Ara agbala intercontinental chef. There is war in the kitchen. A great fire is about to consume the world’s greatest chef. Help o! Call the Fire Service. Call 911 before it burns down his long hair. Get water and salt because the fire party just started.
Okay, let me stop being dramatic and go straight to the point.
Our hotel employed a new chief cook because the former, Nanya, married and relocated to Ibadan. So our new chef resumed work on Sunday. Muscle lady-man is so full of himself, always flipping his long braids up and down, bragging about how skilled he is and how he is not at our level. For me, it was hate at first sight. Then he introduced himself as Chef Mississippi, he actually claimed his parents named him Mississippi. They would have named him Mount Everest or Kilimanjaro. I don’t really like the husky voice that he tried vainly to give a feminine touch. Then don’t get me started on his low-budget packaging, the type we popularly refer to as local dogs forming Alsatian.
Just in two days, he has changed a lot of recipes with his special intercontinental bulaba. The painful part of it is that he has turned our staff meals into his specimen for experiments, and curry is an inevitable recipe in all his meals, I could understand adding curry to jollof rice, noodles, and probably fried eggs, but adding curry to our egusi soup on Monday is a total no for me, I felt I could manage but even the few balls I took got me visiting the toilet all through the evening and night.
This morning, our breakfast had been served, pap and akara. As usual, curry powder was added to the bean balls, or should I say bean rock because akara is as strong as Kilimanjaro rock. The amazing part of the story is not just that his pap has lumps and is as thick as agidi but that he added a pinch of curry to the pap. Now I’m staring at the food while typing this.