Bamako Burger

Bamako, Mali

"Ugh."
I groaned as I wiped more sweat off my forehead. It was early afternoon in Bamako, Mali's capital city, and the dry heat was cooking me alive. I had been wandering around all morning, taking in the sights, and I figured now was a good time to sit and have a drink. I started looking for a roadside cafe when I came across a fancy-looking, air-conditioned restaurant and patisserie. I ducked inside.
"Bonjour," a woman greeted me from behind the counter. She stood behind a glass case of pastries and cakes, each one looking as delectable as the next. At the end of the counter was a refrigerator full of cold sodas, and beside that was functioning ICEE machine. This place was heavenly.
I looked around for a food menu, but couldn't find one. I asked the woman if she had one, and she quickly listed all the food on offer, in French of course. I acknowledged her as if I understood what she had said, but in reality the only word I recognized was 'ham', and I was not about to order a plate of lunch meat. I stood there, wanting to eat but clueless as to what I could order. As I was about to request a piece of ham, another customer approached the counter and ordered an am-boor-ger. Immediately, I repeated what the man had said.
"Am-boor-ger, please," I said.
My ordering crisis over, I took a seat and waited for my meal. Soon enough, the woman brought me my am-boor-ger-- the biggest, best dressed hamburgerI had ever seen. In the western world, the standard hamburger consists of a meat patty within a bun, adorned with tomato, lettuce, pickle and sometimes onion. Ketchup and mustard often make appearances, as well. The Bamako burger, on the other hand, utilizes the same same bun and meat recipe, but with the additional ingredients of french fries (yes, on the burger) and a fried egg. And lots of ketchup and mayonnaise, of course.
I stared at the beast on my plate and wondered if I should have just ordered the ham. Unable to fit my mouth around any part of it, I picked up my knife and fork and sliced into the burger. As I ate in pieces, a well-dressed man with an authoritative air about him emerged from the kitchen. Another female worker followed him, and it appeared he was leading some sort of staff training. The man noticed me and paused from his activities, asking, "Anglais ou Francais?"
"Anglais," I replied.
"English? You speak English? I speak English small-small. How are you feeling?"
"I am fine, thank you," I replied.
"Where are you from?"
"California. In America."
"And what are you eating?"
"I am having your hamburger."
He paused at this. I wondered if I had offended him in some way. Before I had a chance to think about it, he proclaimed, "An American eating our am-boor-ger!"
He turned to his colleagues to translate.
"The chef! The chef! Bring the chef out here!" he ordered.
In a moment, an apprehensive-looking chef appeared. With the entire restaurant staff assembled before me, the manager turned to me and asked,"What do you think of our burger? Is it good?"
I stared at this line of people awaiting my response. The manager was literally leaning over the counter in anticipation. The chef removed his hat and looked at me anxiously. The female workers were slumped over the pastries case, waiting for my verdict so that they could return to their work. I briefly considered asking if it is standard to put an egg and fries on a burger, but the chef looked dangerously close to a stroke so I held my tongue. Instead, I responded,"It's great! It's one of the best burgers I've ever had!"
"HA!" The manager banged his hands on the counter. "She loves it!"
He quickly translated my comments to the staff. A look of relief spread across the chef's face, and both he and the manager came over to my table to shake my hand.
"The best am-boor-ger she's ever had!"cried the manager.
"Well, I said it was one of the best..." I muttered, but the the manager took no notice. He was thrilled that his giant, beefy boor-ger had passed the American taste test.
"An American eating our am-boor-ger! And it's the best!" he repeated.
"Thank you! Thank you!" cried the chef.
"It's the best!" shouted the manager again, as one of the women handed him a piece of paper.
"You love our am-boor-ger, " sang the manager as he leaned over the table, placing the paper next to me. "And here is your bill."
And with that, he and the chef left me to decide how much I really liked their am-boor-ger.