“Hmmm. Cinnamon.”

“Better than the hospital cafeteria’s brew, no?”

“Much better.” I held up the plastic package. “What’s with the Frisbee?”

“It’s injera—Ethiopian spongy flat bread. It is made from teff— our special grain.” He placed the items back into the bag. “I give you food. For an Ethiopian, that’s a most precious gift.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I didn’t make a reservation. How about we walk around and see what looks good?”

I told him that sounded fine. We started down the busy street accompanied by vehicular noise pollution and the blare of rhythmic music coming from the Lion of Judah travel agency and CD emporium. The block was a mishmash of retail outlets—Jewish thrift shops, a junkyard, discount stores, a cake shop, and, of course, the Ethiopian contingent. Within seconds, I cleverly surmised that the state colors were green, yellow, and red because at least five storefronts were emblazoned with stripes in those hues. Even the distant Shell station fit right in.

There were three restaurants, all of them having marquees in English as well as squiggles I assumed to be Amharic. There was a store that specialized in injera and exotic spices. Even through the closed door, I could smell the tantalizing aromas. There was a dress shop boasting organic fabrics with a white cotton smock in the window festooned with red, green, and yellow ribbons around the neck. The shelves around the clothes offered a variety of silver rings and crosses, lots of shell jewelry, and a whole host of primitive-looking dolls. Koby saw me staring.

“Do you want to go in?”

“No, it’s all right. Maybe later.”

“Here is Gursha. Would you like to try it?”

“Great.”

He opened the door for me and we walked in.

The place was small and homey with a chockablock decor. The wallpaper was a pattern of various animal footprints and served as a backdrop for posters of Ethiopia, a map of the world, and dozens of photographs of smiling patrons. The tables and chairs were constructed of hay-colored cane painted with red geometric shapes, the ensemble topped by large, fringed cloth umbrellas. A couple of men ate in a pseudostraw hut next to the window, dining a mano: eating with their hands. The hostess was thin and delicate, with a long nose and round eyes typical of other Ethiopians I’d seen. She glanced at me, then spoke to Koby in her native language. They carried on a short conversation. Then she seated us at a table and distributed menus.

“I told her we were vegetarians,” Koby said. “She assured me that they have lots of vegetarian specialties.”

“Here we go,” I said. “There’s a vegetarian delight for two. It includes yater alitcha—”

“Peas with spices.”

“Yatakilt alitcha—”

“Mixed vegetables with spices.”

“Yemiser wot—”

“Lentils with red-pepper sauce.”

“Collard greens—”

“Collard greens.”

I laughed. “Very funny. There’s baklava. Aha, something familiar. Let’s split that. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you eat with your fingers like you do in Moroccan restaurants?”