SIGN WITH AN E

I chuckled at that phrase as we drove by it on our way to lunch yesterday (or rather, as we were getting lost on the way to lunch). The philosophe didn’t understand what was funny about a sign advertising two kinds of grass until I pointed out that Kikuyu isn’t only grass. Indeed, the Kikuyu apparently make up 22% of Kenya’s population, and they have understandably been hard hit by recent events.

I’m glad I’m not in Kenya, but I’m not sure I’m glad to be in Cape Town right now either. Today continues that horribly muggy heat that reached something of a hellish peak yesterday when we finally found Nitida, hungry and looking forward to a nice cold glass of bubbly. Recently done up, the venue is quite lovely in a European chic kind of way (think wood and glass), but unfortunately the balcony overhanging a damn did little in the way of down-cooling. There was no breeze, no fan, and many overactive sweat glands. Then a disappointingly short wine list (only estate wines), with the shiraz bubbly bubbling over at R50 a glass. I don’t think so.

Given the choice of either a two- or three-course meal (one isn’t an option), we had to make several decisions in this sweaty state. I chose something I normally would have avoided (I’m not big on soup), but because the description had one important word: chilled lettuce soup (with blahblahblah). It was alright, but a bit more of lettuce gloop than soup. The philosophe’s fish cake was the winner, with nice chunks of the good stuff.

One of the mains was a “duo of tuna: nicoise”, which sounds salad-y and fresh, so we asked our waitron if he could explain a bit more about the duo bit. First he said, well, it’s a duo, so there are three pieces of fish. Thankfully he corrected himself instantly, and then confessed he didn’t exactly know what the duo referred to. He would find out. Some time later he returned to take our orders and I reminded him we were still waiting on the duo news. Right, he said, it’s like the one is kind of … boiled, and the other is like … fried.

Boiled and fried tuna. Yum!

Of course it turned out to be more like poached and seared, and it wasn’t a bad nicoise at all, but it does make a laughing stock of an establishment clearly trying very hard to be poncy when their front staff can’t keep up the charade.

Anyway, that was Cassia, been and done. But the heat was still on, so we ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in the two coolest places we could think of, drinking, variously, margaritas and gewurtztraminer. That helped to ease the pain, and also sent us promptly to sleep well before sunset.

Which meant waking up at an ungodly hour, but we made it godly by heading into town and finding a 24 hour breakfast spot where we dined on greasy bacon and cheese sandwiches while the diehards around us smoked their final cigarettes and started stumbling home in the rain. It was like we were the only people standing in the world (probably not far off), and very possibly one of the most romantic meals I’ve yet had.

St. Valentine, eat your heart out.

There are (at least) two kinds of people in the world. Firstly, those who thrive on the big moments, you know the kind; they pronounce (again and again) that they plan to embark on something momentous, be it a project or a new love. Sometimes you lose touch with them, and when you meet them again or hear some news, it is inevitably boring: Never finished, didn’t do it, back to where I/they started (looking for something new to get excited about for five minutes).

I belong to the kind who also makes big pronouncements, but generally get on with it, because somehow in the articulation I strike up a contract with myself and then I am bound to it, otherwise I have to deal with my own disappointment. While this is probably the more productive of the two (the thesis gets written), it’s not necessarily better, because I’m pretty sure forcing yourself to do something because of a fear of failure can be as hellish as doing nothing for the same reason.

Apart from the obvious (slacking vs. doing), there isn’t a clear-cut line between slackers and doers in terms of motion. As the philosophe reminded me the other day (in a brilliant Dr. Phil moment), the over-achievement streak is potentially as stand-still as the other. In other words, if all you are is a slave to the idea of achievement, rather than to the achievement itself, you are equally in danger of not getting anywhere that actually matters.

