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Matundu Lane, Westlands in Nairobi no longer looks like the surface of the moon. This means getting to Phoenician Restaurant no longer cracks your ribs from going through all the potholes. I went back on a date recently after many years.
It seemed new. I was taken aback by its Middle Eastern body (it’s a Lebanese/ Japanese restaurant) which reminds me of something from the coastal region.
There was some sort of Tanqueray activation ongoing when we arrived. Hostesses in green dresses in high heels were serving complimentary cocktails.
We managed to get a seat next to the bar. We had falafel for starters and I then had sushi as the main; spicy crunchy tuna roll. Excellent.
My lady had grilled Molo lamb chops which were as chewy as woollen sweaters. She’s the type that doesn’t want to “create a fuss” in a restaurant, so she will eat terrible food and smile at the waiter and say, “Oh it was marvellous, thank you.” Very colonial tendencies, a very stiff upper lip.
“You need to give them feedback.” I insisted. “No, it’s OK. Leave it,” she whispered. “The chef was probably having a bad day,” I said, “Come on.”
When an elderly gentleman, presumably the owner, stopped by our table to inquire if dinner was satisfactory, I said very quickly, before she could lie, “She hated her lamb chops, they were hard as rocks.”
She was mortified! She wanted to crawl under the table. “Oh no,” she cried, “they were only slightly chewy.” Slightly chew? Jesus. The elderly gentleman was a true class act; very concerned, helpful, and apologetic. He recommended the red snapper teriyaki to replace it, which was amazing when it came.
It looked like a family business with all hands on deck; the parents and children all on the floor, serving, leaning in to talk to customers. I was told the matriarch sometimes sings on stage.
The patriarch looked like he had done many businesses in his lifetime and the restaurant is the place where he comes to feel truly alive when he serves joy on plates.
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