I ran into a friend while poking around Kijabe Street for a lawn mower the other day. Someone I hadn’t seen in a while. He said, “Let’s grab something to eat.” I followed him to Bamboo Cask in Ngara. A hidden gem - for me, anyway. I’m sure someone reading this is already rolling their eyes, thinking, please, this place is known by anyone who knows anything about meat.
You know it’s a serious joint because there’s a carwash in the same compound. Which means it’s the kind of place where people arrive mid-afternoon and accidentally stay into the evening.
Bamboo Cask is essentially a long, rectangular, outdoorsy bar. The kitchen sits at one end like the engine room. TV screens glow with football. It was a Saturday, so tables were claimed by what looked like chama groups or clusters of friends catching up. It was tame in the afternoon, but you could sense the place stretching its shoulders, preparing to get loud.
The main bar—dark, well-stocked—felt like it belonged to a nightclub. I doubt it gets outrageously loud, given it’s planted right in the middle of a residential estate, but it has the energy of a place that refuses to close early. Thanks to the surrounding Airbnbs, there were a few white folk—transient, curious, drawn in by the promise of nyama choma and something authentically local.
We ordered meat. (I went for chicken.) My friend swore their cuts are top grade. The chicken choma was done well- tender, properly charred, no nonsense. When it started raining, magic happened. They closed the roof! The whole roof. It was the best thing I saw that weekend. By the time we slid off our stools at around 5pm, the place had filled out. Music edged up. Waitresses moved faster. Conversations thickened.
You could tell this was no longer a place for passing through. This was where you got stuck—willingly.
