Culinary Correctness: Jerry's Place Restaurant

"Have you been to Jerry's Place yet?"

"What's that?"

"Oh, you mean you don't know and haven't heard about it?"

"No, I haven't! What's that, and what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the latest Nigerian joint in town. There, the food is great and you will love it. You will be glad you did.?

"Oh yea'?"

"Oh yeah, man!"

"Hmmmmm, so, where is this new restaurant located? Is it around my neck of the woods?"

"Yeah man, in Hawthorne!"

"Where in Hawthorne? I know the one on Imperial and Hawthorne Boulevard run by the Cameroonian lady had been out of business a while ago. So, which one, and where exactly in Hawthorne?"

"It's 'pass' the one on Imperial and Hawthorne, all the way pass the police station, on the corner of El Segundo and Hawthorne Boulevard."

"That use to be my hood until the spooky bad cop image Hawthorne Police began their tussle with civil society to raise money by all means for a desperate, broke, City of Hawthorne, remember?"

"Yeah, long time ago, I remember."

"So, you want us to go there now, on your tab?"

"No, I'm busy, maybe next time."

"No wahala! Nothing spoil!"

"I'll let you know wnen I'm ready."

"Ok now, we go holla!"

That was the 'kinda' chit-chat I had on the phone with structural designer, Ben Tokumbo Obafunwa, who had in the past called me all sorts of names when I criticized the horrible services of Ronke Bernadette's Lagos Cafe.

A couple of days after our chit-chat on Jerry's Place, Obafunwa called me again to find out if I had stopped by the newly arrived Nigerian eatery in Greater Los Angeles everybody is talking about:

"You don go the place?"

"Which place?"

"The place wey I bin tell you now."

"Nooooo, u know say na money now for dis kine economy wey don dabaru kpatakpata!"

"Ah, you wey be baba nla."

"I see say you won begin run your mouth again! Basket mouth!"

"Ah, make man no talk o before you begin your wahala."

"Ok now, we go yan!"

It was like a must that I should visit Jerry's Place even though for some reason -- doctor's warning of high cholesterol, greasy Nigerian dishes -- that my intake of anu ewu, goat meat, nkwobi and all that ngwongwo stuff be limited. But 'man must wack,' you know! Also, there was no mention of a do-nothing, jumbled and bellicose Nd'House of Los Angeles gathering in this new eatery, which showed an indication of originality.

However, as it happened, and for a new eatery much had been said and talked about, I made up my mind to check it out. Not much of a drive though, and placing my order of okra soup, midly spiced, coupled with mixed meat and a bowl of pounded yam, I called Obafunwa to join me, on my tab, at Jerry's Place. Obafunwa ordered olugbo soup, bitter leaf and a variety of meat with dried fish and said "I will be there shortly." He arrived in about twenty-five minutes and his food was ready. Mine, too, was in order as justice was done the normal way -- eating with our fingers and swallowing the pounded yam, orishirishi soup pasted. It's tasty, Obafunwa would say, and I would agree.

Jerry's Place Restaurant, located at 12631 Hawthorne Boulevard in the City of Hawthorne, is run by Nnobi, Nigerian-born Geraldine Chinwe Okafor. Growing up in Uruala where she attended secondary school, she was friendly, showing an element of dignity on how to operate an effective and efficient eatery by way of engaging her customers into relative discussion, knowing who they are, and getting to ask questions about her service.

On my second visit, I had called and ordered a combination of okra and egusi soup to be swallowed with cooked, ground oat flour. "Your food will be ready in twenty minutes," she said. I arrived on time and my food was ready. Without a doubt, I liked the food and service, which is what I had looked for in a typical African-related restaurant, excellent customer relations. Practically, customers were trooping in picking up their orders of rice and stew, Jollof rice, fried akara, olugbo soup, porridged yam, ogbono soup, cooked, sliced cassava roots, what we Nd'Igbo call akpunkoro or abacha depending on dialect, and other varieties of menu too numerous to mention.

So far, Ms. Okafor, owner of Jerry's Place Restaurant is not doing badly, and for a start-up, and in these hard times, a B+ in my assessment.

Jerry's Place Fine African Cuisine is open from Monday to Saturday and closed on Sundays. For contact:

Jerry's Place Fine African Cuisine
12633 Hawthorne Boulevard
Hawthorne, CA 90250
Tel: 310-970-0411
Faz: 310-970-0042
email: jerryplace13@yahoo.com

Time People Birthday Musings

Image courtesy of Zcache

How does one explain all the madness in this universe and life's amazing journey? Just as one thinks about surviving the hostile environment of the world, time equally flies at the same time with a hub of global issues, grand and small; and a crablike personal problems that spreads all over.

