To console our spirits after visiting the atrociously neglected Garden of Remembrance that is meant to be a tribute to the Cradock Four earlier this winter, we needed wine and sustenance.
Boeber is as ‘Cape Town’ as Cape brandy tart, the Cape Doctor, over-priced fancy-schmancy restaurants and claims that ‘it has never rained like this/blown like this/been so hot at this time of the year before’.
The editors of Posh Galore generally do quite well, and I commend them for their efforts, and we foodie lemmings usually climb on the bandwagon and try using whatever it is in new and unexpected ways in dishes that previously would have managed quite well without the pounded seed of something found growing under a dewy knoll in Zheleznodorozhny and unearthed by a castrated yak. But there’s something they’ve all missed which has potential flavour of the year written all over it. The common, humdrum and very Afrikaans potjie, the three-legged cast-iron pot, is one of the most versatile cooking vessels there is.
Risotto is a dish for a man who truly lives his life, and to hell with the consequences. Risotto is real zooma food, singing and dancing when ordinary people are idling the time of day. Risotto is not for sissies. It’s one of the most taxing things to make because it is so easy to mess up. Risotto rice, usually arborio, is as hardgrained as a politician who knows how to trounce opponents at the polls, with a winning smile and a compelling dance disguising the grit behind his eyes. Risotto is not to be messed with.
I have been slow in coming to smoked paprika. It has been a foodie rave for several years and I really should have listened to the sussed editors of Posh Galore when they told us all that smoked paprika was the new thing, dahlings, and you simply have to try it.
We like chicken. We love chicken. When we see a chicken preening its feathers, our mind quickly pops up an image of it defeathered and roasted to gleaming, succulent perfection. We see its breast removed, slit asunder, filled with something yummy, closed, wrapped up and baked.
By 4pm the sea was rushing at us as if fleeing the beasts of Hell. The wind was a fearsome force, supported by lashing rain. I conceded defeat while the Weather Gods smiled a cruel smile of triumph and threw yet more opprobrium down on our sodden beach.