meat I was consuming. It tasted like what I would imagine donkey tastes like. And that “injera” everyone seems so enamored by… absolutely horrific. It was sour, chewey and … spongey. To make things worse, the injera made every single dish taste sour. I felt like I was at war with my taste buds. The spongey bread felt like it was growing and expanding in my stomach. We kept eating because we were so hungry and we convinced ourselves that we could grow to like it. However, every bite was a painful reminder of how I had failed my friends and how I brought this disastrous experience upon us.
After our meal we sat there traumatized and expressionless. For 20 tense minutes, very few words were exchanged. When we finally mustered enough strength to leave the restaurant, I felt like I had left a war zone, battle wounds and all.
To this day, I try to avoid riding a DC cab (most friendly cab drivers I have encountered have been Ethiopian). If someone mentions Ethiopian food … I curl up on the floor in the fetal position. Whenever we drive by Adams Morgan and I see that restaurant, I have flashbacks and the taste of paprika inundates my mouth. In retrospect, I understand why it was so difficult to get my friends to join me. And that one “friend” who said “you have to try Ethiopian food”, lets just say she is out of the picture for good.
