Two or three between two people is about right.
Ripe plantain, ginger, grains of selim, a spoon of honey cut with dried chilli.
Four prawns, garlic butter, lime, bread to finish the butter with.
Burnt until it collapses, then dressed with roasted groundnut, lemon and mint.
Local goat cheese, figs from the tree the room is named after, thyme, black pepper.
Two skewers, yaji spice, red onion, a wedge of lime.
Baked here every afternoon. The butter is whipped with red palm oil and sea salt.
From the lake, split and grilled over charcoal, shito on the side, kenkey or chips.
Slow cooked overnight, served on the bone with rice and a little of the cooking liquor.
Thirty days on the bone, grilled rare unless you say otherwise, peppercorn butter.
Black eyed beans stewed in palm oil, fried plantain, a soft egg on top.
Cooked in the pot with the chicken, so it takes the smoke. Not a side, a plate of its own.
Okra, garden egg, coconut milk, rice. The kitchen's favourite thing to eat after service.
Braised four hours in tomato and scotch bonnet, finished with a crisp banku crumb.
Made with leaves from the courtyard. Tastes faintly of coconut and nobody knows why.
Ghanaian 70%, short pastry, a thick pinch of salt.
Cold, sharp and about as light as a pudding gets.
The full list is on the table. Anything on it can be poured by the glass on a quiet night.
Dry, a little waxy, good with the tilapia.
Light enough to chill for twenty minutes before it comes to the table.
How most tables here begin.