I LEARNED TO LIKE EGGS

KOBEB ETHIOPIAN RESTAURANT, N7 8XF

I was late to my best friend’s birthday dinner. I’d come from somewhere south of the river, lured by the promise of an excellent time and the best Ethiopian food in London. I rushed from Caledonian Road station, trusting that gmaps was leading me right, despite the suspiciously residential row of houses. But I needn’t have worried. There was Kobeb, unassumingly nestled just off Roman Road.

When I entered, I saw a group of slightly frightened looking people in an otherwise quiet restaurant. This was the birthday group: I wasn’t wearing my wraith costume so I didn’t quite know what their problem could be. I’d taken no more than a step and a half towards the birthday haver, ready to pile him with presents and apologies, when, as one, the whole table hissed at me to sit down quickly. It was perfect, as though they’d rehearsed it.

I began to ask what the problem was, but was quickly cut off, pushed (some might say shoved - I don’t like to hold grudges) into a chair and told to – and I quote – ‘try and blend in.’ I was nonplussed. I wasn’t expecting a welcome song but this limp pastiche of a spy-film wasn’t what I’d had in mind either.

The restaurant is small and warmly decorated, with one pretty arresting feature: On one wall, painted in bold letters, is the biography of its owner, manager and chef, Geti. This woman knows more about feeding large amounts of people delicious food than most people have ever forgotten. According to Kobeb’s website, she is known as ‘Mother’ and, for me at least, Geti’s particular brand of caustic accommodation and possibly fond admonishment made me feel right at home. In case you were wondering, she features fairly prominently in this review, so buckle up.

I hadn’t got round to asking what the heck was going on when Geti came out of the kitchen to take food orders. She proceeded to do so with a business-like savvy that made me think of some of the stricter teachers at my convent girls’ school. This was a woman, I felt, that would feed you properly, but who’d also force you to straighten up and fly right. It felt pleasantly like a bootcamp for wayward millennials who just need some discipline. A modern-day Officer Krupke.

She had got half way round the table, extracting food orders from clusters of cowed young men, when she seemed to sense a disturbance in the force. Out of nowhere, her head snapped to the right and she fixed those beam-bright eyes on me.

Are you new?

Her words pinned me to my chair like a moth. I could see the birthday boy shaking his head desperately at the other end of the table.

I may as well try my luck, I thought, so: No..?

She looked at me very suspiciously. I wanted to laugh but the stricken face of my friend suggested that wouldn’t be a good course of action, and it was his birthday. She seemed to accept my answer, though not before she’d given me a pleasing narrow-of-the-eyes.

Everyone ordered and, since there were plenty of us, we ordered a lot. If you haven’t tried Ethiopian food, may I strongly suggest you find some? I’m not Ethiopian, nor East African, and  certainly no kind of expert. My experience of the cuisine is centred on that fertile mile or two in North London where you can find Ethiopian restaurants on almost every street. I’m certain to be missing plenty of nuance when I say this, but it’s a kitchen that’s meant to be shared, all dipping and tearing, trying and tasting.

When it came, the food took the form of what I can only describe as a mountain. Without wanting to sound like I’m attempting an erotic fiction cross over, oh, how I was ready to scale it.

But before we could get started, Geti had another question: Who had ordered the extra hot pepper sauce?

The brother of birthday boy raised his hand. He’s certainly the more confrontational of the two, but he quelled when fixed with her burnishing stare.

It was you? she asked. When he answered a trembling affirmative, Geti walked down to his end of the table.

Go on.

He looked quizzical.

Try some, she prompted.

The command hung in the air and I had a sudden flash, from somewhere deep, deep in the recesses of my brain, of a small boy being presented with a giant chocolate cake, rendered in spiky pencil drawing. 

Reader, she stood next to him as he tasted the hot sauce. When he looked at her, smiling worriedly (and somewhat anti-climactically) trying to show that he liked it, she gave him a searching look. This was a woman, clearly, who suffered no fools. More specifically, she didn’t have time for macho oneupsmanship when it comes to spice. After a tense few seconds, she gave a curt nod. He had passed. We all exhaled. She bustled off to the kitchen and we got stuck in.

Bright curries and rich, brown stews sat on carpets of porous, pleasingly damp injera. Injera is a flatbread, risen by sourdough, with a distinctive spongy texture. It’s a fundamental component of Ethiopian cuisine and, what’s more, is supposed to be incredibly good for you; high in protein, good for the gut. I once read an excellent article where they measured the relative regularity of people on an Ethiopian diet and people that weren’t. The ones eating plenty of injera smashed it. For the sake of transparency, I should also say that I didn’t actually read the article myself. A friend – actually the one whose birthday party it was – told me about it because they know I love talking about digestion. And by digestion, we all know what I really mean. If you don’t, just say. I’ll text you the emoji.

The table was piled high with strong, beautiful flavours. There were twelve of us so we ordered the kind of range one rarely gets to sample in one sitting. Stand-outs were the doro wot – chicken marinated in lemon juice, cooked in butter, seasoned with garlic, fresh ginger and fenugreek and served with a boiled egg (everything is better with an egg on it, but that’s another essay); ye-misir key wot which are bright, red lentils cooked into a warm, comforting bowlful with onions, garlic and berebere; and ye-siga key wot, beef simmered in hot, thick, red pepper sauce, full of gingery heat and cardamom perfume.

In all truth however, I’m not sure it’s possible to go wrong in Kobeb, certainly not if you put yourself in the hands of the chef. Everything is rich and delicious, mopped up with the rolled injera-flannels, heaped high in baskets. If you’re in need of a meal you’ll think about for days, or just a good, firm scolding from the mother you didn’t know you needed, head to Kobeb. Geti is waiting for you.