America has so many Chinese, French, Greek, Italian, Korean, Mexican, Thai, and Vietnamese restaurants, but you don’t see many Native American restaurants. Indian restaurants, sure, but American Indian restaurants? There was one in Kansas City, when I lived there, but we were poor and it was expensive so we never went. When I discovered an affordable Native restaurant near my now-home in Seattle, I had to try it.
Of course, there were and are hundreds of Native tribes, each with their own culture and yummies, so there’s no uniform Native culture. Most of the Natives’ food — beans, corn, pumpkins, squash, sunflowers, sweet potatoes, and all the North American meats and fish — was assimilated into mainline American cuisine, so if you’re American, you’re eating Native foods whether you know it or not.
Until us white folks came, the Natives had been generally hunter-gatherers, but when they were rounded up and penned into reservations, their old way of life was denied them. In typical American style, probably fueled by big-money kickbacks, the government distributed flour, salt, and oil as subsistence for Natives on the reservations, and from tinkering with these ingredients, they invented fry bread.
It’s what it sounds like — deep-fried flatbread — and it’s the mainstay at Nacho Mama’s, in Seattle’s ironically-named White Center neighborhood.
It’s a small, quiet space, and wasn’t very busy a bit before noon, while I was there. Art that seems Duwamish-inspired is painted on the wall, but other than that the décor is muted.
With no other customers, a not-young but not-old woman was relaxing on the floor behind the counter. I recognized her from a photo on the restaurant’s website, as the owner and namesake, Nacho Mama herself.
“Hello,” she said to me, smiling from the floor.
“I’m in no hurry,” I said, “if you’re on a break down there.”
She laughed and rose up, took me to a table, gave me a menu, and made a moment’s pleasant chit-chat.
“Have you had Native cuisine before?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said, so she explained fry bread, much as I’ve explained it to you.
Then she left me to ponder the choices, which are mostly ordinary American food, with added fry bread — omelets for breakfast, with fry bread instead of toast; tacos for lunch, made with fry bread instead of taco shells; a burger, with fry bread in place of a bun, etc. I didn’t spot pizza on the menu, but another customer had what appeared to be an open-face meat and tomato pie, on fry bread instead of dough.
As a longstanding rule, it’s a Denver omelet on my first visit to a breakfast restaurant, and being in a breakfast frame of mind that’s what I ordered. A Denver is built around ham, but Nacho Mama told me she was out of ham, and offered to substitute sausage or bacon. Being an easy customer, I shrugged and smiled and said, “Surprise me.”
“You’ll be surprised!” she promised, and left me alone with my backpack, so I whipped out the book I’m reading and plowed through three chapters, as at least twenty minutes went by before the food arrived.
But what do I care? I’m retired, had nowhere to be, certainly wasn’t in a hurry, and in fact I’d said as much when I’d walked in.
The wait gave me time to leisurely absorb the place. I like the wall painting, but beyond that there wasn’t much that shouted Native American. The prices are lowish, but the furnishings are semi-swanky, with a glass cover over the sturdy square table, nicely padded chairs, and a cloth napkin at my setting. Can’t remember the last time I ate someplace so fancy the napkins weren’t made of paper.
When the food came, my omelet was plump, respectable, and quite good, with sausage and bacon in lieu of ham. The hash browns were diced and chunky (which I’m coming to prefer over the restaurant-standard shredded potatoes) and the chunks were nicely browned and well-seasoned.
The flatbread was the star, though. It was delicious and still sizzling, and came with a small dollop of butter that melted instantly upon application. It was served with wojapi sauce on the side, which Nacho Mama explained is a Native recipe for berry sauce, thickened by being boiled down. To the tongue it’s basically jam, but sooo much better.
As I’ve grown older, hot food usually makes my nose run. I’ve started taking over-the-counter pills to slow the waterworks before eating out, but on this particular morning I’d forgotten. Usually when my nose gets messy, I’ll blow and fill a few napkins, then stuff the snotty wads in my pocket so the waitress or busboy doesn’t have to deal with the ick. This time the napkin was cloth, so I briefly hesitated, but a napkin’s a napkin, right? Blowing half a dozen times, I filled that plush fabric with snot, and left it beside the tip.
I have no reservations (ha!) about recommending Nacho Mama, and my only mistake was taking just one bite of the fry bread before drenching it with wojapi. The fry bread was exquisite and I wanted to taste it, but also wanted the wojapi, and the latter may have overpowered the former.
When I return (and I will) I’ll take my nasal evaporator pill before coming, and eat half the fry bread before purpling it with the wojapi.
1/20/2025
Nacho Mama’s Fry Bread Cafe
9418 Delridge Way SW, Seattle (White Center)
Food & drink: excellent
Price: good
Service: good, but slow
Transit: RapidRide #H, #60, #128
Verdict: YES.
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