Cuisine

“Do you guys want to slaughter a chicken tonight?”
“Sure, I guess. Do we need anything?
“Maybe some vegetables.”

Yes we did slaughter a chicken the other night (my second night here), and yes we did eat it, and yes I did take pictures. Luckily, Patrick, my housemate, is a resident pro at chicken preparation, decapitating, boiling, plucking, bone cracking and gutting with the manual dexterity of a concert pianist and the stomach of a menagerie janitor. Pictures will do this evening more justice than words.

My uncle who works in the wine industry has told me on multiple occasions that old white men are the worst people in the world to take food and drink advice from. Old white men, you see, have a palate that deteriorates faster than any other grouping of human in terms of ability to taste the subtleties and delicacies of what is ingested. I have always believed that, rather than claiming myself exempt from this interesting trend, I was born with an ancient man’s mouth in that all food to me remains void of the interesting nuances food critics and resterateurs like to stretch their vocabulary about. Zucchini is the lone exception, which has so many different tiers and dimensions of badness and boringness I could write a book.

Thus, while I try my hand at explaining Ugandan cuisine, take it with the knowledge that I am as inept at describing food as I am at resolving integrals. But, I am going to give it a throw.

Ugandan food is notoriously bland. So bland, in fact, that I rest easy at night knowing my premature case of White-Man’s-Palate has not prevented me from enjoying anything terribly spectacular. Rice, beans, smashed up plantains and the occasional large grain of sand make up the average Ugandan meal. Starches are called “food” and a bowl of liquid protein on the side is called “sauce,” and little variation in these combinations suggests not so much lack of imagination in the kitchen as a desire by Ugandans to stick with what they know and like. Every meal is “comfortable.” Spicy things might be the Ugandan’s worst nightmare. Fortunately for me a shortage of pizzazz means a lack of agitators, quite unlike Mexican food which requires me to find restaurants strategically located near by a water closet.

Uganda’s Indian population, however, has created a wonderful alternative. Illegally-soft cheese dumplings drenched in a spinach bath, an array of spicy lentil dishes from Chicken Afghani to the sponge like -yet-delicious Mutter Paneer and always reliable Tikka Masala. Moist, flaky garlic naan and butter naan may be employed by the eater for purposes of soaking, pinching, and shoveling, but not with the left hand, of course, which is the traditional wiping hand. Vegetarian Manchurian, be it “dry” or “wet,” is most likely tofu coated with a tender layer of more spices than I knew existed and swimming in or sitting alongside a heavy brown sauce The Stoney Tangarizi ginger beer washes down things nicely and wipes clean the slate for another, but entirely exciting, bite. Absolutely delicious.

Alas, prices reflect this contrast. Local food, palatable but not anything novel, does come with a very write-homeable price, usually about a dollar a meal (though my lunch yesterday, of chippiati and meat sauce, was only about 25 cents). Indian food is considerably more expensive, about five bucks.

A smile is creeping across my face. I do not think I shall starve, here in Uganda.