At the Table: Food and Family around the World - Ken Albala (2016)

Senegal

Chelsie Yount-André

A puff of spicy steam escaped as Penda Sy lifted the heavy lid of her family’s five-gallon cooking pot. Cabbage, parsnip, and eggplant bobbed in a bubbling tomato-red broth. She surveyed the pot carefully, conscious of the many guests who would taste her cuisine that day. Her sister Awa had invited Chelsie and her husband to their home in Dakar for a goodbye meal before their return to France. As their neighbors and friends caught wind of the special lunch, the number of guests quickly swelled. Penda prepared ceebu jën for the occasion, a rice and fish dish that requires a list of tasks that appear daunting in recipe form but were automatic for her, ingrained in muscle memory.

Ceebu jën is called Senegal’s national dish due to its sheer popularity among Senegalese. Families prepare it multiple times a week, alternating between red and white varieties. The dish promises a taste of Senegal difficult to find abroad. While one might find everything for a good ceeb in places with large African populations such as Paris, Senegalese living in the United States, Spain, and Italy often have trouble finding ingredients such as the pungent smoked fish (gejj) and mollusks (yeet) that create the dish’s singular flavor.

Albala

The Sy family gathering around a communal platter of Ceebujen, Senegal's national dish of rice and fish. (Courtesy of Chelsie Yount-André)

Ceebu jën is often prepared to welcome or bid farewell to visitors. More than three-quarters of households in Dakar include at least one member living abroad. Feasts of ceebu jën welcome migrants home like royalty. But the kindness offered can weigh heavy on returnees, well aware of their hosts’ hopes that they remember this hospitality later when they receive phone calls requesting help with the costs of a wedding or other celebration. The foreign revenues that migrants send home keep the country afloat, often financing building projects in the capital. Construction of family houses takes place in a piecemeal fashion, because remittances can only be invested in building when they are not urgently needed to subsidize hospital bills or purchase a ram for sacrifice at a baptism according to Islamic custom. Some homes seem near completion, and others linger like cement skeletons, eroding in Dakar’s sandy wind.

In the Sy family, the adult daughters take turns preparing the midday meal, typically the largest of the day. Once every four days, each woman spends two to three hours sweating next to the propane stove, cooking a rice-based dish for her mother, siblings, children, nieces, and nephews. The work is physical but not complicated for the sisters, who began learning to cook at their mother’s side when they were only seven years old.

Meal preparation began that day at 10:00 a.m. with a trip to the market. Maman Sy, as even her neighbors affectionately call her, stopped cooking years ago. Leaving the laborious task to her daughters was a right of status that her age afforded. But she still enjoys walking each morning to the market five minutes from their home. Saleswomen stack mangos, carrots, and bitter African eggplants (jakatu) in small pyramids, creating swatches of color on the unfinished wooden tables. Meat vendors swat flies away from cuts of beef and mutton, and fishmongers’ knives flash silver as they remove the scales from that morning’s catch. In the capital, located on a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic, fresh fish is a daily staple. It is the cheapest and most accessible protein in Dakar, the westernmost point on the African continent.

Maman returned dutifully to her favorite vendors, who shouted greetings to her across the narrow aisles. The crowded passages and uneven paths did not faze her, having shopped there for decades. She enjoyed the challenge of finding the best ingredients for the day’s asking price, but incessant price hikes frustrated her. Most days, she supplements beef with tripe and serves bony sardinella fish in ceebu jën. Her grandchildren have never tasted the marlin that is said to be best in the dish, which is now so heavily exported that it is too expensive for most Dakarois.

For the special meal that day, Maman made sure to get plenty of large fish and a wide variety of vegetables to add color and flavor to the dish. She collected onion, garlic, carrots, cabbage, eggplant, parsnip, okra, cassava, white sweet potatoes, bitter eggplant, chili pepper, and tamarind in a large plastic bowl. She pulled a faded franc CFA bill from the small change purse hidden in the pleats of her skirt and then moved on to a dry ingredients stand at the edge of the market. She leaned over barrels of chalky baobab fruit and red lentils to ask the salesman for two small packets of black pepper and red pepper flakes. He pulled the prefilled plastic bags from bundles that hung from the ceiling above his stand like bunches of pointy grapes. She bought a one-quart bag of vegetable oil and four bouillon cubes, balanced the overflowing bowl on her hip, and was on her way.

