My time in Habesha. Part of the broke-eater’s guide to Manchester’s finest independent eateries.
Nestled atop the summit of a wrought iron staircase in a seemingly abandoned takeaway, resides Habesha. The vibrancy it exudes is perceptible at once via the scents of the perfumed curries which snake their way through the open door rooted at the base of the building. I proceeded cautiously, at first questioning whether I had found the right place. At ground level was a fried chicken shop, sealed off from the Habesha entrance through the use of iron bars. Was it I who was being protected from their cuisine or them from I? Yet despite this trepidatious inner dialogue I found myself at the peak of this staircase. Scanning the room I could discern that this was a humble affair, communal even as dishes, immense in their circumference, were placed centre upon the tables as groups convened over their beer and what appeared to be a selection of curries. I was lost, an obtuse fixture who’d wandered into the wrong gallery, though I had found myself disarmed at once by the instantaneous warmth of the restaurant’s environment and its sole server.
After being shown to my seat and noting the smatterings of African decor and communal seating I opened the menu. Though minute in its array of offerings, do not be deceived. This is a sign of confidence to me. It is all too common now to see vacuous menus stretching four pages long of extensive microwave cuisine which one could select. This concise approach to the menu struck me as a bold decision. Each dish has to produce an identity of its own, rather than merely fade into the abyss of abundance. Though Habesha proved this formula was one that worked to their advantage. It was confidence, rather than its humble nature. The two vegetarian options which I ordered each possessed a distinct identity with prominent notes of spice, sweetness and savoury. As I awaited the aforementioned duo I quenched my accumulated thirst with an Ethiopian beer. The liquid itself flowed down my throat as freely as whisky, alluding the burn that accompanies its stronger comparative beverage. My stomach began to chatter disgruntledly as I surveyed the unusual tapestry of food which was swept past me and on toward the hungered mouths of their eager patrons. Yet my wait was welcomed, my appetite, having reached its pinnacle, was subsequently quelled as my food arrived.
The platter that was placed before my hungered gaze was a neatly presented composition blending a trio of curries, salad, turmeric coated greens and the cutlery for today’s meal, an Ethiopian sourdough pancake named the Injera. At first perplexed, I swept, clutched and resorted to making burritos of the viscous curries to little avail. It was the process of eating the meal which harkened back to the initial learning curve of chopsticks, and my ensuing inability of mastering said curve. The sushi I was given to practise upon lay, rather dejectedly and wholly anatomised before me by the end of the meal. The horrific aftermath of a butchery at the hands of the culinary dr Frankenstein, left behind what was ultimately an amalgamated glob of rice and what was once known, and now identifiable only by its dental records, as ‘salmon’.
The worries only intensified further as my culinary defenestration continued upon the delectable trio presented to me. Yet this failure was cut short and my anguish to fashion a means with which to devour this perfection plated before me, was all but put to rest by the amiable nature of the waiter. After a brief tutorial and some sympathetic words of guidance I was able to dig in, with renewed resolve. And lo, my tongue now found itself transported to an eclectic realm of Ethiopian cuisine. Flavours impacted upon my buds at once, notes of steeped spice blended with viscous lentil sailed across my palate and avoided the maligned, monosyllabic trap that can befoul spicy foods. The chickpeas were evident amidst the curry, their texture was layered with spice and the tendrils of accompanying spinach. My new technique of eating the food also bolstered the flavour, as the Injera retained its citrus-esque flavour profile even in the face of the prominence which was distilled into each of the curries it graced. Even what could have been a frail accompanying salad proved to be identifiable as citrus coated each vegetable that was incorporated into the dish.
By the end of the meal I sank back into my chair, filled with the combination of Injera, beers and curries. Yet do not be fooled, this is not the usual fair that would be the cuisine of the 30 year old bachelors Saturday night, rather Habesha will enlighten you to new forms of food consumption and flavours that allude the archetypal British dishes. If, like me, the restaurant experience can become a stagnant affair of mediocrity, try Habesha. Expose yourself to new dishes, names and flavours never before seen in the criminally overlooked tapestry of Ethiopian cuisine. One can often place immense doubt when lured into trying an ‘established’ classic, though Habesha retains this mantle firmly. With dishes that provide monetary savings as well as the warmth of home cooking, it is hard to ignore just why it retains this status as one of Manchester’s finest independent eateries.