If you live west of the Schuylkill River, you’ve (hopefully) heard of Abyssinia, the Ethiopian restaurant on 45th and Walnut streets. In 1983, Red Sea, named after the Indian Ocean inlet separating Eritrea from Saudi Arabia and Yemen, became the first Eri–Ethiopian restaurant to exist in Philadelphia. Twenty years later, Ethiopian immigrant Tedla Abraham took over the restaurant with his former business partner. Since renaming the restaurant and replacing the windows and floors in 1995, Abraham has been serving up farm–to–table Ethiopian dishes, paying homage to the country, people, and food that raised him.

Abraham’s decision to move to Philly and eventually own Abyssinia did not happen by chance. In the late 1970s and '80s, West Philly witnessed a diaspora of Ethiopian and modern–day Eritrean immigrants following the 1974 Ethiopian coup d’état. On Sept. 12, 1974, Ethiopian military junta overthrew the Ethiopian Empire and Emperor Haile Selassie, establishing Ethiopia as a Marxist–Leninist state. This moment of political strife, famine, and war led to a mass immigration of Eri–Ethiopian people to the United States—thousands of miles away from home, finding comfort in each other, elaborate holiday celebrations, and plates of injera dipped in their favorite stews.

In 2024, the Eri–Ethiopian community in West Philly is stronger than ever, lining Baltimore Avenue with bars and restaurants for Philadelphian creatives, activists, and lovers of delicious food alike to enjoy. 



I begin my journey of West Philly Ethiopian food history at Doro Bet, one of the more recent additions to the Eri–Ethiopian enclave. Doro Bet, Amharic for “chicken house,” is one of three Ethiopian restaurants, including Alif Brew & Mini Mart and Salam Cafe, owned by sisters Hayat Ali and Mebruka Kane. With my favorite Alif iced chai in tow, I open the door of Doro Bet to the inviting aroma of awaze chicken. 

Kane comes to greet me, dressed in all–black pants and apron. “I just have to finish baking something,” she says, retreating back to the kitchen. I have no problem waiting. I flip through a few issues of StarChefs magazine, stacked on a table beside me. Four songs play while I wait: “Migibima Moltual” and “Embuwa Bey Lamitu” by Hailu Mergia and Dahlak Band, “Tezeta” by Mulatu Astatke, and “Song Of Abayi” by Emahoy Tsege Mariam Gebru. They give me a moment to rhythmically tap my feet and admire the map of Ethiopian capital city Addis Ababa plastered on the wall. Later, Kane tells me she shuffles a 1970s Ethiopian jazz playlist on Spotify to remind her of home.

When Kane returns, we sit across from each other in the empty dining room. Customers tend to take out from Doro Bet, and it’s a Sunday morning. She immediately begins to share about her childhood in Addis Ababa. Her mother taught her and her siblings how to cook at an early age. “I remember being as young as ten or 11 and learning how to disassemble chicken because we slaughtered it in the house,” she says. “Even the boys knew how to cook.”

While she has been spending time in the kitchen for as long as she can remember, Kane didn’t grow up with dreams of being a chef or owning a restaurant. After she graduated from high school in Ethiopia, Kane moved around Europe and West Africa working as a travel agent. It wasn’t until her sister started a family in the U.S. that Kane considered moving here too. “I came here to visit [Hayat Ali] when she had her first child 19 years ago,” she says. “I went back, and I was like, ‘Ah, this can be fine. I don’t need to be that close.’ And then she had another baby.” 

When Kane moved to the U.S., being a travel agent was no longer an option. A friend she met in France knew the owners of Brasserie Perrier, an upscale French restaurant in Rittenhouse Square. They offered Kane a job working front–of–house. Originally, the position was merely meant to try out the restaurant industry while she searched for stability in Philly. But when Brasserie Perrier closed in 2009, Kane found another restaurant job, this time at Davio’s, where she met her now–husband Brian. All the while, Kane hosted frequent parties for her friends in Philly. Most notably, she used her annual Ethiopian Friendsgiving to boast the traditional dishes she had spent years perfecting. 