Once her mother returned home, Penda began washing the vegetables and heating oil to fry the fish. She wanted the dish to taste perfectly, but the crowd gathering for lunch did not intimidate her. Meals in Senegal are routinely prepared for big groups. Penda did not even need to modify her recipe. Senegalese families tend to be quite large, and Penda had been taught to cook making sure that there would always be leftovers. Households often include members of the extended family, particularly in Dakar, where cousins from rural areas often arrive in need of a place to stay while studying or looking for a job in the capital. “You never want your guests to have to scrape the bottom of the dish wanting more,” her mother had warned, adding, “You never know when someone hungry might drop by!” Indeed, Penda had often put together a small bowl of leftovers for visitors who stopped by even hours after lunch.

In August, Dakar’s heat is unrelenting. The air was heavy in anticipation of the rainy season that should have already begun. Penda wore an old wrap skirt and T-shirt to cook, wrapping a scarf around her head so that her braids would not smell of frying fish. She pounded garlic, pepper, parsley, and Maggi cubes in a wooden mortar and pestle. She stuffed the mixture in slits in the sides of three large red mullet and four small sardinella fish.

Every step of making ceebu jën takes place in the same pot. Penda fried the fish whole. She then removed them to add the onions and tomato paste to the oil in which she would cook the vegetables. Bubbles burst to the surface, interrupting the deep red of the oil, water, and tomato mixture. Senegalese describe this bright red-orange color as pleasing to the eye and the taste buds, linked to memories of the salty infusion of fish, tomato, and oil that the sauce contains. Some brands of bouillon even add red coloring to their spice packets. But these additives are no match for a well-dosed ceebu jën. An artificial pinkish hue gives away cooks who rely heavily on food coloring.

Penda dipped a large metal spoon in the pot, tapped the edge on her hand, and then licked the sauce from her palm. Content with the mixture, she added the peeled vegetables whole. She then measured 2 pounds of rice from their 110-pound bag of riz brisé, short-grained white rice broken into bits the size of coarse bulgur. She rinsed the rice three times before placing it inside a shallow metal steamer on top of the pot where the vegetables simmered. Once the vegetables were tender, she set them aside and added the steamed rice to the pot to absorb the liquid flavored by all the ingredients.

Awa sat with Chelsie and her husband, far from the heat of the kitchen, chatting and refilling their glasses with sweet hibiscus juice. She admitted to being relieved that it was her sister’s turn to cook, freeing her to welcome the guests. As the rice absorbed the last of the sauce, Awa shook the wrinkles from an indigo and royal blue cloth that she set directly on the cool tiles near the side door. Once construction on their house is completed, special meals will take place in their large though currently empty living room. The entryway where she placed the cloth had a crosscurrent that pulls ocean breezes into the warm house, making it a perfect spot for everyday meals. Following their mother’s cue, Awa’s young sons scurried to get the low rectangular wooden stools from the closet. They placed them in a circle along the edge of the cloth. It was nearly 3:00 p.m., and they had been hungrily waiting an hour since coming home from playing at the beach.

In the kitchen, Penda took out the family’s largest enamel serving tray. The paint was chipped on the wide round tray from frequent use on holidays, when it was the only dish large enough to fit all their guests. Penda covered the cartoonish stencils of pineapple, cherries, and pears with spoonfuls of red rice. She then filled a smaller bowl with rice for unexpected guests and for her husband and brother who would wait to eat when they returned home at 6:00 p.m. She spread the rice out evenly with the back of a wide metal spoon. The aluminum cooking pot vibrated as she scraped the bottom, collecting the crunchy rice (xoon) into a small serving bowl. Penda carefully placed the whole cooked fish at the center of each platter, then arranged a halo of vegetables around them. Dividing the ingredients equitably between the platters of different sizes was tricky. She hesitated before pinching the bitter eggplant in two and then broke the still firm cassava into large chunks with her spoon.

Twenty minutes later, finally content with the appearance of the meal, Penda carried the heavy platter downstairs. A three-inch circle of red rice showed along the perimeter of the dish. The rest was covered with whole carrots, cabbage, parsnips, eggplant, and fish that had been bubbling in the pot for the past three hours.

No one needed to be called to meal, having discreetly surveyed Penda’s progress for the past hour. After urging their guests to take a stool, family members filled in empty spots, and everyone else sat directly on the cloth on the ground. The women leaned in close to the platter with their legs folded to the side, and the men hung back a bit. Crouching with one knee pulled to their chests, they left the space closest to the dish to the women, who would divide and distribute the ingredients. Children squeezed in close to their relatives, and 10-year-old Mouna passed out soup spoons to each person. Maman and her daughters declined, preferring to eat with their hands so they could easily pinch off bits of fish and vegetables to pass out and share during the meal.

