Dukem, U Street

So it is said, that one day in 1943, about a dozen or so officers’ wives on a shopping spree in a border town in Mexico wandered into a restaurant called the Victory Club. Though the accounts don’t typically mention this, I like to think that all of the women were more than a little tipsy. Unfortunately for them, the restaurant had closed for the day and, with few exceptions, everything had been sold. But, it being a border town, the restaurant owner did not want to disappoint the nice Gringos with money. So he told Chef Ignacio Anaya to come up with something, anything, for these well-heeled women. Having nothing but leftover tortillas, cheese, and jalapeños at his disposal, the Nacho was born (Nacho, of course, was the chef’s nickname).

Again it happened late one night in 1964, as Teressa Belissimo watched over the Anchor Bar in Buffalo New York, which she owned with her husband, Frank Lentz (who likely would not have allowed this to story to occur). That night, her son Dominic wandered in with his friends from college – doubtlessly drunk – looking for food. Again, limited by what was on hand at that late hour, she had her cook whip up a feast from some leftover chicken wings, hot sauce, and butter. The Buffalo wing was born.

And so, in the shadow of such legends, I found myself on the eve of Thanksgiving in 2010, the accidental beneficiary of scarcity. My girlfriend and I wandered out of the 9:30 club onto U Street, several drinks into a good night, looking for food. We tried the nearest establishment, Nelly's, but they were done cooking for the night. I immediately considered Ohh and Ahhs, but, this being late on the Wednesday night before a major holiday, they too were closed. As was Etete. So, when my girlfriend gave me a choice between finding the next open place to eat and death (followed, shortly thereafter, by her consuming my carcass), I decided Dukem was a better idea than the line at Ben’s.

The place was not only open, it was bouncing. Literally. It was full of (who I assume were) Ethiopians having a great time, dancing to (what I assume was) Ethiopian music. No one was eating, but, undeterred, we asked our waitress for menus. No menus. The kitchen was open, but there were only two choices: fried beef and fried lamb. And they didn’t have injera, only “regular bread.”

This was a bit of a quandary for me, given my girlfriend’s vegetarian proclivities (notwithstanding her recent threats). So I was as surprised – as you might imagine – when she demanded the lamb (but, let’s face it, most “vegetarians” are one good drunk away from a cheeseburger). Ten minutes later, the meat arrived, adorned by a few onions, fresh jalapeños, and four small French rolls. I’m pretty sure that what we ended up with was Dukem’s version of yebeg tibs with rolls instead of injera.

It didn’t look that promising. Then I cracked a roll. It was clearly store-bought bread, but it was very fresh and somehow better than what I’ve had in most of the sub shops that ship their rolls in from Philly. It was nicely toasted and the inside was like luscious cotton. The roll steamed as I cracked it. I greedily crammed the meat into my roll until it wouldn’t take any more and dug in.

I had created the perfect sandwich.

It was amazing: the bread, the (limited) vegetables, and the juice were like a good cheesesteak, but with the flavor of Ninth Street instead of South Street. I would recommend you try one, but I’m not sure you can. Clearly, my epiphany was, for Dukem, a problem and they seemed embarrassed to serve it to me. But in that moment, it was perfect.

Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=11262&view=findpost&p=178001