My month starts with shopping at Mr Price in Cavendish, where I buy a shirt that I love for R20. Gray messages me as I’m paying and asks, “Do you want to do el cheapo breakfast before heading to campus?”
I hardly ever say no to Gray or to food, so there we sit at Food Lovers Market, Claremont. I’m getting breakfast and a new item of clothing for under R50 – it leads me to wonder, am I poor?
“Am I poor?” I ask Gray.
“Your top’s from Paul Smith.” He replies, and puts on his Marc Jacobs sunglasses, and that conversation is over.
As we wait for our orange juice (not included in the price of the breakfast, although a coffee is), Gray’s friend Gaby calls. He looks apologetic, but I don’t mind: Gaby’s my favourite of Gray’s friends, and I know I’ll enjoy hearing stories and observations from her rich and cynical life after he puts down the phone. I take the time to take a look at the décor, and I’m quite impressed. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, but is definitely more restaurant than market, which is a relief.
“What’s up with Gaby?” I ask.
“She wants me to go to Rocking the Daisies with her.” He says, and shakes his head. Last month he took a trip to Earthdance with his ex-girlfriend Farrah (that was a long time ago) and her self-proclaimed Fabulous and Eccentric Friends, and it seems that this has exhausted his patience for music festivals, fabulousness, and eccentricity, for the time being at least. For now, he’d just like his breakfast.
They say you get what you pay for. When our food arrives, we see Food Lover’s Market’s R25 breakfasts, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. I’m a difficult person to please when it comes to breakfast, I’ll admit. I don’t like grilled tomato. I avoid sausages if at all possible. I’m squeamish when it comes to eggs generally, so Gray, my mother, and Cheyne of Cheyne’s on Bree Street are the only people whose scrambled eggs don’t make my stomach churn. I need hard fried eggs and bacon crispy enough to crack and crumble into bits. Streaky bacon is far preferable to back bacon. With all of this in mind, I try to give restaurants some leeway at the first meal of the day by allowing them to get something or other wrong, and the fact that the bacon isn’t as crispy as I’d have liked and needs to be sent back doesn’t bother me too much. I’m enjoying my orange juice and the sunshine, and I smile when Gray says for perhaps the nineteenth time since September first,
“Now this is it. This is really the beginning of summer.”
For at least the nineteenth time I agree,
“It definitely is. It won’t get cold again now. Winter’s over.”
When my breakfast comes back, we start our meals. The bacon is fine, but when I stab at my egg it’s the kind of sloppy that makes me either ill or irritable, and today I go for the latter.
“Calm down, Madison.” Gray says in warning as I walk over to the counter to complain about the fact that no-one seems to be able to get the overcooking of my food right. I don’t like my name, and Gray knows this, so I know he’s pretty serious if he uses it. I’m very civil, and the waiter responds in kind, never losing his patience.
The rest of the faults of the meal don’t deserve narration, so here they are in list format: grilled tomato sloppily cut and undercooked, toast underdone, cutlery remaining in the kitchen when the meal returned to the table the second time.
My advice? Stop in at Food Lover’s Market for one of their generously sized and well-priced takeaway pizza slices or a healthy take-away option from the salad bar, but don’t bother to hang around.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
House of Pirates, Grahamstown, September 25th
A road trip to a small, student-centred town doesn’t hold much promise for the sampling of good food, but when my oldest friend Kate and I drive to Grahamstown to go to the twenty-first of another friend of ours, we get to have at least one meal that fulfils the criteria of being both tasty and suited to the whole college town vibe.
In the space of a day and a half in Grahamstown, we hear the story of House of Pirates five times, read the same story another time – on its menu, in grammatically horrifying form - and visit the place once. It’s safe to say that people like it here. Here’s the shortened version: Three guys start a pizza business from their room, do well, are forced by authorities to shut it down, rent a tiny shop, do well, buy a house, struggle to get a liquor licence, succeed in getting a liquor licence, and start the restaurant and bar that is House of Pirates. It’s more inspiring when someone in Grahamstown tells it.