Most days, the Sy family divides the meal into multiple platters, making the food easier to reach. When Maman was growing up in a village outside of Dakar, their family had three bowls: one for children, another for women, and a third for the men of the family. It was her job as the youngest child to hold the platter in place with her index finger. It was popular belief that if the dish rotated during the meal, it could cause stomachaches. Today most dismiss this as superstition, yet the task still falls to youngest children, reminding them to keep their eyes lowered on the dish, a respectful posture when eating.

Amid the commotion of settling down to eat, a neighbor slipped in through the open side door. She looked embarrassed to have dropped in at mealtime, anticipating the invitations that inevitably followed. Children’s and adults’ voices overlapped, urging her to “Kaay lekk!” (Come eat!). She thanked them and insisted that she was not hungry. She spoke quickly, offering multiple justifications as if she sensed that resistance was futile. Finally she complied, sitting between the dish and the door so she could slip out after politely tasting a few bites.

Once everyone was situated, Maman quietly said, “Bismillah.” Her children repeated the utterance, which means “in the name of Allah,” prompting the group to eat. Each person took a spoonful of the rice directly in front of them. The dent they made in the rice anchored each person’s portion, dividing the circular dish into many imaginary slices. They ate only the food closest to them with the right hand, conforming to Islamic meal etiquette. Conscious of the guests present, the children were on their best behavior and were particularly careful to stick to their portions. Although adults can take from any fish and vegetables in their triangular section, children are forbidden from reaching for ingredients in the middle of the platter. Little hands that venture into the center of the dish often get slapped, scolded for not waiting to be served.

Each person scooped up tender fish along with the red rice. Maman, Penda, and Awa squeezed lime juice over the platter, passed around the spicy chili pepper, and spooned tamarind sauce and crunchy rice into each person’s portion. Sharp flavors mingled with unexpected ease, like the vivid colors of the wax-print fabrics ubiquitous in West Africa. Tart tamarind sauce cut through the rich, salty rice. Sour lime juice accentuated the flavor of the white fish.

Toddlers perched in the crook of a relative’s elbow opened their mouths wide, waiting for spoonfuls of rice like little birds. Adults expertly worked fish bones out of their mouths, while children’s furrowed brows betrayed their concentrated efforts. Mouna’s small hand quivered as she pressed the side of her spoon into the firm cassava, trying to cut through the stubborn root. Penda’s and Awa’s movements seemed choreographed with their mother’s. Their right hands slipped past one another, extended fingers diving into the center of the dish, emerging to pass out morsels of fish and carrots with a flick of the wrist. They intermittently fed themselves, effortlessly shaping the unctuous rice into bite-size morsels with their right hands.

Penda, Awa, and their mother carefully surveyed the dish to make sure their guests had enough to eat, that their brothers received the protein necessary for their afternoon labors, and that their children got some of their favorite sugary carrots and sweet potatoes. The premeal confusion gave way to silence as the group ate hungrily. Only Penda and Awa spoke, asking if anyone would like a bit more chili pepper or lime. “Be careful!” they warned as they passed out a piece of fish stuffed with spices cooked inside. They moved uneaten ingredients around the platter, offering the cabbage and okra to those who could not reach it. They flipped over the fish to access the flesh on the opposite side and removed heads and skeletons from the bowl. Penda pushed the rice in the center down toward the edge of the dish, filling in the circular hollows that each person had carved into the rice.

The movements of the meal were mesmerizing. It seemed that they had only been eating for moments when the first family members began to rise and move away from the dish. Their voices overlapped with Maman’s in a tug-of-war of hospitality as she insisted that they keep eating and they assured her that they had eaten their fill. As each person got up from the meal, they drank ice-cold water from a glass that immediately collected beads of condensation from the humid air. Family members poured water for one another from the repurposed plastic soda bottle that had been thawing while they ate, its core still frozen. A shallow dish of soapy water and a hand towel sat nearby for those who had eaten using their hands.

The sisters lingered around the bowl long after the men and children had moved on. They sucked on the tart tamarind pods and giggled as they swapped stories. Maman cleared the platter, and Awa and Penda lifted the cloth, carefully shaking it out to collect discarded fish bones. They reappeared carrying bottles of soda and juice and a platter of sliced mangos for dessert.

