At Stone Town's waterfront, in the otherwise pleasant but unspectacular
Forodhani Gardens, a masterpiece unfurled every evening as the sun plunged into
the turquoise Zanzibar Strait.   Evenings the Gardens host dozens of local
artisans who set up broad tables and charcoal grills and cook all sorts of
seafood delicacies in local sauces over the coals.  

Zanzibar is renowned for its delicate and imaginative cooking.  A hub of the
spice trade for centuries, blessed with a diversity of seafood and tropical
fruits, and at the nexus of both Middle Eastern and African cuisines, the
result is a panoply of taste experiences as exotic and enticing as the island
itself.  And nowhere was this more evident than evenings in the Forodhani
Gardens.

Night after night, we dined on roast octopus with naan bread, beef shish kabobs
in pili pili (red chili) sauce, mantabali (Zanzibari stuffed chapatis), fried
potato balls, and chopped vegetables served with lemon.  The Mantabali in
particular were fantastic, and cost less than a dollar each.  

The vendors were cajoling but not aggressive and obviously enjoyed a rapport
with their patrons.  Watching them in action was as much fun as eating the food
itself.  They were a blur of motion against a backdrop of the flames of the
gigantic cauldrons, the harbor, and the evening stars.  Best of all, though we
tried our hardest to spoil the illusion, the entire dining experience was
completely free of flies.  In fact we were impressed by the amount of hand
washing we saw going on, by the control the cooks maintained over their food
stocks, and the public's diligence in putting garbage in the bins.

As we ate we watched young men whirl the great steel arms of the sugar cane
presses.  They placed lengths of freshly-cut cane and halved lemons at the
opening of the press and passed them between two gears that squeezed out the
sweet juice down the shiny spigot into a glass full of ice.  It was frothy and
satisfying (and addictive: I had three before the first night was behind us).
As we drank we admired the diversity of Zanzibari diners.  Ignoring the
tourists there were still dozen of ethnicities, women in head scarves, men that
looked more African, men that looked more Arabian, men that looked more South
Asian.  We were all there for the same purpose.

One night we eschewed the Gardens for a restaurant not far away, a gorgeous
building that once housed the British Consulate but now boasts one of the most
evocative dining experiences I can remember: rustic wooden tables set in the
sugary sand of the beach front, lit by candles in clay pots and the light from
a dozen tiki torches blazing away at the waterside.  We enjoyed fish steaks and
gin and tonics and the unforgettable atmosphere of the restaurant.

But afterwards we still went back over to the Forodhani Gardens to get
something good to eat.