ethiopian adventure

"Well, what do you want to eat?" I asked.

"Ethiopian food," he replied, "Can't get that in Gainesville."

There's a few options for Ethiopian food in the area. Never having eaten it myself, I had to do some research. U Street seemed to have the largest enclave of Ethiopian restaurants and shops. Several sites actually called it Little Ethiopia. How many cities have one of those, outside of Addis Ababa anyhow?

Sorting through the recommendations, I decided on Etete (1942 9th Street NW). It won several Washingtonian magazine awards, the reviews were plentiful and (mostly) good. We got off at the U Street/Cardozo/African American War Memorial Metro stop. (Sidenote: Quite possibly the longest Metro station stop in the system!) People watching all the while, we followed a foursome of out-of-their-element girls into Etete. Go figure.

Candler and I ordered honey wine and sambusas before the main food came out. The honey wine tasted a bit like a dessert wine with a hops bite. Not bad, but not great. The sambusas were delicious. Lentils and meat and jalapenos and other veggies. Flaky crust on the outside. An African empanada, more or less.

For the main course, we opted for a veggie sampler, kifta, and a lamb stew. All of the veggie mounds were delicious. Kifta is a spicy blend of ground meat that is often served raw. We opted for medium, but it came out looking like browned ground round. It was infinitely tastier though. The lamb stew was rich with a slight vinegary bite to it. All of the dishes came out on a giant platter with a basket of rolled up injera. Injera is to Ethiopian food what chopsticks are to the Far East. I liken it to a chewier pancake. We used it like pita to pick up bite-sized morsels of the entrees.

All told, we couldn't eat all the food we ordered. Too much deliciousness. Knowing we were headed to Gibson's afterwards, we boxed it up anyways. Not five steps out of the restaurant, a homeless man in a wheelchair asked for some spare change. I offered the leftovers instead, and he graciously accepted.

crowns

From the opening lines of the play, I knew I was in for a better show than the other time I'd seen it. The play is called Crowns, and we went to see it at the Lincoln Theater on U Street on Friday night. To succinctly summarize it, it's a historical musical on the origins of women's hats in the black church. Having been to so few black churches in my lifetime, I had to take their word for it.

Every Sunday, when we went to church, Grandma always had on a beautiful hat.

"Mmmm, hmmm," rose the agreement from the audience. It was altogether entertaining and enlightening. The costumes were vibrant, the voices were incredible, and the production was top-notch. I guess that's the difference between the community theater production I saw in the park in St. Pete and this merry band of professional thespians we saw on Friday.

The play opened and closed with an old hymn called, ""When I've Done the Best I Can, I Want My Crown." In this simple hymn, it explains the title of the play beautifully. For the entirety of the play, that point is built upon. We see that the hats that these women wear to church are based in part on African tribal custom and slave history, as church was the only place that slaves were allowed to congregate. Do right by the Lord on earth, you'll be rewarded with a crown in heaven.

I've racked my brain trying to come up with a subject that would hit home as closely as it did for the mostly female audience. I felt a little kinship with the plot line of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Greek and Italian families aren't a whole lot different. Following our family reunion a few summers back, I saw just how true that could be. Perhaps My Big, Loud Italian Reunion? That's only a familial culture thing, though. This play clearly struck a chord that went beyond individual families. I could identify with some of the subject matter based on my years in Alachua County, but being white and male, I couldn't grasp the cultural significance of it beyond what the plot was.

It triggered a brief Florida memory in me. Otis, the head custodian at my old school, lost a family member (I think it was his mother, but I can't recall) a few years ago. I was one of three coworkers that went to her memorial service. It was a blistering hot day. The church was packed with people in their Sunday best, crowns included. Crowns illustrated why perfectly.

I need to start going to church again. Any local recommendations?