I must admit, I am thankful to God for coming that far and able to reflect on the past which happens to have been the backbone of survival and engagement, and which also could always be traced from the strength that I have applied to keep on keeping on -- taking it easy and moving on despite all the battle wounds. life is beautiful and the best out of it is knowing one's value and determining what one's contribution to creation would be, depending on the path followed.

The last few months, I have been wondering what would one say about playing some roles in society and how does that tell about the person in particular. Would it be mid-life crisis, old age or just beginning, since life now starts at 60? Well, my mid-life crisis started long, long time ago and I am still in the trenches trying to figure the whole thing out.

Every being, without a doubt, has contributed one way or the other to the functioning of society. When you make someone laugh, that's a contribution and when you make someone upset, that is also a contribution. Life is a journey as every beginning has an end. And like any journey, sometimes it ends well and sometimes it ends on a sad note. Nevertheless, there is a comedy in all of us.

So, as it goes, I am just glad to be keeping on and grateful my well-wishers did check to see how I'm doing.

First on board was my childhood buddy, Eugene Onyeji, who had called me on Sunday, September 13, reminding me from his Beaumont, Texas home that my birthday is around the corner and that life goes on meaning we must always do the best no matter what the situation is. I had done everything with Eugene growing up on the streets of Accra in the company of our Ghanaian fellas and homeboys, John Bull, John Satorji, Hillary "Ahidjo" Akabuilo, Mamma Sani, Zachary, Haruna, Emmanuel while playing double dutch and the tap of fine leather on the playgrounds of Ruga Park by Kanda Estate. I vividly remember the times. Eugene and I spoke at length when he called me on that Sunday morning of September 13. We talked about the days of the Roman films of the sword and scandal 60s starring Mark Forest in "Goliath and the Dragon," "Hercules against the Barbarians," "Hercules on Chain," and "Maciste." We talked about the tv movies and series--Bonanza, The Lone Ranger and High Chaparral. We also talked about the folks in Accra we idolized.

Among our discourses generated a whole lot of the past. Eugene had left the shores of Accra immediately following the end of Yakubu Gowon's genocidal campaign against the Igbo nation. He had settled in Lagos and had enrolled at St. Gregory College, Obalende, with his older sibling, Theodore. I arrived "Nigeria" much later on and was catapulted to my native Amazano to learn more about my cultural heritage and of course the significance of my native tongue which I grabbed before anybody knew what was going on. It was a wonderful experience, and for that, I am very thankful to my parents who made it possible my homeward bound for culture and a much, much better understanding of my forebears.

But that was not all. I learned. I met my cousins from both sides. The matrilineal and patrilineal descent. A family and culture being an entity. And leaving the city everything changed.

The village and the villagers becoming home. The egwu onwa, moonlight plays and the joy of culture being whole and not parts; that culture is indeed an entity and cannot be separated. The joyous festivities of Oghu Festival coupled with the enduring masquerades. The trek to the stream to fetch some water.

The learning of the pogrom and displaced persons.The fact that the pogrom was built on coercion and theft and on a propaganda that led to the abandoned property; and a deliberate rape on Igbo treasures and the more insiduous measure of a regime that justified the slaughter of infants, women and children. And so it goes.

And that's some part of history which makes the rounds as time passes for we are where we live based on our neigborhoods. I don't buy that very concept sometimes because there are many things to it even though where you live speaks volumes about what you eat, drink, drive and even the way you think. When ghetto kids move to the posh bedroom communities they will still act ghetto; just like when the white trash leaves the inner-city for the blue blood estate -- nothing will change as they will still act trashy. Like me dining at Lola's on Fairfax in West Hollywood which I did some few days ago, doesn't really stop me from my regular ofe olugbo, and the varieties of meat and dry fish that comes along with it at the various African eateries on the Southside. From my humble viewpoint, the blue blood estates, the bedroom communities and the inner-city ghettos are all the same depending on the way you carry yourself.

And for all you folks who kept record of my birthday and sending me all the wishes I say thank you and also wish you the best. For Eugene and speaking with Eugene Jr., he made my day with a thrilling fun. For those who think we are in competition, just drop it for life is too short. For all the airheads, never mind, we're all in the same boat. Let's keep chilling for life is too beautiful with the best yet to come, for sure!

Ain't time flying?!

