A man walks into a restaurant with his family, chatting amicably and smiling in preparation of a casual meal out, until he looks over the shoulder of another restaurant patron and witnesses utter carnage to a degree that he has never encountered in his narrow aesthetic with cuisine. He takes drastic measures: he roars and covers his son’s eyes at the same moment as he grabs the arm of his wife, tugging her frantically towards the door.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! IT’S HORRIBLE!”

Other customers enter the restaurant, looking quizzically at the man as he flails around, disoriented and trying to find an explanation for such a sudden exposure to this massacre, or at the very least a sympathetic ear.

“WHY?! WHY?!”

It’s at this point the man who has the battered and flayed remains on his plate looks over his shoulders, sees the man stuck in the doorway in an effort to flee the scene, walks forward and slaps the man full out in the face.

“Relax you fucking philistine, haven’t you ever seen Ethiopian food before?”

For this jabbering ape has prescribed to one of many ignorant misconceptions that plague new comers to cultural dishes: other cultures are willing to eat food that does not contain sharp corners and boundaries, an alternative visual array that serves an important cultural function; other cultures eat communally, unafraid to eat off the same plate; or perhaps, to address the tasteless Western joke, the man assumed that the Ethiopian culture has no food to eat, expecting to be presented with an empty plate after which he turns to his family and says “well that was fun, now let’s all go to Mickey Ds!”

I’ll take a moment to beseech the first-time Ethiopian diner not to blanch at a finished plate of Ethiopian food at the restaurant, which can look quite messy and may put the squeamish off the meal entirely.

Ethiopian tradition places importance on a unique eating experience, notably separated from Western cuisine by a lack of utensils; the diner tears pieces of spongy pita called injera into a manageable strip to pinch victuals off a single plate, an action that places focus on the communal experience. As I learned from my meal at Rendez-vous, an Ethiopian eatery on the Danforth strip: “Breaking the same bread and eating from the same plate has social significance in Ethiopian culture, strengthening bonds of loyalty and friendship; it is said that people who eat from the same plate will never betray each other.”

Rendez-vous:

I exit Greenwood station and head east on the Danforth, making a beeline to the Ethiopian eatery nearby. Inside, woven canopies hang over a few of the tables, which consist of traditional tables, the circular woven mesob, and tables with a black and orange tablecloth underneath thick sheets of glass. Plush black chairs are set up all over the restaurant and a few white plush booths line up against the wall next to an ample bar. The dark maroon walls are interrupted by woven runners that run the expanse of the restaurant, as well as beautiful ink drawings that are scattered on the walls and over the top of the bar. Oddly enough, I notice a few of the fake plants actually encroach on some of the chairs, so I choose my table accordingly.

I feel as though I’m in more of a lounge bar than a restaurant, particularly when the water I’ve ordered takes a while to process and I register a large flat screen television in the top corner near the entrance, but I notice elaborate ornamental coffee sets behind my table, which are used an important cultural process that involves three rounds of coffee served from a jebena, the Ethiopian clay coffee pot. The menu contains a large lamb section and after asking for a recommendation from the server I decide upon the second option, Ye’Beg Tibs: “Cubs” of tender lamb, which I assume arises from a complex crossbreed of lambs and bears, sautéed with onions, garlic, green pepper and awaze, a paste made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves.

My lamb cub(e)s take a while to cook but eventually arrive steaming from the kitchen. Since I’ve asked for spicy as opposed to mild, my server warns me to avoid the large chunks of jalapeño, which proves to be difficult in the dim, red tinted light. My lamb rests on a large oval of injera, sitting in an ample amount of sauce with a salad balanced on the edge of the plate. My personal supply of injera is served on a separate plate, folded into a triangle, ready to be torn into. Every foray into the pile of lamb procures tendrils of onions wrapped around every bite and the jalapeno gives these lamb cubs a serious kick in the proverbial ass.

M&B Yummy:

M&B Yummy is the only completely vegetarian Ethiopian restaurant in Canada. I enter to a red walled interior with wooden slats that rise beside some of the tables. The walls are adorned with still life depictions of Ethiopian culture, a revered Eye Weekly article plaqued onto a map of Ethiopia and two crudely cut, large wooden murals: one depicts rain descending into steaming coffee mugs that are filled from a jebena placed on a narrow ledge, the other depicts a larger than life krar, the Ethiopian stringed instrument. All the tables are wrapped in plastic that cover the red and white table clothes, where a water-filled vial containing a healthy coral-hued flower sits. Vegan-friendly desserts are served from the front counter, in front of which a small white-skinned orange-haired heavily-mustached mannequin smiles widely, wearing an apron that holds the to-go menus and raising one hand in the air in a suspicious salute, his presence a little out of place in the surrounding atmosphere.

The woman that owns M&B is a delight, attentive as soon as I enter the restaurant, answering each question diligently and openly offering information regarding her cooking techniques: she receives her soy and seitan materials from a special shop, then flavours and slow cooks as if it were true meat. She recommends the chicken platter, containing an ample portion of seitan chicken as well as a smattering of all the vegetarian dishes the establishment has to offer. When my meal arrives I am given both a napkin and a wet nap, both of which I will surely need.

All the dishes are arranged around a small salad splashed with onion vinaigrette in the center of the plate, but I am also given a fork, a very uncommon gesture and I do not plan on using it. The thick injera has been rolled for me and separated from the rest of the dishes, predominately served as wot: soft stews that are slow cooked with a large amount of chopped red onions and, in the case of vegan dishes, vegetable oil instead of spiced butter. Each vegetable has its own particular strong point: the gomen (collard greens) tastes of strong, delicious garlic; the fasolia (string beans and carrots in tomato sauce) and the cabbage and carrots are the only two dishes not served as wot, which help temper the strong spices infused into the other dishes; the missir wot (red lentils) contains the strongest flavour on the plate, the strong berbere (dry, pepper powder) liberally added; the shrio wot (chickpeas) turn a light red due to the spices and became soft and pleasant, but the true highlight turns out to be the yellow beans (split peas served with onions and garlic) which hold a slightly bumpy texture until pinched in between injera, when they relent, containing a subtle flavour that dissolves on the tongue as my teeth penetrates the spongy pita.

