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Has connectivity influenced global eating habits? You bet, and in far more ways than seem apparent at first glance. To put it in perspective, let’s just step back in
time and look at the dynamics that came into play with the advent of the cyberworld. The geek’s definition of “connectivity” is “the unbiased transport of packets between two endpoints,” which, interestingly enough, is also the essential definition of “IP” or Internet Protocol. In the ’70s the US defence department paid a fortune for computers that were far less powerful than the machines currently in use for children’s video games; which kind of gives a new meaning to “Donkey Kong.”
Back then, audio and video uplinks were severely limited by the capacity of the network. Today, we routinely watch live events online and interact on Zoom calls but unlike radio, there is no predefined limit on the quality. That’s because servers have a backbone that supports a trillion bits per second per strand of fibre. Best of all, the separation of connectivity from applications means killer apps are commonplace and it’s all about no-holds-barred communication across several parallel streams. Telephony, broadband, and bluetooth have all conspired seamlessly to ensure that the world is held hostage to one’s wit and wisdom 24/7. Consequently, connectivity has changed the way the world eats, thinks, medicates and fornicates.
This is particularly true of Indians travelling abroad who develop, like my friend, Pritham B, a jones for Indian food. After a week of fine dining at Daniel’s, Per Se or Momofuku, Indian men start frantically scrolling through online options for butter chicken, giving rise to the suspicion that they are on Tinder. At the risk of sounding sniffy, I fail to see the point of enlarging one’s carbon footprint in order to stuff one’s face with badly made desi khana. My remedy for addressing desi cravings is to look for a good Ethiopian restaurant. En route, however, one does have to deal with crass ignorance from family and friends. Some years ago in London, my cousin, Rahul responded to my suggestion with, “Ethiopian food…what’s the protocol? We go there and starve together?” An hour later, he was swallowing his pride along with vast quantities of tibbs, injera and doro wot at Lalibela while sincerely regretting his tasteless joke.
At the heart of Ethiopian cuisine is injera, a fluffy sourdough flatbread made of fermented teff flour, yeah, it is gluten-free.
Like us, they eat with the right hand and meals are a community affair with one’s host breaking off a piece of injera, picking up a choice morsel of lamb or chicken and feeding it to his guest. Injera can be up to 50 cm in diameter, so it doubles up as a plate.
Lalibela makes a valiant effort to please the local yokels by presenting the food in a more propah fashion than in Addis Ababa: Yo Shiro Fitfit is an injera roll with a citrusy sauce, Kategna beh Aubergine is crispy injera topped with a sort of baingan ka bharta, smoky, flavourful and absolutely delicious. Then there’s Beyaynetu that can be shared by two: Lamb Wot, Prime mince beef wot, a selection of veggies and a salad served on a massive injera.
You’re probably wondering what is wot, dear reader? It’s a succulent stew made with lamb, ginger, garlic, tomatoes, a splash of red wine and a lethal dose of Berbere, which is a medley of paprika, chilli, fenugreek, onion powder, coriander, nutmeg, allspice berries and cloves. I know, what’s not to love, right? But hang on, that’s not all. They use a generous dollop of Niter Kibbeh, which is spice-infused ghee that adds a magical depth of flavour to the stew.
There’s also the Sega Wot, made with precisely the same method, enlivened with buff broth and hard-boiled eggs which are pricked with a fork, rolled in spices and decadently deep-fried. Where do you think Abebe Bikila and all those distance runners get their energy?
Then there’s Tibbs, which is not a Frankie, but slivers of tenderloin cooked in ghee infused with a magical blend of spices and topped with a smoky sauce made with caramelised onions, ginger, garlic and of course, the magic Berbere spice mix. Squeeze of lime, finely chopped onions and green chilli on the side and believe you me, your craving for a burra kebab will miraculously vanish. There’s also Kitfo, which is rather like a steak tartare, so not for the faint-hearted. Lest I give the impression that there are lean pickings for vegetarians, there’s a bunch of choices: fuul, a fava bean stew, Enkula Firfir, which is their take on Parsi akuri, Shiro, which looks kind of weird but, hey, looks are deceptive, this chickpea dish tastes divine.
(The author is an old Bengalurean and impresario of comedy and musical shows who considers himself fortunate to have turned his passions — writing and theatre — into a profession.)