Our first visit is on Friday at lunchtime, when the parents of Kate, the birthday girl, take us and Kate’s sister and her boyfriend out for lunch. We arrive at twelve and find that the kitchen only opens at twelve thirty, but our friendly waitress settles us at a table outside in the sun and keeps our drinks coming until it’s time to place our pizza orders. The wait gives us some time to take in the place: it’s a little Victorian house painted in black and white, and fitted with a stripper pole inside, to fit the pirate theme.
We also end up needing the time because of the amount of choice that the menu offers, and the fact that Courtney’s dad seems a little confused by the option of ordering half pizzas, rather than whole. Luckily for all of us, Courtney is as officious as ever, and insists that we all order halves (“A whole one is just too much!”) but get the double bass option (“The bases are just too thin otherwise!”). Her advice is sound – at just R2 extra, adding an extra base to your pizza means that it keeps the crispiness that the Pirates are so proud of, but also gives the impression that your half pizza was a whole meal, and provides the added bonus of the spread that sandwiches the two bases together. Kate hates this, and says once we’re out of earshot of the paying parents that mayonnaise and pizza should never meet, but I love the taste.
Maybe our difference of opinions has something to do with the different toppings we choose: I go for the vegetarian (R25 for a half, R47 for a whole), and Kate opts for the more interestingly named ‘Getting fresh with an Italian’ (R29 half, R59 whole). Kate’s is one of the most expensive pizzas on the menu, but she’s somewhat disappointed. She thinks that her toppings – rosa tomatoes, basil, rocket, feta and salami – would have done better on one of the focaccias that House of Pirates also has on offer. My pizza comes topped with pepperdews (that’s their choice of spelling), feta and olives, and there’s something very novel about eating a vegetarian pizza that doesn’t involve mushrooms. Other favourites around the table are the Salty Sea Dog, featuring olives, salami, feta and garlic (R27, R54) and the G-spot Deluxe, with bacon, avocado and feta, (R29, R59). It’s explained for the uninitiated that Grahamstown often gets called the G-Spot, so the name isn’t as rude as it sounds.
The sun, the pizza and the people I haven’t seen for ages leave me feeling very happy that I made the effort to be here for the weekend, and even that I might be back. But I might fly next time.
In the space of a day and a half in Grahamstown, we hear the story of House of Pirates five times, read the same story another time – on its menu, in grammatically horrifying form - and visit the place once. It’s safe to say that people like it here. Here’s the shortened version: Three guys start a pizza business from their room, do well, are forced by authorities to shut it down, rent a tiny shop, do well, buy a house, struggle to get a liquor licence, succeed in getting a liquor licence, and start the restaurant and bar that is House of Pirates. It’s more inspiring when someone in Grahamstown tells it.
Our first visit is on Friday at lunchtime, when the parents of Kate, the birthday girl, take us and Kate’s sister and her boyfriend out for lunch. We arrive at twelve and find that the kitchen only opens at twelve thirty, but our friendly waitress settles us at a table outside in the sun and keeps our drinks coming until it’s time to place our pizza orders. The wait gives us some time to take in the place: it’s a little Victorian house painted in black and white, and fitted with a stripper pole inside, to fit the pirate theme.
We also end up needing the time because of the amount of choice that the menu offers, and the fact that Courtney’s dad seems a little confused by the option of ordering half pizzas, rather than whole. Luckily for all of us, Courtney is as officious as ever, and insists that we all order halves (“A whole one is just too much!”) but get the double bass option (“The bases are just too thin otherwise!”). Her advice is sound – at just R2 extra, adding an extra base to your pizza means that it keeps the crispiness that the Pirates are so proud of, but also gives the impression that your half pizza was a whole meal, and provides the added bonus of the spread that sandwiches the two bases together. Kate hates this, and says once we’re out of earshot of the paying parents that mayonnaise and pizza should never meet, but I love the taste.
