Seasoned restaurateurs with million-dollar renos generate their own publicity through guile, connections and shameless, hyperbolic showmanship (for proof, see the Food Network). Others, like the owner of a Rastafarian restaurant we once contacted, shun it. When we called to find out how long they’ve been open, a suspicious voice said: “Who dis? Why you want to know?”
Still, others deserving of a little spotlight toil in obscurity with no press and no guest spots on Breakfast Television. One such unpolished gem is at Queen and Brock, where dim green signage proclaims the curiously named M&B Yummy House (M&B, it turns out, are the initials of the proprietor’s little children in Ethiopia). M&B’s mama, Zeni Ashine, refuses to let us over-order, despite our protestation that we’ll leave with doggie bags.  She’s adamant in her maternal bravado: “No, too much.” We relent, and wisely put our meal in her capable hands.

Shortly thereafter, a bowl of lemony, peppery, red cabbage soup ($3.50) arrives, a hearty borscht that warms the Parkdale chill. Spring roll samosas ($1) are the size of blackboard erasers, jam-packed with peas, carrots and potatoes, heavily laced with berbere (sort of an Ethiopian chili powder) and ridiculously underpriced for their size. We have to twist Ashine’s arm for some of her, no joke, hot sauce.

But nothing could’ve prepared us for what followed: the largest serving platter we’ve ever seen, filled with Ethiopian delights. The mammoth plate ($15), maybe 20 inches across, bears a sampling for two that could probably feed four. A liner of injera (looks like sea sponge) is doubled in size by additional rollups of the traditional, Ethiopian crepe-like bread. Made from fermented teff (a gluten-free grain native to Ethiopia, high in fibre and iron) flour, it’s meant to be used as a vessel/utensil for loose foods that we North Americans wouldn’t think of eating without a spoon.
Fingers sanitized with Purel and ready for a dirtying, we wade in all Temple of Doom–like, to the sea of wats and tebs. Wats (or wots) are stews with lots of sweet, red onions and, in this case, smooth yellow peas and lentils, a vegan “beef” made of tofu, and a vegan “chicken” made of seitan.
Tebs (or tibs) are sautéed super-garlicky vegetables like green beans and cabbage and slow-cooked collard greens. There’s little to differentiate items on the menu — how is “vegan ground ‘beef’ pan-cooked in Ethiopian spices” ($7.02) different from “vegan ground ‘beef’ pan-cooked in Ethiopian herbs” ($7.02)? Best to let Ashine make you whatever she wants. It’s certainly cheap enough.

Once injera-gloved fingers begin pinching mouthfuls of these pungent stews, an endless rhythm of grabbing and gorging begins until we’re stuffed. But one of the most memorable moments of the meal is the Ethiopian coffee service ($10 for six servings) that, like a soufflé, needs to be ordered well in advance.

The fuss dates back to the ninth century, when coffee was created in Ethiopia (many think the word and drink both come from the ancient Ethiopian Kingdom of Kaffa), and the ceremony surrounding it is taken very seriously. A chunk of incense fills the room with plumes of sweet, if overpowering, smoke. Ashine brings a roasting bowl tableside so we can see the beans go from green to chocolate brown. The steeping takes another 10 minutes, but by the time she slowly saunters over to pour the coffee from a old straw-corked metal urn, serving it with sugared popcorn (not as crazy as it sounds), she looks exhausted.

Would she rather be back in the old country with her children? She shrugs and says, as though it’s more fact than feeling: “Life is hard.” True, but thanks to Ashine, it’s yummy, too.