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

impossible to figure out the specialties of Executive Chef Early Primus, who once cooked for Muhammad Ali. At the opening 1 8 2

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ceremonies for the restaurant, Farrakhan promised “an international menu where people of every part of this earth and culture can see themselves reflected in the menu.” In other words, this is Continental cuisine taken to more continents than one menu has ever gone before.

There’s Indian tandoori chicken, Jamaican jerk chicken, Italian lemon fettucine, Tex-Mex quesadillas, Chinese spring rolls, Caribbean grouper, and vegetarian barbecued ribs. (No nation would want credit for that.) I don’t believe Farrakhan’s chef can pull off a menu like this.

I don’t believe Alain Ducasse could pull off a menu like this.

Although tilapia is not a particularly interesting fish, and I suspect freezing has further blunted the flavor of my entree, I enjoy the dish.

It isn’t spicy, as it is supposed to be, but the bland white sauce is fine.

The lamb chops, ordered medium-rare, arrive overcooked and rather cold. What’s worse, they’re accompanied by the same accursed Burgundy sauce that ruined the zucchini boats. It is even more awful this time because it has congealed.

“Having dessert?” asks Noel.

We’re tempted not to, since the first two courses have dragged on for two-and-a-half hours. That’s a long time to sit at a dinner table and not drink wine. Still, the Salaam bakery has a good reputation.

“Of course,” I say.

He offers us a choice of either bean pie or crème caramel. Well, nobody ever said the Salaam bakery produced a cornucopia of fine products. We select the crème caramel. Wrong choice. It takes fifteen minutes to show up and has a tough, thick crust.

Afterward, on the way to the Salaam parking lot across the street from the restaurant, I notice the Fruit of Islam with the walkie-talkie watching us. He is making sure we get to our car safely. I don’t know many other restaurants that care about the well-being of patrons once they’ve paid the check.

At the Respect for Life Bookstore #1, just across the street from Salaam, I pick up a nice selection of items: the two Elijah Muhammad books on eating, a tape of the opening ceremonies for the restaurant, and a F O R K I T O V E R

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video of Farrakhan’s 1994 speech at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, titled, to be precise, “(The Furor of Farrakhan) ‘The Contro-versy with the Jews: The True History of Slavery in the Americas.’ ” A young man in a bow tie working the cash register studies my selections and singles out the tape featuring Farrakhan berating the Jews. “That’s a good one,” he says.

Although I inform him that I am from out of town, he says he will accept a check. My guess is that not a lot of customers stiff the Nation of Islam.

Despite the menacing appearance of some of Farrakhan’s militant followers, I’ve been treated well whenever I’ve dealt with his group. Back in 1985 I attended Farrakhan’s infamous rally at Madison Square Garden. Many other white people who were there expressed horror, while the mainstream press was apoplectic—The New Republic compared the event to the Nuremberg rallies of Nazi Germany. For me, it was hard to take seriously.

Farrakhan had, Casey Kasem–like, gathered together all sorts of golden oldies. In this case, they were grizzled Jew-bashers from around the nation, everyone from Russell Means to Stokely Carmichael, bit players in a variety show featuring gospel, prayer, militarism, lies, hatred, love, neatness, faith, fascism, paranoia, wit, and megalomania. Farrakhan was his usual self, pointing out that “the germ of murder is sown in the hearts of Jews across the world.” To me, everything sounded staged.

Widely reported was this exchange:

Farrakhan: “Who were the enemies of Jesus?” The crowd, excited as kids at a birthday party, gleefully screamed the expected reply: “Jews! Jews! Jews!” What I don’t remember seeing in print was Farrakhan’s own answer to his question: “The scribes.”

I’m white. I’m Jewish. I write. I don’t think there’s much about me that Farrakhan would like.

I’m sitting in a booth, reading my morning paper, enjoying fresh but weak coffee and a fresh but bland Danish. It’s just like every other morning, 1 8 4

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except my breakfast comes from the Salaam bakery and my paper is The Final Call, Farrakhan’s house organ.

I’ve read newspapers that are more offensive—a number of New York tabloids come to mind. Still, The Final Call has its malevolent moments. The National News Briefs section is reporting the arrest of a Hasidic rabbi for allegedly fondling a teenage girl on an airplane.

Although the paper comes out only every two weeks and has space for only three national news briefs, the rabbi makes the news. I suspect there are many cries of “Stop the presses!” whenever the editor of The Final Call comes across an item about a wayward Jew.

It’s quiet here, peaceful. My booth is in a sunny room decorated with cartoon fish on tile walls. I could be in the family restaurant of a mid-priced hotel chain.

Immediately after such a light breakfast, I decide to have lunch.

I’ve had my eye on the cafeteria’s rotisserie chicken, which comes with macaroni and cheese, greens, and a roll for $5.95 (white meat) or $5.49

(dark). There are no greens today, so the white-jacketed server offers a substitute. I ask for a little cabbage and a few candied carrots, and I have to stop her from filling my tray to overflowing. Portions are more than generous at Salaam.

I take a table in Elijah’s Garden, a glass-walled interior dining area with a marble fountain, patio furniture, and two overhead television sets. The carrots are soft and sweet. The cabbage is limp from sitting too long in water. The macaroni and cheese is nicely flavored but a little dry. My flimsy plastic knife bends double when I try to cut