Maybe our difference of opinions has something to do with the different toppings we choose: I go for the vegetarian (R25 for a half, R47 for a whole), and Kate opts for the more interestingly named ‘Getting fresh with an Italian’ (R29 half, R59 whole). Kate’s is one of the most expensive pizzas on the menu, but she’s somewhat disappointed. She thinks that her toppings – rosa tomatoes, basil, rocket, feta and salami – would have done better on one of the focaccias that House of Pirates also has on offer. My pizza comes topped with pepperdews (that’s their choice of spelling), feta and olives, and there’s something very novel about eating a vegetarian pizza that doesn’t involve mushrooms. Other favourites around the table are the Salty Sea Dog, featuring olives, salami, feta and garlic (R27, R54) and the G-spot Deluxe, with bacon, avocado and feta, (R29, R59). It’s explained for the uninitiated that Grahamstown often gets called the G-Spot, so the name isn’t as rude as it sounds.
The sun, the pizza and the people I haven’t seen for ages leave me feeling very happy that I made the effort to be here for the weekend, and even that I might be back. But I might fly next time.
Silver Boutique and Restaurant; Depasco, September 23rd
After spending the morning in a tutorial class and at one of Gray’s casting sessions, Gray and I decided that we needed a reward, and a chance to drink to some of the week’s little successes. We head off to Silver Boutique and Restaurant which, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve been wanting to try since I saw it’s impressively understated exterior a while back. Unfortunately, it’s not suited to this morning’s objectives: there are no breakfast or light lunch options, with the menu tending toward slightly overpriced sushi and large, asian-inspired dinners. To add to this, we’re told that the menu is not in its completed form – it’s currently sheets of paper clipped together, but after some revision will apparently be ready for business. That said, I’m in no way giving up on the place; the interior has a pleasantly cool, minimalistic feel and the wine list is diverse, I spotted Grey Goose vodka behind the bar counter, and the staff are nothing if not optimistic. I’ll definitely be back to give the place a proper try.
Disappointed, Gray and I knew what to do. We headed across the road to old favourite, Depasco, and commenced drinking as intended. As promised, I try a sandwich: Gray and I share one of their new additions to the menu – butternut, sundried tomatoes and feta with a balsamic vinaigrette on ciabatta (R30). We both feel pretty satisfied, so it would be quite a meal for one.
Sitting in the sun, we flip through Depasco’s impressive selection of glossy magazines. We read about the , we talk about how the recession hasn’t affected us much at all, we drink to good English marks and quitting a job and the recovery of a long-lost notebook, and we talk about the things we’re going to achieve. We’re happy.
Later, the two of us will attend a twenty-first and we’ll fight. Gray will leave without saying goodbye, and leaving me without a lift, and I’ll fight with Donnie too because I’m upset. Later, I’ll feel sad about the friends I’ve drifted away from since school, and I’ll feel like it’s happening again, fast. Later, I’ll feel like things are breaking down, but here, now, sitting in the sun, I’m happy.
Disappointed, Gray and I knew what to do. We headed across the road to old favourite, Depasco, and commenced drinking as intended. As promised, I try a sandwich: Gray and I share one of their new additions to the menu – butternut, sundried tomatoes and feta with a balsamic vinaigrette on ciabatta (R30). We both feel pretty satisfied, so it would be quite a meal for one.
Sitting in the sun, we flip through Depasco’s impressive selection of glossy magazines. We read about the , we talk about how the recession hasn’t affected us much at all, we drink to good English marks and quitting a job and the recovery of a long-lost notebook, and we talk about the things we’re going to achieve. We’re happy.
Later, the two of us will attend a twenty-first and we’ll fight. Gray will leave without saying goodbye, and leaving me without a lift, and I’ll fight with Donnie too because I’m upset. Later, I’ll feel sad about the friends I’ve drifted away from since school, and I’ll feel like it’s happening again, fast. Later, I’ll feel like things are breaking down, but here, now, sitting in the sun, I’m happy.
Brass Bell and Kalky's, September 19th
In Cape Town, it seems, it’s not about making your birthday party the biggest and best, but about making your soiree as original as possible. Well, I might give up now, because a birthday that involves a champagne breakfast, followed by a train ride, followed by a beachside pub session, followed by fish and chips and another train ride, is pretty difficult to top.