It was a sobering reminder (prone as I am to The Ambition). Still, I can say that apart from the thankfully (/relatively) rare moments that my brain kicks into robot mode, I do get real pleasure out of the things that I pursue, and that is one of the exquisite luxuries of my life. And not only in the completion of the things, but also in the pursuit, and that’s the important thing. Of course 8 out of 10 days that you work on something it’s boring, as are lengths 18-76 of an 80 length swim. But as John Lennon suggested when he said something along the lines of life happening when you’re busy making other plans, echoing someone else with a very Zen twist (“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water, after enlightenment, chop wood, carry wood”), most of the good stuff happens between the crests of the waves, because that’s where most of time is, and damn, sometimes you find the most unexpected pleasures in the lulls: a smile to welcome you back from a shit day at work; a forgotten bottle of wine that infuses an ordinary Thursday evening with something extraordinary.

Alas, not all the time. I just tried my hand at baking muffins again. I only did it because I know I can’t, and that infuriates me. I know what I’m looking for: I need a muffin top, a crusty crust, a bready (rather than cakey) crumb, a very subtle sweetness. How bloody hard can it be? I’ve tried I don’t know how many recipes. I’ve been careful not to overmix. I’ve resisted tweaking. I can bake a beautiful loaf of bread and a kick-ass chocolate cake. I even baked my own wedding cake! See:

But, no, not the MUFFIN, that most standardised, industrialised, bastardised piece of obese confectionary when it goes wrong (ie. the monstrosities they sell at Vida and Mugg&Bean), but the perfect marriage between bread and cake when it goes right. I am undone.

are not always free, but they do often turn out to be a whole lot simpler than the rest.

This past week Heston Blumenthal (he of the Fat Duck and snail porridge fame) has been stalking the Rousseau (aka our) household. It’s the fault of the PVR, of course, which someone has set to record each episode of Blumenthal’s “In Search of Perfection”, and which I am then obliged to watch before deleting it, just to make sure there isn’t anything important I’m missing.

It turns out the show is pretty fascinating, even for the skeptic of “molecular gastronomy”, but that’s as it should be, because Blumenthal wouldn’t call what he does that either. It’s all about “good old fashioned cooking, with a bit of science thrown in for good measure” (I paraphrase liberally). So far two of his twists on the classics have been intriguing enough to be reproduced – with allowances for tweaking – in our own kitchen (and no, I didn’t just write a thesis claiming that people who watch food tv don’t/can’t cook).

First there was the 24 hr steak, which gave the philosophe a chance to play with his new blowtorch. That’s what you sear the meat with, then leave it in the oven for about a day, at 50C, after which you finish it off on the pan again. Cooled and sliced, it became part of a righteous steak salad (plus beetroot) with slivers of meat so tasty and relaxed in texture that the mouth was ever thankful, and we were all reminded that the idea of vegetarianism is just silly.

Then there was a plump free-range chicken which sat in brine for a couple of hours before being rinsed and blanched several times, followed by 12 or so hours of “drying” time in the fridge (the brining keeps it juicy, the drying works for crisping the skin). You then cook the bird for about four hours on a heat so low (60-80) it makes the non-adventurous scared of evil bacteria, a fear which would only have merit only if you eliminate the final step, which is a blast of heat to crisp the skin. We did that part on a fire, and after a good 15 minutes or so it had that mildly charred but yes-factor skin. The meat was unbelievably juicy, and although maybe it was just a damn happy chicken before it died, I am now convinced that brining is a good thing to do, if you have the time.

Of course we don’t all have time to stand around dunking chickens in and out of hot and cold water every time we want a meal, nor can we always remember to start cooking a steak the day before we want to eat it. So these things are fun as events (and I still intend to try Heston’s “perfect” pizza), but your desert island food has to be the kind that you can organise in less than five minutes, and I was reminded of mine yesterday:

First, have a hectic morning so you come home hungry and tired.

Then cut 1 slice of delicious (home-baked) bread.

Slather generously with peanut butter (the natural kind, ie. made from peanuts).

Top with 3 slices of cheese (something bland like Edam), or enough to cover.

Never mind the plate, just sit down and eat.

