Yes, a Hotel That Sells Roasted Goat Should Be Called a Goatel
Yes, a Hotel That Sells Roasted Goat Should Be Called a Goatel
Roasted goat in Kabale
I had convinced my expedition team of two Tanzanians and one other American to venture 100 miles off track during an already 1,500-mile journey. My plan was to visit Kabale, a Ugandan city that had been described as the Switzerland of East Africa for its picturesque hills and chilly temperature.
With our tires spinning in a mud field of sleeping 18-wheelers, I realize that alphorns and raclette might not be on the day’s agenda.
Amid a brewing mutiny, my eyes are drawn to a bubblegum pink sign that reads, New Kadio Hotel and Goat Roasting.
“A hotel that sells roasted goat. A goatel! Park the car.”
We climb down the stairs finding the café empty. My friend Allen from Arusha pats me on the back, “Come on brother, there is a pork joint next door.”
Suddenly a gust of wind pushes the faintest aroma of smoked meat through a chartreuse curtain at the back of the dining room. I squint with determination.
“Not yet, there is goat here.”
Allen shakes his head. “Here we go again.”
I start walking towards the billowing curtain when I notice a small wooden key rack on the wall, its tiny hooks holding an assortment of old keys. At the bottom of the rack scribbled in black magic marker are the words “roasted goat”, followed by seven exclamation points. Seven! What kind of maniac would write seven exclamation points after anything?
“I need to know who wrote this.”
I push through the curtain and arrive in a concrete courtyard. At the far end, I see another doorway, blocked by a wooden counter. My eyes detect the slightest plumes of blue smoke wafting out into the sun filled yard. Looking passed the counter into the dark chamber, I see a giant wood-burning oven and a lanky phantom in a pink t-shirt.
“My name is Justin, I am here for the goat roasting.”
“My name is Andrew Byamugisha, I am the chef.”
Andrew slams down a metal tray full of massive roasted goat parts. Legs, feet, ribs, cheeks. “How much do you want?”
“Do you have cold beers?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll take all of it please with lots of chili, potatoes, and shredded cabbage.”
Andrew slides the entire tray into the oven and stokes the fire. The meat comes back out sizzling, and he starts cracking away at the large limbs with a massive machete. Small bits of bone and grizzle shoot every direction, hitting my arms and chest.
Four plates come out to the dining room piled high with steaming carnage.
I pick up a moist nugget of goat with a handful of fresh chilies and some grains of sea salt. It is smoky, tender, and succulent. My road-weary comrades crush through pounds of sustenance and drink frosty Nile beers like they just ran a marathon. We invite Andrew to join us.
Allen says, “Goat and beer, we are human again.”
Andrew smiles. “This is how my family has always cooked it… I work very hard and wish more people knew I was here. So sometimes I am yelling roast goat from my heart. It worked, you all heard me.”