Lagos Cafe's Arrogance and Horrible Services is a Culinary Disaster

The problem with what happened to me this past Sunday afternoon, March 29, 2009, was that, I had woken up and had developed an appetite to eat some home kind of made food; the ofe olugbo, bitter leaf soup, coupled with the orishirishi, the ingredients and varieties of meats and dried fish that comes along with it.

Actually, there was no pub-crawling the previous night, quite unusual, which normally should have justified my quest to fill up my stomach from partying hard. And, precisely, not that I even went to see a show ending up hanging out where I'm not suppose to have been getting up the next day with some hangovers, headaches and things like that.

I was clean and sober. It's just that I did not feel like going to the popular Tak's Coffee House around my neck of the woods for lunch. I wanted bitter leaf soup and garri to do justice to my stomach. And here I am in my journey. And what a way to learn a lesson.

I had made up my mind to go to different Nigerian or African restaurants in the LA area, a place I am not a regular. Feeling like swallowing garri with a paste of deliciously prepared bitter leaf soup, I landed at Lagos Cafe run by Ronke Bernadette, located on the 1400 block of Crenshaw Boulevard in Gardena, California. It took me about half an hour to get there, driving through the Crenshaw thoroughfare of "Black Township", and combing on the cultural festivities of Leimert Park where a series of African American women dance and beat the drums on Sundays as if it is a spiritual revival. Crenshaw Blvd., from my destination to Gardena stretches through four different suburbs -- "The Jungle" around the Mid City area, Inglewood, Hawthorne and Gardena.

I was hungry and had anticipated a good meal, especially when breezing into a place I'm not a regular. But restaurants of the African ilk in the Los Angeles area are not just regular cuisines some few dollar can get you something to chew on. These are restaurants you have to spend at least 15 bucks for a regular meal, and 15 bucks for a regular meal in these days of belt-tightening is not a chicken change.

Anyways, here I go. I walked in to a place that looked totally deserted. The owner, Ronke and her friend who had told me she came from Togoland sat on one corner running their mouth -- without paying attention that a customer had arrived. I made my request: bitter leaf soup with mixed meat, dried fish and garri. I sat down and waited until only God knows when a waiter, apparently my home boy, popped up and told me my "food will soon be ready."

As it happened, my friend, Ardis Hamilton, whom I have known for many years dating back to the "read my lips" era called me, and I told him exactly where I was and how I got there. Immediately, he picked up interest to join me, in order to have a feel of a well-prepared African dish. In about 20-minutes, he was in. He was turned off right away because of the owner and her Togolese friend's attitude, loquaciously erring in French. Yes, they spoke French and did not care if a customer had arrived.

Meanwhile, I had waited long enough and my stomach was burning for some reason. I requested for some water to drink. Lagos Cafe had no water, absolutely no water for its customers which had me wonder why this garrulous woman and her friend are in business, in the first place. They drove down the street to buy some water after my request. In a restaurant and no water. Imagine!

At Veronica's Kitchen which sits on Manchester in Inglewood, the service is always great, the environment conducive and the waiters and waitresses well-behaved which is why the owner, Veronica Ogbeide, beats them all, hands down, and presumably from learning how to run a restaurant, effectively and efficiently.

However, they got my water while I waited for the so-called 'finest food' to arrive. Ardis, too, was looking forward to something special. To my friend's surprise, these talky women and the attendant who is also my home boy, changed their tone of language, all of a sudden, and just like that. Ngbati-ngbati, the normal Yoruba noise making kind of stuff, typical of a gabby Oshodi market women, became a trend, and it baffled my friend because they all knew he's a Yank as in "no speak English" a Hispanic would pretend to tell you.

My food finally came and I wanted my friend, Ardis, to taste the soup before ordering his own on my tab. Ardis has not recovered. His ass has been burning from the overseasoned habanero pepper and some other chili stuff that was used in cooking the soup.

In my own case, I'm the kind of guy who would eat up everything served and face the consequences later. Money is hard, these days, you know, but how could I have gotten myself into a situation where I now live in my restroom until the whole mess is flushed out from my system?

Not only that the service at Lagos Cafe was horrible, it was also ridiculously expensive. 20-something bucks and no leftover to take home? Come on, now, be real! At Veronica and 15-plus something bucks, you will have a whole lot of leftovers to take home, and you will be glad you did.

Lagos Cafe, Ronke, the talkative Togolese lady and my home boy, quote me, I will never be back because it really sucks, (excuse my language for I am pissed), and from my observation, you will be the last to earn a Michelin star.