The group of people celebrating with the birthday girl are an amazing bunch, all loud and unrelentingly entertaining, but The Brass Bell just about matches the crowd as far as appeal goes. The view is lovely, the bartenders are friendly, and management is very tolerant of our group’s dancing on the tables: their instruction to us is “only three dancing on one table at one time, please.” This certainly isn’t what I’d call “my kind of place” but getting out of the city for the day is incredibly relaxing. I’m surprised to meet up with a lot of jock crowd guys from university there, and my friends among them tell me that this is a regular road trip stop-off on their guys’ days… I won’t ask. So, the boys are hot, the vibe is chilled, and the chips come curvy-cut - a definite bonus in my book - but the food is overpriced, so my friend Robin and I head to Kalky’s for the sloppiest and best-tasting chips I’ve had in a while. It’s a day well-spent.
The group of people celebrating with the birthday girl are an amazing bunch, all loud and unrelentingly entertaining, but The Brass Bell just about matches the crowd as far as appeal goes. The view is lovely, the bartenders are friendly, and management is very tolerant of our group’s dancing on the tables: their instruction to us is “only three dancing on one table at one time, please.” This certainly isn’t what I’d call “my kind of place” but getting out of the city for the day is incredibly relaxing. I’m surprised to meet up with a lot of jock crowd guys from university there, and my friends among them tell me that this is a regular road trip stop-off on their guys’ days… I won’t ask. So, the boys are hot, the vibe is chilled, and the chips come curvy-cut - a definite bonus in my book - but the food is overpriced, so my friend Robin and I head to Kalky’s for the sloppiest and best-tasting chips I’ve had in a while. It’s a day well-spent.
Woolworths Café, September 15th
I’m back at school after the short holiday and we’ve just written a test – the last of my undergraduate degree. We need some kind of reward, so Gray and I head off to Woolworths Café.
We’ve had mixed experiences here. We’ve spent many happy afternoons here, pretty much always ordering the same thing – Gray goes for the rotisserie chicken and avo wrap (R49) and I choose the soya and linseed bread with mature cheddar and rosa tomatoes (R33). While the latter might sound like the most boring option on the menu, it’s the perfect answer to a craving for something really savoury, but healthy, and it can also cure all but the most severe of hangovers. If you don’t believe me, try it – it’s referred to in Woolworths’ endearingly pretentious manner as a tartine, not an open sandwich. Gray has described the interestingly folded wrap as “heaven in a cone.”
A less pleasant experience saw a badly handled attempt to split a bill between two cards (admittedly an annoying request) rapidly descending into a nasty situation in which a manager was unnecessarily harsh to the offending waitress.
Today, however, promises to be a less eventful occasion – we’re just here for coffee. Then, sitting there in the warm, pleasant setting, I feel very, very sad. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I think I’ve done badly in my test, or the fact that the test signalled how close I am to being finished with another life stage (I’m not a fan of the passage of time), or if it’s just that I’m feeling very deprived lately. I’ve been trying my best to be careful with money, work hard, and generally get my life in order, and while I feel a sense of achievement about that, I’m also feeling a little bit exhausted and sorry for myself. We probably all feel like this from time to time, but I think my problem is made worse by who my friends are - specifically that they generally have a lot of money. Gray sits across from me, rich and so beautiful, and I can’t contain my jealousy, so I start to cry. It’s something of an irony, I think, crying about your lack of privilege while patronising Woolworths.
The way Gray handles the situation reminds me why I’m friends with him despite his qualities – he is the only person I know who will tolerate my emotional outbursts in the public of places, and who realises that “pull yourself together” is an unhelpful phrase when that’s just what you’re trying to do. Today, though, he’s showing some signs of hopelessness, and asks,
“Does talking about this help?”
It does.
Whether it’s Gray’s pep talk or the white hot chocolate, I soon feel better. And I should tell you about the white hot chocolate: it’s not as sickly sweet as white hot chocolate usually is, and you can’t help but feeling happier and better prepared to face the day after having a cup. Woolworths makes much of its cappuccino, which recently won first place in an independent survey, before even Vida e Caffe. What I don’t understand is why any visitor to a Woolworths Café would choose any warm drink other than my clear favourite.
As an aside - Lambrusco is back at the Cavendish branch of Woolworths. This used to be a favourite of mine, and its unexplained disappearance from the shelves a few months ago has left an unpleasant gap in my drinking habits. It’s yet to be seen at my local Rondebosch Woolworths food store, but I’m not losing hope.