In 2020, Kane was given an opportunity she could not pass up. “When [Ali] wants to do something, she just does it. It was the pandemic, and we were all bored. She saw a sign [on 45th and Baltimore] for a lease. She took it, and was like ‘Well, I did it. It’s now or never.’” That empty storefront on the corner became Alif, the first Ethiopian restaurant of the Ali family. Ali and Kane opened Salam Cafe in Germantown in 2021 and Doro Bet on Baltimore Avenue in 2022. This past February, just two years after opening, Doro Bet was voted one of USA Today's Restaurants of the Year.

When I refer to Doro Bet fried chicken as “Ethiopian fried chicken,” Kane reminds me that “Fried chicken is not an Ethiopian thing.” When Kane’s young children, born and raised in the U.S., asked for Chick–fil–A at home, she got to work on her own Ethiopian version. Using gluten–free teff flour and buttermilk batter seasoned with Ethiopian spices, Doro Bet fried chicken was born. 

Photo: Isa Merriam

At Doro Bet, chicken lovers can choose to order a chicken sandwich, half order, or whole order with alicha (mild) or awaze (spicy) seasoning. Non–meat eaters can opt for teff flour fried mushrooms and a side of mac–n–cheese, collard greens, or fries. Kane always suggests awaze chicken with fries. “I just like potatoes,” she laughs. “You can give them to me in any form, and I’ll eat them.”

Before Alif, the Eri–Ethiopian restaurants in West Philly were very “old–school.” Alif and Doro Bet serve as fast and accessible spots to eat delicious Ethiopian food. “I’m not gonna lie, we were like ‘I don’t know how the Ethiopian community will feel about this,’” Kane says. “But, I think the whole thing for any immigrant is seeing that you’re represented and you know [that you’re] going somewhere that feels like home.”

The Eri–Ethiopian restaurant community agrees with Kane. Just down the street, I visit Dahlak on 47th Street and Baltimore Avenue to meet the general manager, Ephream Amare Seyoum, who also happens to be Kane’s nephew. Unlike Ali and Kane, however, Seyoum’s family has always stuck to the basics. But, their common dedication to sharing bites of home with their community remains the priority.

Seyoum’s parents Neghisti Ghebrehiwot and Amare Solomon both grew up in Eritrea, immigrated to Pennsylvania, and reconnected, by chance, in West Philly in their 20s. Ghebrehiwot dropped out of college to open Dahlak—named after the Eritrean island group—with her sister in 1984. Meanwhile, Solomon worked odd jobs to establish himself in the city and bring family members from Eritrea to the U.S. amid Eri–Ethiopian border war conflicts.

At Dahlak, Seyoum’s parents made the perfect pair. Ghebrehiwot handled the cooking and Solomon handled the marketing. After working in catering at Penn, Solomon was intent on welcoming students into their Eritrean paradise. “He got excited, and he created a relationship with a lot of Penn students and people from the neighborhood,” Seyoum says. “He made people feel comfortable to come around this way back when people were afraid to come around this way.”

Stepping into Dahlak is like entering a different dimension. I’m warmly embraced by Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, photographs of a young Ghebrehiwot, and vibrant artwork celebrating Eritrean coffee ceremonies. 

Since the ‘80s, Dahlak has served as a safe space for the West Philly community. At the host’s table, I meet Meenakshi Thirumurti, a part–time student at Bryn Mawr College who despite having only worked at the restaurant for four months, has found solace in Dahlak’s inviting atmosphere. “When I’m opening, I genuinely don’t feel any resentment about cleaning. I don’t even care if others are cleaning less,” she says, showing me to the bar. “All of those feelings that intoxicate people in the restaurant industry don’t exist for me here.”

Dahlak is not your average bar and restaurant, offering evening plans for most days of the week. From open mic nights and jazz quartet performances, to Latin club nights and “protest parties,” the Dahlak calendar is always booked with opportunities for people to gather.

