Chez Aunty Libe

Never, the saying goes, eat at a place called Mom�s. And why is that? For the same reason that if you were to hear someone calling out to �Tiny,� you�d best back it on up�and quick. �Mom,� we have learned through long, hard experience, is only rarely a mother and often not even a she, let alone a regular doting presence in the restaurant. Not to worry, in this instance: Aunty Libe is all these things. See her sitting there by the TV in her Georgia Avenue hole in the wall, knitting quietly in a chair after the lunch rush and before dinner, undeterred either by the CNN talking head or the tableful of men barking out a fresh round of arguments about globalism and development. Only when someone in the dining room sneezes does she look up from her lap. �Bless you,� says Aunty Libe. It�s nice to report that, in addition to being an unfailingly gracious host, she�s also a pretty good cook. The menu at this Senegambian cafe is small, and, depending on the time of day, the kitchen is likely to have run out of something, particularly one or the other of the meat pies. Too bad: they�re nicely fried, eminently satisfying, and a bargain, besides. Entrees�generously portioned on dainty, flower-patterned plates�are almost always rice-based, with cheaper, tougher cuts of bone-in meat (and sometimes fish) serving as flavoring rather than the focal point of a dish. A small dish of finely diced and vinegared haba�eros accompanies these dishes, delivering a needed kick to this simple, straightforward fare. The best thing on the menu is probably the parfait-glass dessert of couscous, sour cream, and raisins�an acquired taste, perhaps, but a quietly addictive one.
—Todd Kliman, April 12, 2005