We’ve had mixed experiences here. We’ve spent many happy afternoons here, pretty much always ordering the same thing – Gray goes for the rotisserie chicken and avo wrap (R49) and I choose the soya and linseed bread with mature cheddar and rosa tomatoes (R33). While the latter might sound like the most boring option on the menu, it’s the perfect answer to a craving for something really savoury, but healthy, and it can also cure all but the most severe of hangovers. If you don’t believe me, try it – it’s referred to in Woolworths’ endearingly pretentious manner as a tartine, not an open sandwich. Gray has described the interestingly folded wrap as “heaven in a cone.”
A less pleasant experience saw a badly handled attempt to split a bill between two cards (admittedly an annoying request) rapidly descending into a nasty situation in which a manager was unnecessarily harsh to the offending waitress.
Today, however, promises to be a less eventful occasion – we’re just here for coffee. Then, sitting there in the warm, pleasant setting, I feel very, very sad. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I think I’ve done badly in my test, or the fact that the test signalled how close I am to being finished with another life stage (I’m not a fan of the passage of time), or if it’s just that I’m feeling very deprived lately. I’ve been trying my best to be careful with money, work hard, and generally get my life in order, and while I feel a sense of achievement about that, I’m also feeling a little bit exhausted and sorry for myself. We probably all feel like this from time to time, but I think my problem is made worse by who my friends are - specifically that they generally have a lot of money. Gray sits across from me, rich and so beautiful, and I can’t contain my jealousy, so I start to cry. It’s something of an irony, I think, crying about your lack of privilege while patronising Woolworths.
The way Gray handles the situation reminds me why I’m friends with him despite his qualities – he is the only person I know who will tolerate my emotional outbursts in the public of places, and who realises that “pull yourself together” is an unhelpful phrase when that’s just what you’re trying to do. Today, though, he’s showing some signs of hopelessness, and asks,
“Does talking about this help?”
It does.
Whether it’s Gray’s pep talk or the white hot chocolate, I soon feel better. And I should tell you about the white hot chocolate: it’s not as sickly sweet as white hot chocolate usually is, and you can’t help but feeling happier and better prepared to face the day after having a cup. Woolworths makes much of its cappuccino, which recently won first place in an independent survey, before even Vida e Caffe. What I don’t understand is why any visitor to a Woolworths Café would choose any warm drink other than my clear favourite.
As an aside - Lambrusco is back at the Cavendish branch of Woolworths. This used to be a favourite of mine, and its unexplained disappearance from the shelves a few months ago has left an unpleasant gap in my drinking habits. It’s yet to be seen at my local Rondebosch Woolworths food store, but I’m not losing hope.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Depasco Cafe and Bakery, September 2nd
“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; and small minds discuss people”, said Eleanor Roosevelt. I can’t help feeling that Mrs Roosevelt would be very confused if she ever had coffee or a meal with me and Gray, because we start by discussing events, move on to people, and almost inevitably end up on ideas, especially if it’s the kind of lunch where Gray’s ordering the wine.
Wine is what Gray and I are having at Depasco Café and Bakery today. Every time I’m here I’m tempted by the fresh and reasonably priced sandwiches on offer, but I’m always in a hurry, or have just eaten. That’s the case today. I didn’t plan to come into town at all, but Gray had an hour to kill before work and I was easily convinced to come along to one of my favourite places for wine, coffee, soup and people-watching.
The waiters here look shocked when you order wine, and Gray and I have always wondered if that’s just because we tend to be ordering it around eleven in the morning, when one of us is on the way to work. It could also be that Depasco isn’t really a wine place – they’re all about breakfasts and light business lunches. My advice: don’t let preconceptions put you off.
The ideas we’re discussing include enlistment in the military and how I'd prevent Gray from doing it (he doesn't want to anyway), the ins and outs of being only children (we both are), and whether cheap wine is necessarily bad wine (the verdict: no).
The event we’re discussing is my dinner with Donnie the previous evening at Societi Bistro. The person, of course, is Donnie. We agree that he’s very hot, but we differ on whether this makes up for the fact that I tend to find him a little boring. Gray’s vote is for Donnie, mine is against, in this department at least.
