Three months after my return from Senegal, I finally found a night when my whole family was available to have

dinner at the Senegalese restaurant that I located (amazingly!) very close to my home in Central Ohio. I had been dying to go for weeks and managed to drag everyone with me on what happened to be the first truly snowy night of the winter. It was in the part of town where one finds many ethnic grocery stores (including African), as well as Authentic African Hair Braiding storefronts. It seemed like we were in the right place to get real Senegalese food, or as close to it as we could possibly get given that we were on the wrong side of the Atlantic. I had high hopes about what we would find, and my merrily compliant family members humored my gusto. They were anxious to try a Senegalese restaurant after listening to me talk about the food and the country for hours on end, but really? In Columbus, Ohio? They had their doubts, and were likely formulating a plan B for dinner in the back of their minds in case my plan failed. We pulled up to what had clearly been a former fast-food restaurant: Wendys, Rax, or some other nondescript chain. On the sign was written simply African Restaurant with its name Dabakh in small lettering underneath. Piling out of the car and trudging hurriedly to the front door through the falling snow and sleet, I immediately had flashbacks of walking through the entrance of my former home in Cit Niakh, caked in sand and sweat and panting from the heat of the Senegalese summer at high noon, to be greeted by the spiced aromas of whatever rice and fish dish was being prepared for lunch that day. What a contrast! Inside the entrance was a long counter as one finds in any fast food restaurant in the States, behind which stood a man who I took to be the gentleman whod answered the phone with a heavy accent when I had called to verify the restaurants hours of operation the night before. He gave us a polite but nervous smile (he probably does not see too many Caucasian families of six bursting through the doors of the restaurant) and pointed to a table toward the front that could accommodate the size of the group, indicating that a server would be with us momentarily. It was clear, however, that we were supposed to place our orders at the front counter, so after taking our seats, my family members charged me with the task of ordering for everyone, trusting my knowledge of Senegalese food and their individual tastes.

I approached the counter, my excitement mounting. When he saw me scanning the menu on the wall behind him, the gentleman (who I assumed was the owner and manager), although busy with take-out orders, immediately pointed to the few American items listed, such as grilled chicken drumsticks, fries, and hamburgers. I shook my head and gestured toward the Senegalese dishes that I recognized (although I never knew the formal name of many plates prepared by my Senegalese family), but sighed in disappointment when I realized that many of the things I had been craving: ceebu jen, maf, poisson thoiu, were on the lunch menu. We were there for dinner. This, I should have anticipated, as I know those are traditionally lunch dishes, but this fact had slipped my mind. Do you have any of these things available? I asked sheepishly, fearing that our Senegalese meal would consist of nothing more than burgers and fries, perhaps with a side of rice if we were lucky. Ahh, you know these foods? he asked, his accent heavy, a glimmer of understanding and delight flashing in his eyes. Ceebu jen, enough for one plate. Recognizing that I was interested in the traditional dishes, he named off a few others that had been prepared that day, although not everything was available, in true Senegalese fashion. I finally decided on a few entres for the table: along with the aforementioned ceebu jen I chose dibbi, poisson grill, kaldou, vermicelli, and vegetable couscous, each with an accompanying side, in addition to several juices: bissap, ginger, and bouye, which the gentleman pulled out of the cooler behind him. Thanking him, I took the juice bottles and turned back to our table, already encouraged that my dream of a meal la Saint-Louis might come true. Not ten minutes later, our waitress began bringing out the food, plate by plate, along with a loaf of crusty French bread, which tasted amazingly like the baguettes I would buy at my favorite bakery just a few streets over from my home in Sor. It was clear that we would have way too much food, even for six people, but what would a true Senegalese meal be without the enormous portions? It looked and smelled delicious. My family was overwhelmed, my father looking at me wide-eyed and shocked, as in: is this really what you had over there? It was. Bon appetit! I declared, helping myself to a generous portion of fish and cassava from the ceebu jen plate (which happened to be the white version just my luck!) and shoveling it into my mouth. It was nearly perfect, washed down with tart and spicy ginger juice. The only items missing from the table were bottles of cold Flag and Dixie cups of that magical potion, Caf Touba, but I guess you cant have it all.

The other plates were passed around, and I found that each dish was just as good: the poisson grill melted in my mouth, the rice was accented with just enough spice, and the vermicelli was nice and greasy. The dibbi didnt seem quite as authentic as it had been when I enjoyed it as my last meal in Senegal at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant (which, I am told, was recommended by Miss Frerking herself!) along the river across the bridge from Ile de NDar with my fellow volunteers, Ryan and Dan, just an hour before I left Saint-Louis for the last time, but it was just as gristly and plentiful, with the traditional accompaniments. My pescatarian sister, who normally will not consider touching a fish that still has its head attached, was eager to debone and dig into the whole tilapia on the plate in front of her, and my two year old niece happily balled up fists full of rice and stuffed them into her tiny mouth. Though fair and blond, she would have fit right in at mealtime with my Senegalese family! Thirty minutes later, I was comfortably sated by the delicious food, but my mission was not complete: I had to speak with the owner to find out more about his background and the origin of the restaurant, as I knew that Columbus contains a decent sized Somali population, but I did not know there was much of a Senegalese community to speak of. I walked up to the counter once again, and although he was busy on the phone, I was hell-bent on talking to him for just a moment. And was that a certain familiar African language that I heard him speaking into the phone as I approached him? When he finished the call, his gaze shifted toward me. His eyes were wide and questioning, as if he was hoping for a positive review of the food, but was bracing himself for criticism. It was excellent! I announced, and he smiled with relief. But I was wondering, I continued, Where do you come from? Senegal, he proudly declared, a response that I should have expected given the cuisine and his accent, but didnt want to assume. Oh really, from which city? I asked inquisitively, although trying not to appear to be prying. I come from Saint-Louis, he noted casually, likely assuming that I was just making conversation but had no idea where that actually was.

At this point, I could barely contain my excitement and had to refrain from blurting out No way! and jumping up and down like an elated American schoolgirl. Instead, I maintained composure and explained calmly but happily that I had lived there for three months just last summer. He was delighted and I could tell immediately that a barrier had been broken down: I was probably the last person in the world he expected to have visited his hometown and to have found his restaurant right there in Columbus. We spoke nostalgically for a few moments about Saint-Louis, and I even rattled off the few simple phrases that I learned in Wolof. He smiled and shook his head, chuckling, amused by my horrible accent but appreciative of my unrestrained enthusiasm. I thanked him once again and returned to the table where my family was seated, and they listened in awe at the story I relayed. We left, fully satisfied by the meal and carrying to-go boxes of leftovers. I was content at having accomplished my mission and happy that I had been able to provide my family with a taste of what I had enjoyed while in Senegal. Though the experience made me miss Saint-Louis terribly, for a moment, I was right back there. I never imagined that I would miss the aromas and flavors of the cuisine so much that I would be determined to locate a Senegalese restaurant and drag my whole family there in the middle of an Ohio winter. In fact, before going to Senegal, I didnt know if I would like the food much at all. Nor did I realize that the images of Saint-Louis would remain so clearly imprinted in my mind months after leaving, that friendships I forged with other volunteers would outlast my time spent in Africa, and that my project placements would impact me so intensely that I would choose to reroute my career path entirely. Before going to Senegal, I foresaw none of this. But, I will forever carry with me all that I learned there, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.