The thrill of chasing Yemeni cuisine
Kabsa Mandi is a small takeout restaurant that doesn’t seek attention
Nothing tastes quite as good as food that plays hard to get.
My culinary courtship with Kabsa Mandibegins in January 2014 when I fire off a Facebook friend request to the Yemeni restaurant that I keep driving by but never have time to pop into. Muneer Abdo (better known as Abu May) replies quickly and eagerly with a private message: “I accepted your friendship. Hopefully we’ll see you one day in our humbled restaurant on Danforth Ave. to try our food.”
You will, but I don’t want to just try Yemeni food, I want to try to make it.
“We are rearranging a few things in the restaurant nowadays,” Abdo hedges. “Give me a couple of weeks and I will get in touch with you.”
March 2014: “Sorry still need more time.” June 2014: “Hopefully very soon.” I blink and 15 months pass. I renew the chase. Kabsa Mandi is renovated, transforming from a humble takeout spot to a humble takeout spot with seating.
Abdo sets up two meetings — and cancels both.
There are restaurants (many, actually) that plead for coverage. Then there are restaurants that do their own thing and don’t seek attention.
“Our goal is not to be famous,” agrees Abdo. “I like to serve people more. We fulfil their needs.”
The food stars finally align one fall day, although Abdo is out buying chicken when I arrive at the appointed hour. When he eventually appears, he is a charming host for almost three hours.
Kabsa Mandi serves familiar Middle Eastern/Indian dishes such as samosas, hummus, foul (fava beans), lentil soup, tandoori chicken and falafels, but I’m here for Yemeni food. Mandi lamb or chicken mixes meat, basmati rice and spices. Masoob combines whole wheat bread, bananas, thick cream and honey. Mutabak is a griddle-fried flatbread with a spiced ground-beef filling.
The Yemen-born Abdo insists I watch how all three are made.
“Even if you stand beside my wife in the kitchen and cook,” he warns, “you will not get it the same. I guarantee.”
He says this proudly, not meanly. I get it. I have spent years hovering over chefs with measuring cups, measuring spoons, measuring tapes and timers, but sometimes I simply can’t get enough details for a usable recipe.
Najat Alqadasi, Abdo’s wife, is lovely but she has made the dough for both masoob and mutabak before I arrive. She keeps dipping into a homemade spice blend and seems bemused by my attempts to deconstruct it.
Just use whatever spice I can put my hands on, she tells me.
As Alqadasi cooks, I scribble down vague, futile notes and listen to Abdo’s non-stop commentary.
“My wife cooks with calmness. I’m jumpy.”
“Our food may sound simple, but to follow what my wife does is difficult.”
“My business card says ‘Eat halal and good.’ The good is what you are eating now. It is natural.”
This man is bursting with pride for his food and his family. When two of his three daughters arrive from elementary school, he can’t wait to in- troduce them. Mona and Maya don’t say much but watch curiously.
Kabsa Mandi is popular with ESL students, local Arabs from the Persian Gulf States and people (mainly Gujarati Muslims) who attend Madinah Masjid across the street on Danforth near Donlands.
There’s no way I can figure out the lamb dish with all those mystery spices. I’m not tackling mutabak — stretching the bread seems too challenging and I don’t have a flat-top grill to cook it properly. Masoob it will be. It’s fast and fun.
We’re done in the kitchen. This is a platter of lamb and rice to be eaten — by hand.
Abdo gives a tutorial. Make a pile of rice on the side of the communal platter, and make it bigger than you think you can eat. Top it with choice morsels of lamb, preferably with fatty bits. Drizzle with a cilantro-chili raita and red chutney.
Make a fist and pick up the pile with your thumb, index and middle fingers and pop this “ball” into your mouth. Don’t worry when some of it falls.
“There is a tricky way to do it,” acknowledges Abdo, “but basically you don’t need to be shy. Just go for it.”
I do and it’s a disaster, but who cares with food (and company) this good.
Masoob
Star Tested Kabsa Mandi’s Yemeni take on banana bread. The Danforth restaurant makes its own tawa bread, but you can use whole wheat parathas. Owner Muneer Abdo recommends buying frozen parathas (such as Madina Fine Foods’ four-pack) and panfrying as directed. Look for parathas and cans of sterilized cream (preferably Clic brand) in any Middle Eastern store. Carnation also makes thick cream. 2 ripe bananas About 10 oz (285 g) whole wheat parathas, torn into pieces 170-g can thick sterilized cream 2 tbsp (30 mL) liquid honey + more for drizzling if desired In medium mixing bowl, mash bananas very well with fork or potato masher.
In food processor, pulse bread to coarse, moist crumbs. Add to bananas in bowl, along with cream and 2 tbsp (30 mL) honey. Mix well with a fork or wooden spoon. Spread on serving plate, mashing it down fairly flat. Drizzle with extra honey, if desired. Eat communally with spoons, or dole out into small serving bowls.
Makes 3 cups (750 mL) for four to six servings. jbain@thestar.ca