I save the seitan chicken until last, but that turns out to be a mistake when I am already slowing down from the large portions of vegetables. However, I man up and rip off another piece of injera, only to be mystified by the curious taste and texture that I’ve encountered: the chicken becomes soft from the slow cooking technique, yet has an underlying spring due to the seitan. The chicken is spicy in a way that is not immediately apparent, and only becomes more prominent as I chew the chicken into a paste. However, I cannot shake the fact that the seitan does not actually taste like chicken; the chunks of wheat gluten simply take the flavour of the spices offered, yet cannot compare to the actual taste of a fresh breast of chicken.

Queen of Sheba:

Approaching Queen of Sheba on Bloor West, Jessica Swanlake and I enter the main room and are led through a red brick arch into the back dining room after a brief delay. Small Ethiopian ornaments adorn the wall and beds of replica vegetation are set up near the entrance; a fake rose, complete with fabricated water droplets, are set on every table. A tropical bead curtain depicting a scene on the coast with palm trees and wooden huts separates the back kitchen from the dining room and appears to be waving back and forth occasionally, confusing in an indoor setting. Elaborately carved wooden-framed mirrors are set up above a few tables and traditional music plays in the background as Jessica and I peruse the menu.

I order fresh guava juice with my meal of special kitfo: a specialty of the Gurage people of central Ethiopia, consisting of minced, lean beef traditionally served raw or lebleb (very rare). The beef is mixed with keebe (spiced Ethiopian butter) and mitmita, a powder made from small hot red peppers, cardamon, and cloves or afrinji made from red pepper seeds, ginger, garlic, onions and black pepper. However, for a nearly raw dish the food takes a long time and I’ve nearly finished my entire guava juice before the meal arrives.

The meal is well spaced out on the underlying injera: the kitfo arrives as a loose pile of ground beef, served with a side of kale (green cabbage) and some extra mitmita on the side. The kale was extremely savoury and the kitfo very spicy, but when both are mixed together with a single pinch of mitmita they blend to prevent the spices from overpowering the experience.

Preferring the carnivorous aspect of life, the nearly raw meat certainly appealed to me, yet I cannot recommend Queen of Sheba without warning about the rather lackluster service. Although the server checked on the meal once, which is fairly standard, it took far too much time to place an order and receive the meal, particularly considering that we were the only two people eating at the time in the entire restaurant. Instead of waiting for the bill to arrive I ventured to the front counter to pay and was surprised to find that the woman who had just finished serving me did not remember who I was and attempted to seat me for a second time!

Ethiopian House:

I walk into the restaurant with Carroll Eventyr and am hit immediately by an intoxicating scent that wafts toward me. Fabricated potted plants hang in the ceiling corners of the orange and green walled dining room, and dark red, floral printed tables cloths are adorned with faded yellow napkins. Tall orange napkins erupt from wine glasses, which are swiftly replaced with our drinking water as soft Ethiopian tunes play in the background. Colourful Ethiopian still lifes hang on the wall, the highlight of which is a large mural over my shoulder that depicts beautiful waterfalls and thriving herds under a crescent moon on the left, and Ethiopian people and buildings under the sun on the right. Heading upstairs, strips of coloured lights lead the way accentuating pictures of Ethiopian people in cultural garb that stare out of the wall at anyone who passes, a theme that continues throughout the upstairs dining room.

Since Carroll doesn’t eat beef, she orders a round of lentils and I order pan-fried Beef Tibs, Tikil Gomon (cabbage and carrots) and Atakelet wot (string beans, potatoes and cottage cheese). Both dishes arrive in the standard communal dish, served with a large woven lid that the server removes dramatically as she places it on the table; the meat has been piled on my side of the plate mixed with peppers, onions and tomatoes, heavily spiced with mitmita. As I look at the mural behind me I mistake a big, green pepper for a zucchini that turns out to be hotter than the sun! Turns out that I’m scarfing a large jalapeño and am forced to quickly eat a large dollop of the crisp cabbage and carrots, which I quickly follow up with the potatoes, soft from the slow cook and lightly spiced in a way that allows me to comfortably recover.

The Ethiopian House, I must admit, turns out to be my favourite restaurant of the bunch. The scent marks the entrance to the restaurant, creating an instant immersion in the atmosphere of the dining room. After sitting down, I am given a menu that has an introduction page with punchy introductory lines such as “Cutlery? Look around you. There is none!” and wishes you a great meal in Ethiopian (“Melkam Megibz!”) and in French (“Bon Appetit!”). The meal is brought promptly and presented with a noticeable flourish, steaming hot and perfectly spiced. No other Ethiopian restaurant delivers such a flawless performance: Queen of Sheba delivers phenomenal food, but on their own time; M&B Yummy caters spectacularly to a vegetarian patron, but leaves meat eaters feeling more at home elsewhere; Rendez-vous serves a phenomenal lamb-bear anomaly, but the atmosphere, including the television, splits the emphasis of the establishment between food and entertainment. None of the restaurants particularly outshine the others in the quality of the food, but for a first-time Ethiopian eater tentatively testing a new cultural dish, the Ethiopian House delivers on every register, representing a delicious traditional cuisine that is certainly worth seeking out.