Kitfo is the Ethiopian tartar of minced steak. Ibex's version uses ground chiles and butter that lend a gritty texture to the dish. That texture can be tricky. So can its appearance. It may arrive warmed through if the waitstaff senses you're a novice, but you still may wonder: Is this cooked? It's not. It's completely raw. Have them heat it further if you like, but you're not eating kitfo anymore — more like overcooked taco meat. At that point you're better off with the tibs, kitfo louder older brother. Flavored with awazé, an acrid chili sauce that lands heavy on the palate, the pleasantly chewy strips of meat are cooked so that even the most stringent health inspector would smile approvingly.
Order the ye-beg wot, a simple lamb stew. You'll recognize the flavor if you've tried the doro, but tough, rustic cuts of lamb, still attached to the bone, make for a more deep and rich sauce. The dish was so good it temporarily converted a vegetarian on one of my trips. She couldn't resist dipping a little injera in the red-tinged oil left behind when no lamb remained. Then she did it again.
Sara Kerens
Ibex's food is easy to enjoy, even if the restaurant isn't so easy to spot.
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Ibex Ethiopian Cuisine & Bar
Kitfo $11.99
Awaze tibs 11.99
Veggie combo $9.99
Ye-beg wot 11.99
Doro wot $11.99
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Injera can be off-putting for the uninitiated. The large, floppy pancakes have a springy texture, laced with a tapestry of holes that soak up any liquid exposed to it. Ibex's isn't made in-house. That's typical for most Ethiopian restaurants, but it's a shame. It's not as sour as it could be, and it seems slightly lifeless and under-leavened compared to Desta's chewy, tart version. But all that becomes a distant memory when the quiet but attentive waitstaff arrives, heaping dishes onto a platter lined in the bread.
Every peasant cuisine invents its own way to recycle unused starch. Ibex's timatim fitfit, a salad based on shreds of leftover injera, comes seasoned with so much lemon it sings. I loved the salad, but others at my table found it soggy, preferring the unadulterated bread served on the side.
It's a move worth emulating. Tear off a piece. Hold it with your thumb, fore- and middle fingers. Take a pinch of kitfo and drag it through the sauces mingling on the plate. Grab a little ayib, a soft, housemade cheese that cuts through heat, or a sliver of jalapeño from your salad if you want to go the other direction. The kitchen may be done cooking, but flavors still shift, every morsel tailored as every diner sees fit, one bite at a time. Be greedy. Eat until you're full. There's no need to save room here.
On the back of the menu, there's one more landmine. "Try our delicious tiramisu," it pleads, but the suggestion's a tease. I tried to order the dish over three visits and was denied each time. Dessert isn't popular in Ethiopia, and there's none available here. Linger over another drink instead. If it's late on the right night, the music will start soon, pulsing from the oversized speakers in the back of the room. By midnight on weekends, a good 50 people will drink and dance and party till close. When expats find each other and beer is involved, a story always ensues.
You could join right in if you wanted. No need for training wheels here.
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