Meri Netert Skhrrennut Benu

Young, Black, and Full of Flavor!

Someone once said food and story are inseparable. Allow me to add my own story to the pot. In 2014, 2015 maybe, my husband, our oldest child, and myself went to downtown New Orleans 25 miles from our Slidell home to enjoy each other’s company for the weekend. I was easily just shy of 2 months pregnant with our second child and I needed a bathroom and a bite to eat in that order. My husband mentioned that a friend of ours had linked him with an artist friend, a talented emcee who just so happened to be Conscious and a vegan chef. That’s all I needed to hear. My husband and I were entering our 6th year of marriage and we had been vegan for at least that long. “ A vegan spot in New Orleans?” I mustered up all the surprise I could. At my first meeting and sup with the in-laws, it had clearly been impressed upon me that this was the Big Easy, partially because everyone was recovering from the Itis. You know, that's what we say in African Diasporan culture hits people when they eat a heavily laden meal with meat at its center. Yes N.O. with all its panache and charm isn’t short of its soul or soul food. Ettouffe, gumbo, jambalaya originated from the humid pots of the Creole, African, Spanish, and French mamas that inhabited the area. And because part of their charm in New Orleans is making everyone feel at home, naturally a vegan restaurant would find its way there. Enter Seed. We make our way to an inconspicuous corner table to catch all the comings and goings on the floor and to spot our Artist in Residence. “You wanna try the nuggets?” my husband asks as he passes me a menu. My mind travels through time. As a young girl, my Nana would appease our wrathful appetites with homemade chicken nuggets and a mustard dip she’d make by mixing equal parts of honey, yellow mustard, and mayo. Not quite fine dining, but satisfying nonetheless. But the plate laid in front of me that day was a nod to those days. And yet it was extremely unexpected in a space I just knew would be pretentious, what with the decorum and the posh look on the hostess’s face. We finished our meal and my husband motioned for one of the waiters. “We’re looking for one of your staff, a Chef Ra” “Yes, I voice in my head. I’m rummaging around in my head, in between licks of the honey mustard heaven. I’d like to plant a big, and strictly platonic, kiss right on the cook. “Who?” asks one of the plaid clad waiters. He twists his mouth and furrows his brow, motions for another then whispers. My husband replies, “Ra Yoseph, he wears locs, he’s a rapper, he cooks here?” The waiter consults with another who goes to the kitchen which is slightly out of view before returning and saying, “Does he look like Bob Marley?” Stop, hold the press. Not every loc sporting brown skin having brotha looks like Bob Marley. And how could a major contributor to the menu be invisible? Someone eventually digs up Chef Ra who we dap up and make plans to connect with at a later date. But the whole ride home I’m plagued by the question. I couldn’t help but feel that the waiter, the hostess, were interlopers in Chef Ra’s world.