Greatest Plate of my life

It is round and weighty. You place it in front of you. You take a deep breath. Step back a bit, and then you move forward with that look of determination in the eyes. That is how a penalty kick is taken. And that is how history is made. The same applies to food. There are some epic meals that have been set before me that cannot be forgotten and this is my trip down memory lane; recounting the greatest plates of my life.

You know what a great plate is. The ones that make you glad to be at the table even before you taste the food. You are inspired to float in a sea of gratitude for the meal that has been placed before you. Quite unlike those other plates that can be best described as a trial of your faith. You know the ones. Naija people would pray lengthy prayers imploring God to kill any bacteria on the plate and detoxify any poisons contained therein (both physical and spiritual) when the food does not look particularly well endowed with attractiveness.

Nay! Today we talk only about the sweet memories of when the tongue tasted morsels of heaven on earth.

Talking about the tongue, one must give it accolades. That is the only place where one can taste food. (Although greedy people seem to taste food with their hearts, eyes and noses). The sole provider of the pleasures derived from food is the tongue. It is also one of the few organs of pleasure that serves humans into old age. Eyes may need glasses and the ears may need hearing aids but the Naija tongue just keeps on licking that Ogbono forever. Well, after fifty years of age the taste buds start to become less effective but like we say in my village, when the multi-millionaire loses 20% of his income he is still very rich.

Two thirds of the tongue has those tantalising sensations transported to the brain via the Facial nerve and the back third goes via the Glossopharyngeal nerve. A bit like one man having calls coming through both his Glo and his MTN phones. The messages from the tongue all end up in the gustatory area of the brain and if the stimulation is intense enough, the memory is filed away permanently.

I think my earliest great plate was one of those breakfast bonanzas at Falolu Road. My dad has been to Leventis and returned with cartoons of food.

Fried sausages, eggs, bacon, bread and strawberry jam filled the table as did the Kellogg’s cornflakes and milk. We ate to bursting point and then ate some more. There were many breakfast tables like this but I recall one particular occasion when the planets were all in alignment and the food tasted divine. One swallowed with a sense of history, almost as if one was representing the country in the swallowing Olympics. It must have been in 1972, when most days were summer days. The sizzling sausages sent delicious an aroma all over the house. My young body began to act like a cat fish that had the capacity to taste the food all over my skin. Not sure I have eaten any breakfast like that ever since. Over the years I have had my first meals of the day on boats, planes trains and even while out running (about 17,000 breakfast meals) but nothing compares to that Falolu extravaganza.

The sweets soon came daily. Tom-Tom and Goody-Goody echoed in my pockets but no satisfaction. That was till I was invited to a particular four to six. Those were the evening birthday parties where one donned the Sunday best for a weekday party. I remember vividly wearing my flared trousers and brand new shoes and taking my seat on that collapsible wooden chair everyone in Suru-Lere seemed to hire for parties. My food came on a paper plate and it was jollof rice, moin moin, cubes of hard dodo and stewed beef. I looked down and kept on eating without a care in the world. That discovery of the pure white flesh of a boiled egg in my moin moin was a delightful encounter. The beef was both chewy and tasty but I had a full set of teeth back then in 1974 and so could chew myself into a labyrinth of happiness and subsequently chew my way back out. Those were the days when a piece of meat that felt too big for its boots was converted into chewing gum (via persistent mastication) and swallowed two hours later.

My first buka experience was with a neighbour’s driver. He had dropped the kids at school and was giving me a lift to my bus stop but we got side tracked by hunger. It was somewhere in Yaba close to Herbert Macaulay Way. The place was full of men who had left home too early to eat. The menu was set. Steaming rice, boiled blacked eye beans and dodo that was fried incompletely. The stew and meat could raise the death in the local Atan Cemetery if the wind took the aroma that far. I always had breakfast before leaving home and my dad was particularly against ‘eating outside’ so this buka trip was a crime which added to the excitement. Naturally the stew differed from what you got at home. Generally speaking Naija women hardly changed how they make their food, so you get accustomed to home food. A Naija friend once said he could identify his wife’s soup out of an identity parade of ten dishes. In addition he could tell her state of mind at the time of cooking!

When you are used to the same soup every night, that vagabond tongue rejoices at the novelty of new sensations.

It was almost a matter of time before the inevitable happened. 1977 on a Sunday morning there was the Ukodo to remember. It was a family meal just before we left for church. Hot and straight to the point. Yams, dry fish, pepper soup with that unsung hero, bright red palm oil. It was a meal fit for a king

But here is a thought. What if my greatest plate is yet to come? What if it is more important to do all I can to make my daily bread my best meal ever? Isn’t the greatest plate the next one you are alive to sit in front of and eat?