Fried Egg Sandwich (a la senegalaise)

December 31, 2007

Whew! After having eaten nuthin’ but mutton for days now (see previous article on Tabaski), I have been having the strangest craving, namely for a fried egg sandwich, the peppery kind you can get for about $1.50 along with a small cup of coffee from any bustling pushcart guy in NY. I was telling a fellow teacher from NY about this almost overwhelming wave of nostalgia when he kindly invited me to go along with him to the corner, to our local tangana. As you will not know what this is, let me attempt to describe it for you.

Remember when you were 7 or 8 and built forts with your friends, or spent long afternoons hidden in hastily constructed tents made out of old drapes suspended perilously on fishing poles or whatever? Well, try now to imagine just such an invitingly makeshift tent bordering on a dirt soccer field. Picture worn sheets suspended from what amounts to clotheslines to block those seated on wooden picnic benches from the intense glare of the sun. Space is tight, just as it was when you were little, but the atmosphere is far more cozy than claustrophobic.

Now you must envision a big wok-shaped bowl perched on top of a portable gas cooker. See the dance of the bright blue flame, smell the sizzling of the onions and hear the splattering of the oil. Then picture the eggs, the long loaves of bread and a big vat of local margarine, cleverly spread using the back of a spoon. See one lady in a bright boubou cracking the eggs into the bowl while another pours coffee.

Then, peer at the adult men (the clientele at such establishments is almost exclusively male) sitting on the cramped wooden benches, knees up around their ears, eating eagerly as they converse in Wolof, which often sounds brusque - like gruff shouting - to the uninitiated. Words tend to be short, only one or two syllables; sentences are equally terse, plus the word ‘please’ does not seem to exist, which can lead to some misunderstandings when native speakers of Wolof try out their French minus the requisite formules de politesse.

The initial exchange learned by a foreigner is the very basic “Na nga def?” or “How are you?” along with the standard response “Maa ngi fi,” or “I’m fine.” Another useful expression to learn early on is “Deedeet du njeg-am,” or “That’s not the real price,” as fixed prices do not exist in this culture. You must haggle your way through, whether it is a question of taxi fares or bunches of bananas. Haggle you must until the bitter end, that is to say until a consensus is reached; those in the know never pay more than half of what is first asked, if that much. If you set out to purchase more than one item, you will need time and patience; bargaining is a national pastime, like cricket elsewhere. When the color of your skin is white, the price is automatically doubled, if not tripled. If you can speak a few words of Wolof and make a convincing case as someone who lives here as opposed to someone who is just a tourist, you will fare much better. Being spotted at a roadside tangana adds credibility to your claim of not being a tourist, as mere visitors would be so preoccupied by questions of hygiene that they would be unable to swallow a mouthful. Yet in terms of cleanliness, standards are probably much the same as at your own local hole in the wall: jugs of tepid water - only partially guaranteed to meet health inspection criteria - are used to give plates and glasses a cursory rinse after use. (The rinsing water can in this instance quite usefully be dumped into the dirt field just behind the tangana).

Sadly, the hostesses at this makeshift restaurant address us highly conspicuous toubabs - that is, whiteys - neither in Wolof nor in French, nor do they make the least effort to wish us a nice day in any language once we have made our selection and consumed our purchase, despite our effusive (if mimed) compliments expressing just how good the food is. It is unclear whether the women are ill at ease because of the language barrier or whether they simply feel uncomfortable with interlopers thrusting themselves into this stronghold of Senegalese culture.

In a manner that would be eerily reminiscent of your local Subway sandwich shop if only it were not so vastly different, you can choose whether you want a whole sandwich, half a sandwich, one egg or two or more still, with onions or without. Unlike at your local Subway, however, there was another sandwich on offer, too, one I felt absolutely compelled to try just for the novelty of the experience. It had what amounted to smooshed green peas on it in the form of a spicy spread, nutritious and delicious: you might want to think of it as hummus with a Senegalese twist, maybe. All sandwiches cost under a dollar a piece, even for the pale-faced among us, and different kinds of coffee are available for the asking as well – a chicory-based coffee or even the spicy, cardamom-infused coffee called Touba.

In the afternoon, the makeshift tents are speedily disassembled and somewhat astonishingly tucked up into the trees, only to return again, like the sunrise, on the morrow.

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com