Ivory Coast’s national dish attiéké has achieved UN cultural heritage status, along with Japanese sake, Thai prawn soup and Caribbean bread. But what makes this West African staple so popular? BBC Africa reporter Mayeni Jones grew up in Ivory Coast and is a self-proclaimed fan.
One of my earliest memories as a child is hearing vendors sing “Attiéké chaud! Attiéké chaud!” or “Hot attiéké!” as they roam the streets of our neighborhood, balancing large baskets of this national dish on their heads.
Fast forward 25 years and women carrying portions of fermented cassava still walk through Abidjan, Ivory Coast’s largest city, selling the now Unesco-recognised delicacy.
Other than rice, it’s hard to find any restaurant in Ivory Coast that doesn’t offer attiéké. From basic restaurants to fancy restaurants and even the beach, it’s everywhere.
Attiéké’s popularity has spread beyond the country’s borders, and is now found throughout Africa, especially in French-speaking countries.
It is also very popular in neighboring Ghana and in our country Sierra Leone, where they have very inappropriate serving suggestions.
The unique flavor of attiéké comes from cassava pulp mixed with fermented cassava, giving it its unique flavor and texture.
Cassava is ground, dried and steamed before serving.
Filling and flexible, Ivorian chef Rōze Traore describes its texture as “fluffy but granular, like couscous”.
Mr Traore adds that the thin appearance of attiéké gives a unique depth to the food, balancing spicy or sweet sauces well.
For Paule-Odile Béké, an Ivorian chef who competed on the UK TV show Masterchef: The Professionals, “sour, sweet and savory” are the words that come to mind when describing the taste of attiéké.
Gluten free and available in different grain sizes, the finer ones tend to be more expensive. Some places even sell red attiéké, soaked in palm oil.
It is eaten with a variety of dishes, the most popular version is grilled chicken or fish, a light, spicy sauce based on tomatoes and a salsa of chopped tomatoes and onions.
It was one of the dishes I cooked for my husband when we met 15 years ago. He liked it so much, he suggested we open a casual restaurant.
Attiéké is unpretentious, although reserved for special occasions such as weddings and birthdays, people now eat it every day.
Ms. Béké, who comes from a family of attiéké makers, explained some nuances.
“Our attieke will be more yellow than other regions due to being near the sea,” he said.
A native of Jacqueville, the seaside town where attiéké is made, he features it heavily on the menu of his New York supper clubs.
Although I left Ivory Coast at the age of 14 when the riots started, I have never been able to give up attiéké.
In London, I would walk miles to Congolese shops to dig bags of attiéké out of the permafrost at the bottom of the chest freezer, reserving them for dinner guests I would preach.
When I moved to Nigeria, I instructed relatives to bring me care packages in Abidjan or Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone.
It was one of the first things I looked at when I moved to Johannesburg, South Africa three months ago.
Where to find it is always one of the first questions I have from any Ivorian I meet outside of the Ivory Coast.
It obviously tastes great, but it’s hard to explain what makes attiéké so special.
Ivorian chef Charlie Koffi says “attiéké is a dish that symbolizes togetherness”.
Like injera, a fermented Ethiopian pancake, or thieboudienne, a Senegalese rice and fish dish, attiéké is best enjoyed as a group.
All over the Ivory Coast, friends and family will gather a large plate, eat with their hands and wash it down with a cold beer or soft drink.
For me, it’s also a reminder of a childhood cut short. I was just 13 years old on Christmas Eve 1999, waiting for my friends to come over to play, when the war broke out in Ivory Coast.
As the soldiers marched through the city shooting into the air and telling people to go into the houses, my younger sister and I stuck together in the hallway, which was the only windowless area in our house.
Our mother was stuck in the city, unable to join us.
Six months later, my mother sent us to the UK to live with our grandmother, fearing that increased political strife ahead of the 2000 presidential election would lead to further unrest.
Just two years later, the first civil war broke out in that country, and it would be another 15 years before I could return to my childhood home.
But even when I could not return to Babi (Abidjan’s nickname), attiéké was always a way to connect to the place we had left.
Although I am not from the Ivory Coast, like many expatriates and economic migrants who moved to the country in the prosperous 1990s, the Ivory Coast is home.
We all speak Nouchi, the French slang that graces Ivorian music and the streets of its cities, and we all eat attiéké.
Ivory Coast has a way of making people feel at home, and attiéké is part of that.
When I finished university, I returned to Ivory Coast for one year to work for an international NGO.
When we returned from one of our assignments in the west of the country, my colleague from the Ivory Coast explained that usually, attiéké was eaten mostly with kedjenou, a rich and smoky stew made with tomatoes, onions and peppers.
This is slowly cooked with local chicken or venison in a clay pot over a wood fire, infusing the dish with a deep, flavorful essence.
He said it was after the arrival of the French that the Ivorians started serving attiéké with grilled fish and chicken.
This is not something I have been able to verify, but it has always been true.
The Ivorians, although very proud of their culture, have always been open to outside influences in their cuisine and many of the region’s dishes have become local staples.
Now that attiéké has been added to the list of intangible cultural heritage that needs urgent protection, maybe more people outside the region will know about this delicious food.
Additional reporting by Danai Nesta Kupemba
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