The secret world of foreigners.
Yesterday my search for plakali led me to an Ivorian restaurant on the second floor of an unassuming building on the Boulevard du Centenaire. The place was the size of a modest living room, it had plastic tables, plastic chairs, plastic table covers, multi-coloured plastic cups and plastic jugs ready to pour water into them.
I have seen this place before, serving Nigerian food deep inside the buildings of inner city Johannesburg, or Congolese food in a decrepit old building in Dar es Salaam. And as with all eateries of this sort, it came with that inexplicable goodness of food cooked in small spaces. This alone is the marketing strategy. Tucked away in the inner rooms of high-rises, these places do not benefit at all from the curiosity of random passersby. You find them because you know them, or because you know someone that knows them and recommended their food.
Several Ivorians came and left while I was waiting and they all seemed to know each other. If they didn’t, to finally be amongst people who speak like you and eat like you is probably enough to make you seem, at the very least, like acquaintances.
What has stuck with me is the transformation of a young man who walked in just before I got my food. He had the air (as they say in French) of someone who was hard-laboring his way into the middle class, wearing a white shirt that had been washed often and a small leather book bag on his side. He clearly took care of his appearance even though his means were modest.
When this young man got to the door he took a deep breath or was it a strong sigh? He seemed to expand and contract at the same time. Arriving in this familiar place with familiar food and familiar people made him feel more alive and yet more restful, like someone deflating and being pumped with new air all at once. He stood at the door for a few moments just taking in the peace. The hidden living room with its flickering light was a repose from a full day of not belonging.
