Before the chef Pierre Thiam proposed to his wife, the writer Lisa Katayama, he took her to his Senegalese hometown to meet the family, where his aunt cooked them a dish of leafy vegetables with peanut butter. Katayama, who was born in Tokyo, ate it with glee, noting that, “smothered in sauce and placed generously over rice,” it recalled the deep flavors of Japanese curry rice.
“I was so surprised how much she loved it,” Thiam said. The experience — the connection, the partaking, the openhearted reception — embodied teranga, the Wolof word meaning hospitality and sharing for which Thiam named his New York restaurants, as well as a similar Japanese concept, omotenashi.
Recipe: Pumpkin-Peanut Rice Balls With Maafé
It was just one of many points of cultural overlap for the couple, further explored in their book, “Simply West African: Easy, Joyful Recipes for Every Kitchen.” In it, the couple are in sync, with Thiam’s story and recipes augmented by Katayama’s help. But more enticing still are those moments of culinary overlap, as in a karaage-style West African fried chicken, served with moyo sauce, a vibrant relish of tomatoes, peppers and tomatoes; a dish they call “West Africa meets Japan” fonio porridge, served with umeboshi, those lovely pickled plums, and togarashi, the electric Japanese chile powder; pumpkin-peanut rice balls with maafé, a melding of their respective childhoods and a recipe developed with their 4-year-old daughter, Naia, in mind.
Maafé might be the ultimate comfort food. Thiam’s version is especially grounding, thickened with peanut butter. It’s savoriness incarnate, thanks to a sauté of onion, garlic and tomato paste, enlivened with fruity chile, cayenne or Scotch bonnet. A dash of fish sauce, Thiam’s substitute for the more traditional umami lenders (dried fish or the fermented locust bean seeds known as dawadawa), accents the dish. In most cases, describing something as “lip-smackingly delicious” would be a cliché, but here it accurately describes how this maafé coats the mouth and tongue, making you press your lips together if only to taste every last molecule.
Most dishes can benefit from a saucy helping. The nutty stew is excellent at enveloping smoked turkey or catfish, for instance, as Thiam’s mother served it growing up; or okra, as his grandmother preferred; or root vegetables, as my colleague Yewande Komolafe cooks it; or cabbage and turnips, as Katayama loves it; or even grilled chicken, as Thiam serves it at his restaurants. Whatever you choose to do with maafé, know that it latches onto ingredients excellently, like a hug from behind.
An ideal dipping sauce, maafé coats rice balls with glee, but even better if that rice is first stirred through with pumpkin purée. Canned works just fine, but there’s nothing like the jack-o’-lantern aroma of fresh steamed squash. When Thiam says stir, he means stir (as vigorously as your dominant hand allows): This recipe calls for mashing and mixing a fresh pot of rice until the loose grains hold one shape, a ball-like dough. The action feels almost as if you’re kneading bread, though perhaps a more accurate parallel would be the act of making fufu, the pounded meal that’s central to West African cuisine (and often served with maafé). Then, the rice is formed into balls, either golf or tennis size, depending on your preference, mood and setting, Thiam said. He likes to serve the smaller ones at parties, while the larger ones are more the size he might eat at home, loaded with maafé sauce. Notionally, Thiam’s interpretation — sweet, comforting orange-hued orbs, studded with crunchy peanuts — exists somewhere between Japanese onigiri and Ghanaian omo tuo. Any way you roll them, they’re rice balls, food you eat with your hands.
Thiam and Katayama can’t send Naia to school with the rice balls. (No peanuts allowed, per school policy.) But perhaps that’s for the best. Some things are better at home.
The post A Marriage of Senegalese and Japanese Cuisine With Delicious Results appeared first on New York Times.