Meanwhile, their brothers gathered around a small coal-burning stove to make a sweet green tea called attaaya. The men placed the metal teapot directly on the stove, letting the tea infuse for 20 minutes as they mixed in sugar, pouring the liquid from one espresso-sized glass to another to create a frothy, syrupy mixture. They served the concentrated tea topped by a sweet foam in three rounds, each one sweeter than the last. Men in Senegal often spend hours chatting over attaaya, periodically passing out small glasses of tea to anyone in the vicinity.

Senegalese proudly remind visitors that Senegal is known as “the country of teranga” (the Wolof term for “hospitality”). Although tourists in Dakar might assume this hospitality to be related to their foreign status, teranga is a fundamental virtue that shapes all social relations in Senegal. Hospitality is not reserved for guests from abroad but is also routinely extended to neighbors who stop by unannounced and relatives from the village in need of a place to stay. Ceebu jën is a key vehicle of hospitality through which Senegalese create and confirm social relations around a shared dish.

Ceebu Jën (for 10-12 People)

12 cups of short white rice

3 pounds of large fish (marlin, sea bass, or large sardines)

2 cups of vegetable oil

1 onion, finely chopped

2 cloves of garlic

1 small spicy pepper (preferably a scotch bonnet pepper)

⅓-ounce piece dried or smoked fish such as cod or herring

2 tomatoes

2.5 ounces (about ⅓ cup) tomato paste

16 cups (4 quarts) water

4 carrots

2 parsnips

1 large white sweet potato

1 large piece of cassava

½ small cabbage, cut in half

1 small eggplant, cut in half

1 bitter African eggplant

6 okra

2 bouillon cubes

Salt

Black pepper

½ cup tamarind

2 limes

For rof:

3 cloves of garlic

Small bunch of parsley

½ bouillon cube

1 pinch of salt

½ teaspoon black pepper

¼ teaspoon of dried pepper flakes

For nokos:

6 cloves of garlic

2 onions, finely chopped

¼ teaspoon dried pepper flakes

1 bouillon cube

½ green bell pepper

1.Clean and salt the fish, leaving them whole (including heads).

2.Prepare the rof using a mortar and pestle or food processor. Grind garlic, parsley, pepper, bouillon, salt, pepper, and the red pepper flakes until it forms a paste. Cut 2 or 3 small slits in each fish and stuff them with the rof mixture.

3.Heat oil over medium heat in a large cooking pot for 10 minutes.

4.If using sardines or other smaller fish, flash fry the fish in the oil, cooking each side for 1-2 minutes. Remove and set aside. If using large pieces of fish such as marlin, skip this step.

5.When oil is hot, add 1 finely chopped onion, 2 cloves of garlic, half of the scotch bonnet pepper, dried fish, 2 tomatoes, and tomato paste. Stirring frequently, cook on medium heat until the sauce thickens, roughly for 20 minutes.

6.Add 1 gallon of water and 1 tablespoon salt and reduce heat to low.

7.Make nokos in mortar and pestle or food processor. Grind 6 cloves of garlic, 2 onions finely chopped, ¼ teaspoon dried pepper flakes, 1 bouillon cube, and the green bell pepper.

8.Add fish and nokos mixture to the pot. Let simmer on medium heat. Add 1 or 2 bouillon cubes to taste.

9.Peel the carrots, parsnips, sweet potato, and cassava. Gradually add the vegetables to the broth, adding softer vegetables such as eggplant, cabbage, and okra last. Let simmer on medium heat for 30 minutes or more. Gradually lower heat if the liquid comes to a rolling boil. Remove vegetables as they become tender and set aside. Remove fish and set aside when it is no longer translucent and flakes off easily. Place vegetables and fish in one bowl to collect sauce that drips from them.

10.While vegetables are cooking, rinse the rice and place it in a steamer on top of the pot so that the vapor from the pot steams the rice.

11.Once vegetables and fish are cooked through and have been removed from the pot, add the steamed rice to the broth left in the pot and cover. Cook on medium heat for 5 minutes, then cook for 30-45 over low heat until the rice has completely absorbed the water, stirring after 20 minutes.

12.Add tamarind to the bowl containing the vegetables and fish to marinate in the sauce that drips from them.

13.Spread a thick layer of rice evenly on a large platter. Arrange the vegetables and fish in the middle on top of the rice.

14.Garnish with lime. Spoon the tamarind and sauce mixture over rice.