“Dahlak is one of those places that’s just this community hub,” says Thirumurti. “You can go outside [on the outdoor patio], you can smoke hookah, you can be shaking ass at the bar, you can watch someone else dancing beautifully and unashamedly and unabashedly.”

In 2005, everything changed for Seyoum, his family, and their beloved restaurant. During his last year of high school, his father Solomon passed away. As the eldest of three, he felt an obligation to take over the family business. With the help of his mother and his uncle Berekep Solomon, Seyoum expanded the space and invested in the future of Dahlak. As the first college graduate in his family, Seyoum applied the organizational and managerial skills from the classroom to his restaurant. 

Today, Seyoum’s mother is still very involved at Dahlak and in “making sure that people get an idea of what an authentic version of [Ethiopian] food is like.” In addition to Ghebrehiwot’s classic dishes, Dahlak serves up Eri–Ethiopian spins on American dishes like their family down the street. After 9 p.m., bar–goers can order berbere–spiced cheesesteaks and vegan chopped cheese sandwiches prepared like kitfo, an Ethiopian dish of minced raw beef marinated in mimita and niter kibbeh. 

Despite their differences in language and politics, Eritrean and Ethiopian culture are virtually the same. Though Eritrean people were considered to be Ethiopian 30 years ago, Seyoum shares his experience as an Eritrean who manages an Ethiopian restaurant. “It’s nice for us to try to show the distinction,” he says. “We want to make people aware of the fact that Eritrea is an independent country. People have fought for our freedom to be Eritrean, and there’s a lot of pride in that.”

Eritrea achieved its independence in 1991, but Seyoum promises that there’s “no beef” between Eritreans and Ethiopians, especially on Baltimore Avenue. “We still have family that are considered Ethiopian,” he says. “Those are our roots.”

In between Alif and Dahlak lies Queen of Sheba, named after the mysterious biblical monarch. Unlike Doro Bet and Dahlak, Queen of Sheba lacks natural light. It is much more reminiscent of your average American sports bar. Even at 1 a.m., Queen of Sheba is alive, with a few full tables in the dining room and regulars sipping Miller Lites over Sunday football. 

Queen of Sheba has lived in West Philly for decades. According to their website, Queen of Sheba is a “family owned and operated business in the heart of University City.” While I can’t track down owners Manny and Genet, I find the next best thing. 

Andy Kissinger is out front smoking a cigarette, hunched over in a plastic foldable chair. Despite having been standing at the bar for less than ten minutes, I feel like I’m leaving a movie theater when I step outside to meet him. 

Like my conversation with Kane, I pull over a chair to sit across from Kissinger. When I ask him how long he’s worked at Queen of Sheba, he responds, “I don’t work here. I would never work here.” He pauses. “This is my church,” he says. 

When I ask him to elaborate, he says, “This is a place where people come together. People from all stripes, people from all colors, people from all creeds. This is a gathering point.”

Queen of Sheba has been Kissinger’s place of worship since 2008, a chaotic time for the international economy … and Berks County–bred food service workers. Kissinger shares that he grew up Pennsylvania Dutch and is the “first man in [his] family in over 250 years who speaks English as the first language.” While he’s worked at bars and restaurants around Greater Philadelphia, Queen of Sheba remains a constant. His go–to order is a Citywide vodka soda and gored gored, another raw cubed beef dish. 

Our conversation comes to an abrupt close when Kissinger steps away to pick up a cardboard McDonald’s french fry container. He throws it in the dumpster next to Queen of Sheba, ensuring he protects his church. It is Sunday, after all. 

My Baltimore stroll only scratched the surface of the Eri–Ethiopian enclave in West Philly. I spent hours in restaurants that are much more than places to have a meal; they hold community, power, pride, and, most importantly, a culture that accepts everybody with open arms. When I had to move on to my next destination, I wasn’t quite ready for my conversations to be over. I promised Jennifer, the bartender at Queen of Sheba, that I would come back soon for a drink. 

On my way back to campus, I stopped by Clark Park to visit the bench donning Amare Solomon’s name, a testament to his legacy and the life he brought to West Philadelphia. I take a moment to quietly thank him. 

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