Peering in the large window from Royal Street, Bennachin Restaurant, “A taste of Africa” (1212 Royal St.), appears like any other New Orleans dive.
It’s cramped, there are few tables, sparse decorations and fewer eaters: the perfect conditions for anyone searching for snacks on a Sunday afternoon. Inside, you seat yourself. The wooden tables, glass topped, have their best days behind them. Plopping down, the chairs feel like shaky senior citizens: weak, fragile and could tear if you touched them too hard.
However, these typical pitfalls create a rather unbecoming ambiance. For either lack of visual stimulation or perhaps a rare Gambian tradition that New Orleanians somehow magically practice, the sparse patrons face the direction of the other tables, as if hoping to engage the other eaters.
By the end of the meal, I had learned so much about the life of my neighbors on the other side of the room – one’s family disapproves of her gutter-punk lifestyle – that at one moment I thought they might stand, come over and sample some food from my plate.
Yet, the odd thing about New Orleans’ dives is that they are dives only in service and appearance. With no greasy fries or stale Po’boy bread, the menu boasts some of the healthiest fare in the city. Okra, black-eyed peas, spinach, fresh beef, lamb, chicken, seafood and plenty of vegetarian dishes make for tastes untarnished by a dulling injection of Americanization.
The Shipa Shipa tasted a bit too much like shrimp etouffée. It lacked the freshness that a glance at the humble kitchen promises. The ‘ginger tomato sauce,’ without the necessary picked from the vine cuts, tasted like canned Ragu.
On the other hand, the Jama-Jama Nimakondo, a saut̩ed spinach dish served with fried plantains and rice, exceeded expectations. The plantains had a gooey sweetness and after eating the spinach, the muscles in my arms bulged like cannon balls Рnot even Popeye himself would dare cross my path.
However, if you Uptowners do for some reason venture deep enough into the Quarter to stumble upon Bennachin, don’t leave without sampling a gingero. A surge of super hot ginger elixir, this drink alone embodies the restaurants allure. Served in a plastic cup straight from the shelves of an all-you-can-eat, ’15 percent off if you eat dinner before 4 p.m.’ kind of place, the ginger drink scatters down the throat, burning a sensationalized tweak of searing cat scratches.
After the first few cautious sips, tongue prickled, hot and tingling, a surge of awareness will take hold. Even though New Orleans is still badly bandaged, the soul, which runs through this city, like the gingero that slaps through the cavities of the face, smacks of existence.
Sammy Loren can be reached at [email protected].
