On Togo: the pot, the patience, the argument.
TTogolese jollof slips between francophone precision and anglophone boldness.
The dish arrived at our kitchen the way it arrives at every kitchen — inherited, contested, half-remembered, adjusted. We cooked it the way we were shown, and then we cooked it the way we were corrected, and then we cooked it the way that tasted right. It took us 12 tries before we were willing to print it.
“You cannot see the rice become itself if you are interrupting it.”
This page is not the final word. It is a footnote on a conversation that has been going on for six hundred years. If we got something wrong, write us a letter. We publish them.
