Won't You Be My Neighbor?

There are two 116th subway stops. One brings us little Columbia students home for the evening; the other takes us into Little West Africa on 116th street starting at Lennox and extending eastward into Frederick Douglass Boulevard. I first heard about this street and its delightful food from a Village Voice article extolling the virtues of two of the restaurants in the area: one called Le Baobab, the other Africa Kine. Though I ventured to others, none compared with these two in the value or virtuosity of their cuisine.

I went to each restaurant numerous times, though one particular lunch at Le Baobab, and a dinner at Africa Kine, stick out in my mind.

Le Baobab, at 120 West 116th St. and almost visible from the 2-line stop, is named after the water-swollen desert trees that grow throughout Senegal. The gentle portraits of Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr. hang on the walls, as do two portraits of Senegalese women.

My first time at Le Baobab, I arrived at 2:30 p.m., after normal lunching hours. The waitress recommended the Thiebu Djen, described as "fish stewed in a richly tomato sauce with eggplant, carrot, cassava and white cabbage," and known as the "Senegalese Daily Meal," and a ginger drink. As I waited for my food, I studied the place mat, which offered a brief French-Wolof tutorial: "Comment ca va" is "Nangadef," "Belle" is "Rafet." The ginger drink, sweet at first taste, burned in a tickling way down my throat.

Ten or so minutes later the meal came. I started with the red-spotted rice surrounding the fish and vegetables. It had a tangy flavor that nicely complemented its pungency, though I could place none of the spices. The vegetables were fresh, but the fish stole the show: tilapia-ocean-fresh, soft, and moist. I passed my lunch quietly, enjoying the flavor combinations of every bite.

Farther down the street, between 7th and 8th avenues, stands Africa Kine, a cavernous restaurant on the second floor. The restaurant doubles as a dance hall, with wooden floors, and a disco ball poking down from the ceiling. Two televisions, broadcasting West Africans singing and shaking, lend to the dance-hall atmosphere, though about half the tables consisted of families with children. The restaurant grew more and more packed as the night went on, peaking at around nine. It was always a party of two or three, and they never had to wait for a table.

We ordered Mechoui, "grilled leg of lamb," and the Poisson Grilled, "Grilled fish with salad or sweet fried plantain 'aloko' in mustard sauce." We ordered appetizers as well, but they never came-English was our waitress's third or fourth language, after the impressive list of Wolof, French, and Spanish.

The rolls presented at the beginning of the meal (the French influence on Senegalese dinners) were fresh and tinged with a bit of sweetness to whet the appetite. The lamb was enormous. Rarely eating lamb because of its cost, I forget just how good it can taste: tender and full, smoky-grilled, chewy but not tough. The fish arrived full, eyes and all, on the bone, but the meat melted off with a slight tug of the fork. Fish skin, unlike chicken, so often seems a throwaway, but here they managed to make it crackling, salty-sweet, a taste unto itself.

The ginger drink burns more than at Le Baobab. Try the Bissap Juice at your own peril: it has a puckering taste, like a Warhead without the sugar.

Though we kept digging in, the portions intimidated us, massive piles of rice and plantains flanking the meats. At the end of the meal, we had slipped into food comas, and the waitress looked at the mound of food left in front of us, asking, "Is that all you got?" The waitress continued, "We have thiakry for desert. It is couscous with sour cream, topped with fresh fruit." After we declined, the waitress replied, sweetly and with a consoling grin, "That's okay. It is heavy." The next day, each of us had another full meal out of the entree. Popped into the oven, the food was nearly as good the second time.