Are you a restaurant junkie? Do you like unique eating experiences in funky places? Me too. Expats are lucky people because they often have many opportunities to find the fabulous and the flaky in their foreign environments.
One steamy African morning in tropical Accra, the capital of Ghana, my prince and I are on our way to have a unique eating experience, or so we are told. It’s Sunday and American friends are showing us where to find a really great English breakfast. It’s at the Pit Stop, a car repair shop—the place where you take your vehicle when a wheel falls off, or your engine rattles its death song. Yes, this sounds a bit bizarre, but there it is. You come across lots of wacky places and eccentric people when you live in far corners of the world. It’s wonderful.
The Pit Stop has an eatery and a bar tacked on, and is owned by a Brit who has lived in the country for decades. This British watering hole is a well-kept secret, not in the guide books, and is difficult to find unless someone guides you there. The owner does not advertise and apparently does not have to.
We shudder up a dirt road, and turn right into the car repair yard, quiet now because it is Sunday. Several dead vehicles have found a final resting place here, covered in gray-brown dirt and missing major pieces of their anatomy.
At the end of the shop yard we spot a verandah with white plastic chairs and some eight tables covered with blue table cloths. The verandah has a cement floor and a shade cover of tattered woven mats. It runs along the front of what looks like a regular house with the door and window shutters painted a cheerful red.
A middle-aged man with thin, blondish hair and the florid face of a drinker sits alone at a table, consuming a huge plate of food. He doesn’t look up when we come onto the verandah, just keeps on shoveling in the grub as if he just stumbled in from the dessert and hasn’t eaten for weeks. He looks English, wearing short shorts, his socked feet stuck in leather sandals.
At another table sits an overweight young blond volunteer-type woman in baggy shorts and a faded T-shirt, reading a paperback book. She wears no makeup, her hair is scraggly and in need of a trim. The slovenly state of her appearance indicates she’s given up worrying about it. I envy her. She’s got courage. Sometimes I want to give up too, but then I want to stay married, so I put up a bit of a struggle which is not easy in this hot, humid climate that zaps you of every ounce of energy. Every morning I spend at least four minutes putting on makeup and so far so good; my man comes home every night.
Two tables are pushed together for our party. A cheery Ghanaian girl, fresh as a daisy in a white apron, gives us a menu—a single sheet in a clear plastic cover. We study the possibilities and since this is clearly a British food mecca, we go for the full English breakfast, which includes eggs, sausages, bacon, tomatoes, baked beans and fried bread. We sit back and enjoy the unique car yard ambience. A cat slinks around the rusting vehicles. In the corner a disconsolate bird sit quietly in a cage, a piece of bacon untouched on the bottom.
An outside bar is on the left, featuring high stools and a wall of bottles promising joy and oblivion. It’s ten in the morning and a lonely drinker is already peering silently and morosely into a glass. Could be tonic water.
Clearly this is not McDonald’s or the International House of Pancakes.
As we wait, more and more people arrive, almost all English-looking expats. A couple of young westernized Indian men, snappily dressed, make an energetic entrance. A young Ghanaian woman sashays to a table accompanied by a seedy expat male of a certain age. The bar fills up, the tables fill up. Our food arrives.
Indeed, a full English breakfast, looking very appetizing. We dig in and yes, it is all delicious. Meaty bacon, flavorful sausage, properly cooked eggs. The coffee is even good!
A man comes striding across the car yard and up onto the verandah, greeting various people who obviously know him. He’s wearing jeans, has a cocky walk and acts like he owns the place. His age-tortured face is ruddy, his sunken eyes are red. One might wonder if his night has been busy and on the short side. He gives us a polite good morning and disappears into the house.
Finished eating and ready to leave, I notice the kitchen right off the verandah. I poke my head around the corner. It is just a regular house-kitchen, not bigger than my own, but all burners of the standard stove are going. A big toaster-oven type grill sits on the counter with its tray full of browned sausages pulled out, ready to go. Two people are busy frying eggs and French toast, and I tell them I just wanted to let the cooks know the food was delicious. This is only part of the truth, of course. I wanted to see the kitchen, just in case it might be note-worthy—you know, have some features that would entertain or repel you, or my friends at home, who are always eager to hear horror tales. (Un)fortunately, no horror tales here.
I did not inspect the bathroom; that will wait until another time. I want to come here again for a weekday lunch with friends. I’d like to see the car mechanics in action while I sample the beef sandwiches, supposedly very good.
Who says the Brits can’t cook?
Note: Just so you don’t worry about it let me tell you that Accra has any number of proper restaurants, where one can eat lovely food, but really, how interesting are their views?
