It is said that when a mother cow is chewing grass, her young ones watch her mouth. When one enters a new restaurant, he does not simply crack the kola nuts offered him. He must remember from whence those nuts came.

Perhaps it is the artificial baobab in KULT that made me remember this most appropriate of sayings from my homeland. The crude wooden furniture and tribal patterning throughout the interior evoked my beloved Africa. Some people may think that they tried a little too hard with the whole rough ethnic look, but to them I say: A child’s fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm.

Kult is tough to find—it is down near Kinoteatr Illuzion on Yauskaya Ulitsa. There are not any metro stations near it. But a baby on a mother’s back does not know the way is long and I took a cab.

My first glance at the menu was a disappointment. No yam foo-foo, no bitter-leaf soup. While the menu has international pretensions, they opted for Eastern and Latin dishes over my native Africa’s delicacies. When the rainy season comes on too strong, even the rainmaker is powerless.

I settled for a “Banana Cow” cocktail (R120) because the tortoise cannot cross the plains in a day. And it was a righteous decision. The fresh banana puree with milk and rum instantly changed my mood. That night my party discovered many alternatives to palm wine—both the bloody Mary (R100) and Blue Hawaii (R120) would have pleased my ancestors.

But a toad does not run in the daytime for nothing. I had to eat something. The menu is as compact as it is globalized. We ordered the Caesar salad (R110), which, in addition to grilled chicken breast and all the expected ingredients, was sprinkled with walnuts. While they did not live up to the intimacy of a kola nut, it added a nice twist. Eastern veggies (R90) were also quite tasty, although I didn’t understand the reference to the East. It was simply sauteed zucchini and pepper with some tomatoes tossed in.

The quesadilla (R70) might upset elders who still believe twins ought to be left in the Evil Forest. They were anything but traditional, filled with chicken, peas, and many other surprising elements. Still, they were tasty, although I would have preferred more cheese and a spicier sauce.

Kult boasts an entire “rice menu,” with several types of reasonably priced rice dishes that could easily take the place of an entree. I tried the biryani rice (R130). It was overly sweet (with raisons and dates) and light on the cashews, but enjoyable nonetheless.

My chicken filet with pineapple (R110) had a rather Hawaiian feel to it. I was wrong to eat it with the biryani—the goat and the hen will never mate—but I cleaned my plate anyway. My companion ordered the vegetable grill (R100), a simple assortment of mushroom, bell pepper, zucchini, and other treats. Indeed, there were several vegetarian options for those who fear the wrath of Dry-meat-that-fills-the-mouth.

I was not planning on dessert. All the portions were fit for a man with ten wives and I was full. But then I thought, “When have I become a shivering old woman?” That being thought, I ordered the chocolate roulette (R100). This flour-free creation was delightfully rich. It even brought me back to my youth, when we would eat fried locust by the dozen.

If Kult had given me a simple meal, I would have simply been grateful for the fact that they fed me. But their meal was greater and more bountiful than I could have imagined. When the moon is shining, the cripple becomes hungry for a walk.

It is like the dog says, if I fall down for you and you fall down for me, it’s play.

Looking at a king’s mouth, you would think that he never sucked at his mother’s breast. And so I felt. As if I never sucked the milk from the nipple of my mother, so happy was I at the generous meal I had received.