Counter Culture: Indian food at a Lebanese restaurant in Bujumbura and this guy from Durham

My birthday dinner was at what I thought was a Lebanese restaurant which is actually now Indian; called Saffron, I guess it can choose which part of the Orient it wants to represent. Because of new ownership, the menu has recently transformed from tabouli and tagines to dum aloo and tikka masala. But slow to transform completely, the first pages still include Arab bread and hummus. As BKS and Garza will keenly understand, I picked the place because of the hummus. It was my birthday and that's as good a gift as any.

On arriving, Liz and I promptly seized on the most important part of the dinner and ordered hummus right along with our drinks. A quick, very Burundian bow and off our waiter went. The table filled up with friends, we got drinks, and 20 minutes later our waiter is back.

Waiter: “No hummus.”
Liz, semi-jokingly, still smiling: “But we came here for hummus!”
Waiter: Blank stare.
Liz, now in assertive mode: “You know you could have told us 20 minutes ago when we ordered it.”
Waiter: Anxious blank stare that says ummmm I don’t know what to do and I sure don’t how to respond in French – eyes dart, maybe there is a table I can hide under? – come on lady just tell me Ca va and let me go.
Matt: “We’ll take some naan instead.”
Me: Sigh…

Five minutes pass and the manager, having recognized the small crisis, comes to check on us. Liz explains the hummus situation.

Manager: “Oh, but we have hummus!”
Raised eyebrows all around: “Is this for real?”
Manager, half blaming the waiter and half covering for him: “It’s no problem. We can get it for you.”
Matt: “Alright, let’s get the hummus and the naan.”
Me: That’s right. Try messing with birthday powers.

The waiter bows once more and the manager shuffles off to dig up the cache of hummus. Before it comes we order the real food, having decided on three vegetarian dishes and 3 chicken dishes.

Waiter: “No chicken.”
Me: Hahaha. Of course.
Waiter: Waiting…
Fred, to waiter, in quick and feisty French: “How about instead of us reading a menu of things you don't have, you just tell us what you do have?”
Waiter: Resume anxious stare.

How bold of us to expect to be able to order something on the menu. I ordered palak paneer so I’m safe. The meat-eaters at the table check out the alternatives. Some unattempted options on the Indian section of the menu include Goan Fish or Mixed Vag. Your guess is as good as mine on those.

The manager returns, fixes up the order, we substitute some other meats for the chicken dishes, and one hundred minutes after arriving, dinner is served. Not quite sure where my palak paneer is but I do see something that looks like cheese chunks in a bowl of peas.

Adam: “Looks like the spinach of the night is little peas.”

Dinner gets underway and it is in fact delicious. We talk about service in Burundi and laugh off the night’s ordeal and discuss the phrase “Tastes like chicken.” A muzungu I don’t know comes up to the table and asks to join us. By now I’m used to introducing myself to people in the expat clique, so I extend my hand and smile: “I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Taylor.” The new muzungu introduces himself to me and then to the table, wondering if we’re all from the states. Ah, okay so no one knows him, and he just showed up at our table because we’re white too. He’s a little quirky, this one, but nice enough.

Turns out he’s here for a few days, works in coffee, and is trying to spark fair trade development in Burundian coffee. Apparently, Burundi used to be known for having better quality coffee than Rwanda and it’s really good stuff but fifty years of state control of coffee manufacturing has unraveled the attention to quality and made it uncompetitive on an international market. Rwanda capitalized on specialty markets and Burundi could do the same thing, he thinks. Coffee could be the new wine, but also socially-conscious: instead of drawing worldwide attention to lush French countryside people could associate their gourmet beverages with the developing world. It’s not good enough yet here though so he and his friend have come to talk through the possibilities with local farmer’s associations. His friend who owns Counter Culture Coffee in Durham.

“Do you know it?”

He must be kidding. Counter Culture was my fuel for four years, the power source of my longest days and nights. I start to reminisce about Daily Grind and 3Cups and memories flood into my head of Magical Mochas topped with a mountain of whipped cream and coffee dates with press pots and the cupping which resulted in me buying the most expensive coffee I’ve ever bought. It was the only coffee I correctly described in the cupping, after such mishaps as detecting grass when most people would say chocolate, responding bitter and flat instead of sweet and complex. But the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe was unmistakably and wonderfully blueberry.

Note: Counter Culture’s site says “this incredibly floral coffee offers sweet, fragrant notes of tangerine, lemon blossom, jasmine, and honeysuckle. Coffees from no other region can match the mouthwatering, beautifully sweet, and tea-like character of a great Yirgacheffe.” They make no mention of the blueberry, but everyone at the cupping agreed with me. And I know blueberry coffee sounds weird, but trust me, it’s so very yummy.

I told the Counter Culture guy about it and his face lit up because my knowledge of the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe proves that his efforts are working. I know about this tiny place in the Horn of Africa because its coffee made its way back to me in Chapel Hill. And what’s more, I liked it and bought it. This is exactly why he does what he does. So thanks to Brendan and Tom and Garza inviting Rachel and I to the cupping, in that moment I embodied fair trade development at work. And with a few more coffee snobs… the new wine… Burundian Breakfast Blend does have a nice ring to it.

And it really is a small world.