An Ethiopian Lunch with Mom

We three PA sisters liked to think that Mom came to Pennsylvania to visit and benefit her favorite people. But our confidence in her priorities was shaken when she heard that Awash Ethiopian Restaurant was not serving lunch on the day of our mother-daughter outing. 

"We might need to figure something else out for lunch. Awash doesn't open until 4:00."

"What?! I am going home." 

Home is an injera-less region of Indiana, which is why we girls suspected that someone had ulterior motives in coming to Pennsylvania. But we spared Mom from an early departure by postponing lunch, stopping at an extra store to fill in time, and battling Costco's crowds when our stomachs were growling. At 4:02, we dashed through a cold rain and stood shivering in Awash's foyer. 

But the restaurant was locked and the Open sign was dark. We peered through the glass door, searching for any sign of life in the building. Nothing stirred. 

Waiting until 4:00 to eat injera for lunch was tolerable. Waiting until 4:00 to eat lunch, only to be turned away by an unlit Open sign was unthinkable. 

"Is today a holiday? Do Ethiopians close for Easter Monday?"

"Call them!" Mom said. 

We could hear a phone ringing inside. It rang once too often for our comfort, but then a man stepped within our line of vision to answer the phone. I could hear both sides of the conversation. 

"Are you open today?" my sister asked.

"Yes, we open at 4:00." 

"Great! We will be ready for you."

From a previous visit to Awash, we recognized the man who unlocked the door and gave entrance to five laughing ladies. He was the former owner, one who created a positive cultural experience for anyone wanting to eat injera and stew with their hands. This time he was the waiter, giving recommendations from the menu and patiently putting up with our indecision. 

"What?" She looked up from her menu in disbelief. "You want lamb? Ugh. I hate even the smell of lamb. Definitely no lamb." 

"Okay. No lamb, then. Let's do D2 and the vegetarian combo." 

"Isn't D2 the spicy one? Can they make it with no spice?"

We came to a happy conclusion at last, and the waiter left to brew our tea and probably tell stories in the kitchen about the ordering dilemma at Table 8. The tea was strong and wonderfully warming on a cold April day. 

When the communal platter of food arrived, spice lovers discovered a couple of stews that had delightful amounts of zing, even though the stew labeled with a spice warning had not been ordered. We were given no plates or forks, but by tearing off a piece of injera, scooping up a stew, and lifting the bite directly to our mouths, plates and forks were not missed. We tried it all. Lentils, red beets and potatoes, vegetables, chicken with a hard boiled egg, beans. Perfection.

 

Mom with all four of her daughters. Kaiti was with us 
from Minnesota, making this an especially happy
mother-daughter outing. 

We left the restaurant pleasantly filled and happy that we were able to satiate mom's injera crave. At least temporarily.

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Did you know?

Injera is a spongy, elastic, and slightly sour flatbread made from teff, a tiny grain that grows in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Teff is rich in protein, calcium, and iron and is gluten-free. To make injera, teff is ground into flour, combined with salt and water, and allowed to ferment for several days. The fermented batter is poured onto a hot skillet and cooked like a pancake or crepe. Ethiopians make injera the size of a large serving platter and pile thick stews onto it. To eat the meal, simply tear off a piece of injera, scoop up a bite of stew, and pop it into your mouth to receive that dynamic explosion of flavor. Or, to show respect and love like the Ethiopians do, pop the bite into your friend's mouth. Mom? We missed that part. You will have to come back.