Many people are put off by the texture of okra. The Man Who Ate Everything, when composing an annotated list of his food phobias upon being appointed a food critic, classified it as a food he might eat "if starving on a desert island, but only if the refrigerator were filled with nothing but chutney, sea urchins, and falafel."
Though thickened by the namesake vegetable, this sauce gombo (lunch, $11), wasn't nearly as gooey as the bowl I remember from the former Florence's. At that beloved restaurant, the okra stew was downright mucilaginous; at Savane, I could raise a spoon to my lips without finding a trail of goo threading back down toward the bowl. Thanks also to fat chunks of lamb and a broad plate of white rice, I ate light at dinner.
This afternoon's chef hailed from the Ivory Coast, as does the owner, who tells me that he also employs chefs from Mali and Guinea. I don't yet know who cooks when.
239 West 116th St. (Frederick Douglass-Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvds.), Manhattan