Fork It Over The Intrepid Adventures of a Professional Eater-Mantesh by Unknown (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

of Elijah Muhammad, whose food fiats carry a lot of weight in the Salaam kitchen. The pie is smooth, rich, slightly spicy, and altogether satisfying, but as good as it is, it is not a commodity to inspire a five-million-dollar investment.

Salaam is not one restaurant; it is a large, sparkling-white building housing a number of food-service enterprises—a bakery, a buffet, a cafeteria, three banquet rooms, and a “fine dining” section. Towering ninety feet high is a lighted Islamic star and crescent, giving a Vegas air to the undertaking. At the February 1995 opening ceremonies for the restaurant (or, as it is called on a tape available at Nation of Islam bookstores, “The Historic Opening Dedication of the Fabulous Salaam Restaurant—the Palace of the People”), Farrakhan explained how his

“household name” would attract patrons, much as Michael Jordan’s and Oprah Winfrey’s have attracted customers to their Chicago dining establishments. Thinking of Salaam as a celebrity-owned restaurant with himself as the celebrity seems a profound reversal for a man who is usually intent on secluding himself and his followers from the rest of the world.

Dining there offers a chance to scrutinize Elijah Muhammad’s diet and Louis Farrakhan’s hospitality. It also provides a rare opportunity to look inside the very closed, very uncommunicative Nation of Islam, which in public presents itself as an angry speaker lashing out from in front of a phalanx of young, unsmiling, neatly groomed security men that Farrakhan calls the Fruit of Islam and I think of as the Bow Ties.

Salaam is Farrakhan’s calling card, perhaps even a genuine attempt to connect with a society that scorns him even more than he scorns it.

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A L A N R I C H M A N

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I’m seated at a comfortable banquette in the so-called fine dining section of Salaam. My guest and I have just received our appetizers, the Salaam Fondue Supreme for her, the Sultan’s Request for me. When I look up, I see the posse arriving—coming off the elevator are more than a dozen members of the Fruit of Islam dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and bow ties. Four of them are seated by the maître d’ at the table right next to ours. I’m sure this is a coincidence. At least I think it is. I decide not to let it bother me. I tell myself I am not like Farrakhan. I am not the suspicious type.

Not letting them affect me turns out to be easy because they are so quiet I am able to clock the pauses in their dialogue. Approximately every five to seven minutes, one of them makes a comment and another one answers. Then they lapse into silence. They might be fundamentalists, but they aren’t conversationalists. They’re a little spooky, but at least they’re well behaved.

So far, we’re enjoying Salaam, although our appetizers aren’t as advertised. The fondue, which is supposed to be served over an open flame with three breads, has no flame, one bread, and no fondue fork.

Sultan’s Request turns out to be zucchini boats stuffed with peppery ground lamb and floating in a thick “Burgundy sauce.” The sauce tastes like canned brown gravy with some chopped vegetables added in an unsuccessful effort to contribute flavor.

Although the kitchen staff is not impressing me, everybody else has been cordial. At the front door, we were greeted by a Fruit of Islam security man carrying a walkie-talkie. He politely handed us off to a doorman, a middle-aged man festooned with Farrakhan buttons who escorted us to the elevator while chatting amiably about the likelihood of slaveholders being among our ancestors.

On the second floor, we stepped into a flamboyant function-room atmosphere: carpeting with madly decorative burgundy, green, beige, and white whorls; burgundy drapes; and innumerable chandeliers set bright enough to blind. Over to welcome us came a young, sweet host-F O R K I T O V E R

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ess who briefed us on Salaam and passed us on to the maître d’, the sort of quiet, courtly, tuxedoed gentleman who is likely to find employ-ment in hotel dining rooms of a certain age. He seated us, and we were promptly greeted by our waiter, who I am happy to report defied current fashion and did not introduce himself to us. My guest, however, found him so alluring, so Omar Sharif–ish in his dress whites—a tunic with a military collar, gold buttons, ensign stripes, and “Salaam” embroidered over the pocket in gold thread—that she insisted on asking. Noel had her enthralled.

So here we are, trying not to attract the attention of the nearly mute young men dining beside us, quickly gobbling the unflamed fondue before it cools, hoping for better luck with our main courses, when we suddenly realize something odd: hardly anybody seems to be having a good time.

Despite sprightly lounge music tinkling from a polished Yamaha baby-grand player piano and a perfectly gracious staff, Salaam has an aura of cheerlessness. Maybe it’s because no alcohol is served and nobody loosens up. Maybe it’s because the message of the Nation of Islam is one of responsibility and discipline, and followers confuse this dictum with having no fun. Maybe it’s the overhead security camera, the kind that rotates to cover all corners of a room. That could dampen any mood.

I order a glass of nonalcoholic Chardonnay. It is so badly oxidized I send it back, which allows me to find out just how friendly the Nation of Islam wishes to be. “No problem,” Noel says. The second glass, from a freshly opened bottle, is no better than the first, which tells me that wine storage at Salaam is about what you would expect at an establishment that doesn’t approve of wine.

For her main course, my guest orders the Double Lamb Chops Morocco. I take Noel’s recommendation and select North African Tilapia, which the menu promises will provide “an irresistibly delicious Moth-erland experience.” Because the menu is so diverse, ordering from it is a challenge. It’s