A love letter to attiéké, Ivory Coast's timeless culinary treasure

One of my earliest childhood memories is hearing vendors sing "Attiéké chaud! Attiéké chaud!" or "Hot attiéké!" as they strolled the streets of my neighbourhood, balancing large baskets of this national delicacy on their heads.

Fast-forward 25 years and women carrying individually wrapped portions of the fermented cassava couscous still walk across Abidjan, Ivory Coast's biggest city, selling this now Unesco-recognised dish.

An alternative to rice, it's hard to find any hospitality venue in the Ivory Coast that doesn't serve attiéké. From the most basic eateries to the fanciest restaurants and even on the beach, it's everywhere.

Attiéké's popularity has spilled over the country's borders, and it is now found across Africa, especially in French-speaking countries.

It's also very popular in neighbouring Ghana and my home country Sierra Leone, where they have some fairly unorthodox serving suggestions.

The distinctive tangy taste of attiéké comes from the cassava tubers mixed with fermented cassava, which gives it its unique flavour and texture.

The cassava is grated, dried and then steamed before serving.

Filling and versatile, Ivorian chef Rōze Traore describes its texture as "fluffy yet granular, similar to couscous".

Mr Traore adds that the slight tanginess of attiéké provides a unique depth to meals, perfectly balancing spicy or savoury sauces.

For Paule-Odile Béké, an Ivorian chef who competed on the UK TV programme Masterchef: The Professionals, "sour, zingy and sweet" are the words that come to mind when she describes the taste of attiéké.

Gluten-free and available in different grain sizes, the finest is often the most expensive. Some places even sell red attiéké, which has been soaked in palm oil.

Eaten with a variety of dishes, the most popular version is with chargrilled chicken or fish, a simple, spicy tomato-based sauce and a salsa of chopped tomatoes and onions.

It was one of the first dishes I cooked for my husband when we met 15 years ago. He liked it so much, he suggested we open a restaurant serving just that.

Attiéké is unpretentious, although traditionally reserved for special occasions like weddings and birthdays, people now eat it every day.

Ms Béké, who comes from a family of attiéké-makers, explained some nuances.

"Our attieke will be a bit more yellow than some other regions due to the proximity of the sea," she said.

A native of Jacqueville, a small coastal town where attiéké is made, she features it heavily in the menu of her New York supper clubs.

Although I left Ivory Coast at the age of 14 as civil unrest broke out, I have never been able to let go of attiéké.

In London, I'd travel miles to Congolese shops to excavate bags of attiéké from the permafrost at the bottom of a chest freezer, stockpiling it for dinner guests I could evangelise.

When I moved to Nigeria, I mandated relatives to bring me care packages from Abidjan or Freetown, Sierra Leone's capital.

It was one of the first things I looked for when I moved to Johannesburg in South Africa three months ago.

Where to find it is always one of the first questions I have for any Ivorians I meet outside Ivory Coast.

Obviously it tastes delicious, but it's hard to describe what makes attiéké so special.

Ivorian chef Charlie Koffi says "attiéké is a dish that symbolizes togetherness".

Like injera, the fermented Ethiopian pancake, or thieboudienne, Senegal's rice-and-fish dish, attiéké is best enjoyed in a group.

Across Ivory Coast, friends and family will gather around a big plate, eating with their hands and washing it down with a cold beer or soft drink.

For me, it's also a reminder of a childhood which was cut short. I was just 13 years old when on Christmas Eve 1999, as I waited for my friends to come round for a play date, a military coup rocked Ivory Coast.

As soldiers drove through the city shooting in the air and telling people to head indoors, my little sister and I clung to each other in a hallway, the only windowless space in our house.

Our mum was stuck in town, unable to join us.

Six months later, my mum sent us to the UK to live with our grandmother, fearing the rising political tension in the run-up to the 2000 presidential elections would result in further unrest.

Just two years later, the country's first civil war would break out, and it would be another 15 years before I was able to return to my childhood home.

But even when I couldn't return to Babi (Abidjan's nickname), attiéké was always a way to connect to the place we had left behind.

Even though I'm not Ivorian, like many of the expatriates and economic migrants who moved to the country during the prosperous 1990s, Ivory Coast is home.

We all speak Nouchi, the French slang that peppers Ivorian music and the streets of its cities, and we all eat attiéké.

Ivory Coast has a way of making people feel at home, and attiéké is part of that.

When I finished university, I returned to Ivory Coast for a year to work for an international NGO.

On our way back from one of our assignments in the west of the country, an Ivorian colleague explained that traditionally, attiéké was mostly eaten with kedjenou, a rich, smoky stew made with tomatoes, onions, and chillies.

This is slow-cooked with local chicken or game in a clay pot over a wood fire, infusing the dish with a deep, flavourful essence.

He claimed that it was only after the French arrived that Ivorians started serving attiéké with grilled fish and chicken.

This is not something that I've been able to confirm, but it always rang true.

Ivorians, although fiercely proud of their culture, have always been open to foreign influences in their cuisine and many regional dishes have become local staples.

Now that attiéké has been added to the list of intangible cultural heritage in need of urgent safeguarding, perhaps more people outside the region will become aware of this delicious treat.

Additional reporting by Danai Nesta Kupemba