Eat, Drink, and Be Myrrhy
Ifrah Ahmed on cooking authentically as culinary cultures evolve.
By Abena Anim-Somuah
Photos by Celeste Noche
Prop styling by Nidia Cueva
Special thanks to Goodies in Seattle
Eaters lucky enough to score a coveted seat at Milk & Myrrh, Ifrah Ahmed’s pop-up restaurant, are treated to a bevy of East African flavors from the Somali American writer and chef. Menus in Seattle, New York City, and Los Angeles have featured signature dishes like coconut soor (corn grits) with xawaash-braised short ribs, crab sambuus, mussels in dalac bilaash (tomato stew) served with traditional corn flatbread called muufo, and upside-down banana cardamom cake. Every meal is accompanied by a vibrant Somali soundtrack.
Raised in Seattle in a prominent Somali community, Ifrah transitioned out of law school to create these culinary experiences rooted in her heritage. These dishes serve as a great introduction for those new to this East African country’s fare. Somali cuisine is a product of trade and commerce, as well as rich diversity among the regions scattered across the expansive landscape. Distinct flavors include cardamom, cumin, coriander, and cilantro—you can find most of these in the staple spice blend xawaash—alongside ingredients like tamarind, mango, banana, coconut, and camel meat and milk.
In Los Angeles, Ifrah hatched the concept of the anjero burrito, inspired by her memories of eating the fermented crepe-like bread at the breakfast table and her love of the Tex-Mex classic. She wrapped xawaash-spiced mushroom, kale, and sweet potatoes or egg and fuul (fava bean stew) in anjero and served them with basbaas, a green hot sauce. The burritos sold out every week of the inaugural six-week run.
If you haven’t had a chance to try Ifrah’s food, you will soon: Soomaaliya, her debut cookbook filled with recipes, interviews, and stories paying homage to Somalia’s distinct culinary culture, will be out next year. Here, she talks about the connective nature of cuisine, her first American food experience, and what it means to be culturally authentic when creating dishes from home in a new one.
How did you and your family end up in Seattle?
We were resettled by a refugee agency coming from Somalia, by way of Tanzania and Kenya, before we were resettled in the United States.
Growing up in Seattle, how did food play a central role in your life?
Somali food was a big part of maintaining cultural connections and ties to our heritage. I didn’t think of it that way, but looking back, this was an intentional act that my mom was doing to help us remember home. For American food, it was more a source of curiosity and a way to understand a new environment. My first instance of American food was on the plane. I have this distinct memory of being served cake. I remember my mom saying in Somali, “It’s dolci, it’s cake,” and then me spitting it out because it was too intense and didn’t resemble the cake that I knew.
Exposure to American food was mostly through television and school lunches. At home, my mom would make American foods but with a Somali variation. If we wanted something like hamburgers, she would add xawaash spice mix to flavor the meat. So it would taste distinctly Somali, but it was a burger.
It’s like Somali on the inside, American on the outside. As you were developing your relationship with cooking and food, what were some of the Somali techniques and ingredients that you started to incorporate?
There weren’t really techniques but more ingredients that are unique to Somali cuisine, and how to source and check for quality. I mentioned xawaash spice mix, which is the backbone of Somali cuisine’s flavor profile, and goat and camel meat, as well as camel’s milk.
It sounds like there is a strong Somali community in Seattle. Were these ingredients easy to find? Were they accessible in a way that wasn’t watered down?
For the most part! There were well-stocked Somali halal grocery stores that carried spice mixes, different types of meats, and shelf-stable essentials. The one exception is camel products. Halal camel meat is mostly shipped from Australia, and camel’s milk is really hard to find, but I just saw a company in Kansas on TikTok, so that’s promising. Most of the vegetables and fruits you could get at any grocery store.
You started your pop-up Milk & Myrrh as a way to connect and educate people about Somali cuisine. Often, you’re their first authentic exposure to it. What inspired you to start a pop-up series, and what did some of those first dishes look like?
I just felt like food was the best vehicle to introduce people to Somali culture and to Somali people. I can’t teach them the Somali language or tidbits of Somali culture, which are not as accessible. It just felt natural for me to share food. The first dishes for Milk & Myrrh were created long before the pop-up. When I lived in Bed-Stuy, New York, I would go to these summer block parties and bring samboos and basbaas. People would ask, “What is that?” And then after the first bite say, “Wow, this is amazing!”
