Look, the typical “food critic” routine is a lie. Most dining rooms are just boxes with chairs, but this East Washington Street spot feels more like a sensory ambush.
The second you cross the threshold, the scent of berbere and slow-simmered onions hits you like a physical weight, instantly making your “quick dinner plans” look laughably naive.
I’ve watched plenty of people sit here in a brief state of “fork-less” panic before realizing that tearing into a communal platter is the most honest way to eat. It’s colorful, it’s loud, and it possesses a stubborn, old-school Ann Arbor confidence that refuses to water down the heat for the uninitiated…