Drops of rain spattered on the windshield as we searched for Yolele Senegalese restaurant in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Finally, my friend Whitney stopped the car and pointed. There it was, but not as expected. Sad brown paper covered the windows and a sign for All Men’s Shop, Inc. read above the storefront instead. This was the third Senegalese eatery that appeared to be out of business. Dismayed, I crossed Yolele off my list, just like I did Le Toukouleur and Keur N’Deye.

The reason for this mad hunt? A personal quest to find, in Brooklyn where I live, the best version of Senegal’s national dish, Ceebu Jen. Four years ago, on a steamy day in Dakar, two fellow students and I nervously sat across 3 pigs and a goat in an animal pen at an obscure three-table eatery, desperate for a meal. With no menus, our server rattled off incomprehensible dish names. We picked Ceebu Jen (cheh-boo jen), the only one whose pronunciation we could manage. Out came a big bowl of something disarmingly new and delicious - hot and savory pellets of reddish broken rice topped with soft and sweet slices of eggplant, carrots, yucca, yams, cabbage nicely complemented by chunks of meaty smoked fish, stewed all together in a tangy tomato sauce. I fell in love right then, even more in the following times I had it, and the most when Kaka, my host mother, prepared it to spicy and sour perfection.

Recently, a powerful craving struck for Ceebu Jen so I scoured for restaurants in the area showcasing it on the menu. I found five, the first of which was Le Grand Dakar. At 4:00 pm, an hour before they opened, a server let us in and offered us drinks as we waited. Before long, Chef Maw, a native Gambian sporting long dreadlocks tucked under a chef’s hat, took our orders. He served his rendition of the dish on a pristine white platter that contrasted with the food’s deep orange hues. Most of the expected ingredients were present, but there were slices of slightly slippery okra instead of eggplant, and a delicate, fine-textured bluefish instead of the usual cod stockfish or smoked herring. The bright pool of sauce was more sweet and sour, lacking the piquancy I preferred.

Next up was Joloff, whose owner, Papa Diagne, dressed in a white button down and a hunter green sweater like a college prepster, explained that their family business has been running since 1996, with his wife cooking and his children helping out. He handed me my entreé, which included rice cooked with red peppers and parsley adding a faint Mediterranean flavor. The firmer baked snapper, glazed in zesty sauce, proved to be a better fish substitute. However, the vegetables weren’t as soft as their African counterparts, which left me hungry for the tender texture I was looking for.

I then moved on to the rest of my list, only to stumble upon a dark Le Toukouleur, a trendy yogurt shop in place of Keur N’Deye, and a nonexistent Yolele. With only two places to choose from, I realized that the African community in Brooklyn is not as prosperous as that in Harlem. Along with leasing problems and underwhelming foot traffic in certain areas, Senegalese fare could still be too exotic for American palates. After all, the two left standing were tweaked to fit Stateside expectations of familiar presentation and tastes.

Although both variations shone in their own way, Joloff’s Ceebu Jen came out the winner. Despite unavoidable discrepancies in ingredients, Papa and his family captured the spirit of Senegalese cuisine in this particular meal. The brilliant colors, medley of textures and complex flavors that I knew and enjoyed evoked the rich culture and sense of personal connection that I tasted that memorable summer abroad. Each bite brought back visions of a grand metal bowl of fish and rice shared by my family, the eight of us sitting side by side on the courtyard’s concrete floor, the only utensils, our hands.