It’s called Corriente Bar and Grill, but nobody cares for that name. Everybody just calls it Saitoti. Corriente is a type of cow from Spain. Saitoti, I assumed, was the owner. Like everybody else in Nairobi, I have always heard of Saitoti’s legend, a local famous for its meat.
So I recently walked in from the biting cold to meet a friend. It was like any other local; intimate, full of music and the sweet scent of meat and conversation. From my seat, I could see the cooks bent over steaming pots. A sign over the kitchen announced, “Soup Available.”
While ordering at the butchery counter, I ran into a man who looked exactly like another man with whom I went to university. He was busy giving instructions with a very intense expression. Seemed like the proprietor.
I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey, you look exactly like someone I went to Uni with!” He regarded me with great boredom and growled, “who?” I said, “Francis!” He smirked and said, “Oh, so you must know Andrew and Kevin and Brian…”
Yeah, I know all those buggers.
I told him it was my first time at Saitoti. He asked me what hole I have been living in. When I asked him why it’s called Saitoti, he pointed at a very dark man leaning on a counter. “That is Saitoti.” And that’s how I met the meat maestro.
We ate a very sumptuous meal of wet fried liver and spinach, which I washed down with a double whisky. Music was old school.
Every so often, a hawker stood at the doorway and raised his merchandise: pruners, jacket, spanner kit, jumping cables, and when one came with a broom, my friend said, “maybe I should get that for my grandmother’s transportation.” I howled like a maniac.
Later, in bed, it struck me: Saitoti isn't just a bar, it's an allegory of the city itself. What people search for in places like this is what we're all searching for in ourselves: authenticity.