Samboos made the most sense as a great introduction to Somali cuisine. A dumpling-like pastry is the hallmark of most cuisines, and it is also one of Somali’s most popular foods. My hot sauce was so popular that it only felt right to pair it with the samboos. In terms of the other dishes, we had other Somali standouts like goat meat and rice dishes. I didn’t water anything down and felt it was only right to represent Somali in its authenticity, dietary restrictions aside.
I commend you for not feeling that need to water down. What was the reception?
I couldn’t have asked for better support. It’s been positive since day one, and people have been really happy to experience the food and connect at my pop-ups. They are excited to learn and try something new, which can be quite rare. When it came to L.A., a city with a significant Somali population, I wanted to offer something new that they hadn’t been exposed to. That’s when I knew I had to make the anjero burritos.
Ah, yes! The famous anjero burrito! What sparked the idea, and what did the recipe development look like?
I think I came up with the idea about a decade ago and manifested it somehow. I remember tweeting the idea and thinking that someone should open an injera food truck or something—I even used the Ethiopian spelling, because I was still learning Somali at the time.
Fast forward to winter 2021: I set up a residency for the pop-up and was also trying to figure out if I wanted to move to L.A. I noticed that people were really into breakfast burritos. It was fascinating and I thought, Maybe it’s time to make that tweet a reality. Growing up, we would eat our anjero with eggs and roll them up, but it wasn’t really a burrito style. As I was figuring out the structure and the shape of the dish, I realized that Somali anjero, compared to the Ethiopian style, is much thinner and could be a better vessel for holding eggs and beans like a flour tortilla. I started double-wrapping them with two anjeros—one to cover the ingredients and the other one on the outer layer to cover up the mistakes. People are used to burritos, and there are different styles of burritos. I didn’t consider them to be Somali-Mexican fusion, but rather, I used the burrito as a vessel to demonstrate a common Somali-style breakfast.
When I felt ready to test them out, I reached out to my friend [former Los Angeles Times cooking columnist] Ben Mims and told him hesitantly, “I want to start doing Somali-style breakfast burritos.” He responded, “Are you kidding me? You should 100 percent do it.” The burritos wouldn’t have been possible without Ben. After our chat, I set up a platform to sell the burritos, made these vintage-style posters inspired by Somali music album covers, and posted them online. The first round of burritos sold out, and it soon became a weekly event for a few months.
That’s beautiful! When you think about the anjero burritos, how do you think they fit into the landscape of what we can and cannot consider to be authentic food?
I think it is hard to police authenticity, especially when it comes to how first-generation cooks express themselves through their ancestral dishes.
I don’t think I’ve changed anything about anjero beyond the presentation. I think if I were adding different ingredients or trying different techniques, then it wouldn’t be traditional, but it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be authentic. Authenticity is impacted by who you are, where you are, what your experiences are, and how you perceive that particular culture.
I think we often mix up traditional with authentic, and in a way, it diminishes regional experiences and how cultures evolve. I think we presume that the truest form of a culture and cuisine is how it is experienced back home. And yet, if you go back home, things are not stagnant. They are constantly evolving, and there is movement forward.
You recently took a trip to Somalia and got to experience modern Somali cuisine. What were some highlights of the trip, and how did they affirm your feelings about authenticity?
It was a chance to see so many different expressions between Somali food and other cultures. There’s all this talk of authenticity, but then you walk through the streets of Mogadishu and it’s something else. I went to this pizza place next door to a fancy coffee shop, and they were serving odkaac, these salty jerk-like beef or camel cubes, on pizza. This is something you would usually have with anjero or for breakfast, but now it’s on pizza.
I know it’s one example, but it affirmed my beliefs around authenticity. Culture can be present and look different for people across a particular diaspora. No one in Somalia is questioning the okta pizza. If anything, they are excited and indulging in it. There is so much development in many areas, which inspires me.
As you continue to sow your oats in the food world, how do you hope to infuse more authentic Somali culture and cuisine into the American food-media landscape?
Continue to present my food and the things I work on from a place of love and intentionality. I’m not interested in telling people, “This is the kind of Somali experience that is the most authentic,” but rather, “This is a Somali experience rooted in the experiences I had growing up, and this is how I stay true from what I was taught.”
I see my work, particularly recipe development, as a blueprint for people who don’t know how to make Somali food and are looking for that connection to their heritage. I don’t post my variations of those recipes because I want them to serve as a good foundation, and then people [can] experiment.
How do you hope Milk & Myrrh and your other projects inspire people from immigrant cultures?
I hope that cross-cultural people don’t feel a sense of needing to choose between cultures and feel like they are equally representing both cultures with their work. I hope seeing my work encourages a sense of curiosity and a love for the traditions that represent your family.