Peanut butter, bread and cheese does what Monsieur Boulanger proclaimed he could above the door of what some consider to be the first restaurant (ca.1765, Paris): Venite ad me; vos qui stomacho laboratis et ego restaurabo vos

Come to me, you whose stomachs labour, and I will restore you.

It’s no surprise that quality (often) comes at an extra cost, and neither is it a surprise that paying more doesn’t automatically ensure higher quality. When it comes to eating out, I generally remain skeptical and stick to the second premise, which is based on my extensive experience of feeling like I’m paying too much for what I’ve gotten, and which makes eating out a process of elimination.

Once in a while, you get lucky and understand the first premise (quality = greater expense). That happened only once last year, when I ate at Aubergine for the first (and only) time. Everything was good there, from the decor (very understated Afro-chic), the service (discreet but attentive), the winelist (bible) to, of course, the food (excellent). I wouldn’t want to go back every week, but next time I meet someone with a bulging moneybag who wants to take me out for dinner, I won’t hesitate to head back to the brinjal.

Since then I’ve been intrigued by what sorts of equations govern the long-timers on the Cape restaurant scene; all those places that have been around forever, and/or that people keep talking about as “excellent”. Research began with 95 on Keerom, famed as one of the finest Italian restaurants in town. Eat Out calls it ‘seriously stylish‘. And so it is, and neither is it that expensive (much to my displeasure, since I had won a dinner there in a bet instigated by one of the philosophe’s silly moments of thinking he knows more than me). The food was fine, too, but only that. It was a good evening, but I won’t be rushing back. (Perhaps only for the delight of hearing the chef’s lovely Italian accent, which puts all the right weight on ri-CO-tta).

Then there’s Leinster Hall, the seat of the “Cape Town club”; real old boys’ school. I was paying this time, as there was a moneybag to celebrate, and I had been swung by the (unreliable) information of the restaurant having been awarded x numbers of stars by the Cape Tourism Board, and the “award-winning” wine list (it transpires that Diner’s Club hands these awards out quite indiscriminately). Actually the wine list was probably the best part of the menu (where else can you get a glass of Springfield Life From Stone for R19?). The food was disappointing, because it was really quite ordinary, and definitely overpriced. But Leinster Hall probably won’t ever suffer, because it is one of those places that trades on a long history; half the price is the knowledge, I guess, that people like Desmond Tutu and Madiba have shaken hands with various other luminaries upstairs (we’ll overlook the less savoury types that have also qualified as old boys in South Africa’s murky history).

There’s a different group of restaurants that overcharge and get away with it because of location rather than history, but this is not a restaurant guide, so we’ll leave that to the people out there who make dining guidance their business, and do it very well.

To cut a long post short (too late now), one of my favourite places is Caveau at Josephine Mill, where the wine list is excellent (as it should be for a wine bar), and the evening tapas are delicious and inexpensive, but where I have a constant gripe with lunch because I find it ridiculously expensive. Nevertheless, I capitulated the other day and ordered a prawn salad for R70. What can I say? It was really very delicious. Perhaps the best thing about it was that it was the size that a salad should be, which means not a whole bloody platter of leaves that could feed a whole family of rabbits for a week.

A more “usual” salad price would be the R48 I pay for the calamari and avo salad at my self-elected local, 5 on Park. Their salad is also very good, but it’s too damn big, and it always irritates me that half of it goes to waste, even if it is (relatively) cheap. Much to my surprise, then, I was actually happy to pay more at Caveau, to get less food (and yes, more quality).

That said, quality equations remain sensitive to a host of factors, including my mood. I will probably have another calamari and avo salad at 5 on Park before I have another prawn salad at Caveau, for the simple reasons that 5 is just down the road, they make damn fine margaritas (only R20!!), and the philosophe likes their fish and chips. And of course I’m hoping that another cocktail session with him will end in more foolishness on his side, and another free meal for me somewhere nice and expensive. (That’s nice AND expensive).

Courtesy of The Situationist (and with pleasure at still being able to discover great blogs out there)