“What would you do if he told you he wanted to do long-distance? Like, officially?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. While I’m the other woman, we can hardly think about changing our collective Facebook relationship status. I don’t know though, what I’d do if he did ask. I’d probably say yes, but I don’t think I’d want to. I like the way things are now.”
“Why try to put a name to it?” Gray asks, this time rhetorically.
As is usual when discussing my would-be relationships, he sounds desperate to see me placed securely in a relationship. It frustrates me a little; when no-one is good enough for Gray in my eyes, I sometimes wish he’d be a little more discerning for me. I think, though, that this might be one of those differences between men and women: women are determined that their friends should find the perfect man, while men just want their friends to be happy. Whether they’re realistic or lacking in ambition is a debate for another time. Of course, my fear of commitment is becoming evident, and I might just have to concede to giving someone a chance, sooner or later.
When Gray leaves, I switch to coffee. Drinking in the morning is one thing; drinking alone in the morning is perhaps another. The coffee is as well-priced as the wine, and I'm yet to have a cup I don't enjoy here. On the topic of that soup - if the tomato kind is on the menu, try it. It's R25 and comes with warm bread. The waiters remain in evidence, but no-one asks me if I want to order anything more. I don’t know whether to praise or criticise this – I presume that on seeing that I was busy, they decided to leave it up to me to make it known if I needed them, but by conventional waiting wisdom it would probably be said that they weren’t attentive enough.
It’s the atmosphere at Depasco that I love. Palm-patterned wallpaper, linoleum striped in shades of brown and cream, mirror-tiled pillars and faux-tacky green furniture create the feeling of a retro beach house where there’s nothing more important to do than enjoy the luxury of a few hours spent surrounded by beautiful people in a setting that’s cool in every sense. There aren’t many restaurants or coffee shops where I’m okay with just sitting on my own and writing, but somehow I can do it here. In fact, I’m not generally very good at sitting still for any length of time under any circumstances. When the young, suited businessman at a table littered with Vogues and Elles orders a pink Snapple, I realise that it's almost summer, and I'm happy. I leave two and a half hours later, newly scribbled notes in hand.
Next time I’m at Depasco, I’ll be trying the sandwiches. That’s one commitment I’m willing to make.
My next must-try? Silver Boutique and Cafe, across and a little way up Kloof Street from Depasco.
Wine is what Gray and I are having at Depasco Café and Bakery today. Every time I’m here I’m tempted by the fresh and reasonably priced sandwiches on offer, but I’m always in a hurry, or have just eaten. That’s the case today. I didn’t plan to come into town at all, but Gray had an hour to kill before work and I was easily convinced to come along to one of my favourite places for wine, coffee, soup and people-watching.
The waiters here look shocked when you order wine, and Gray and I have always wondered if that’s just because we tend to be ordering it around eleven in the morning, when one of us is on the way to work. It could also be that Depasco isn’t really a wine place – they’re all about breakfasts and light business lunches. My advice: don’t let preconceptions put you off.
The ideas we’re discussing include enlistment in the military and how I'd prevent Gray from doing it (he doesn't want to anyway), the ins and outs of being only children (we both are), and whether cheap wine is necessarily bad wine (the verdict: no).
The event we’re discussing is my dinner with Donnie the previous evening at Societi Bistro. The person, of course, is Donnie. We agree that he’s very hot, but we differ on whether this makes up for the fact that I tend to find him a little boring. Gray’s vote is for Donnie, mine is against, in this department at least.
“What would you do if he told you he wanted to do long-distance? Like, officially?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. While I’m the other woman, we can hardly think about changing our collective Facebook relationship status. I don’t know though, what I’d do if he did ask. I’d probably say yes, but I don’t think I’d want to. I like the way things are now.”
“Why try to put a name to it?” Gray asks, this time rhetorically.
As is usual when discussing my would-be relationships, he sounds desperate to see me placed securely in a relationship. It frustrates me a little; when no-one is good enough for Gray in my eyes, I sometimes wish he’d be a little more discerning for me. I think, though, that this might be one of those differences between men and women: women are determined that their friends should find the perfect man, while men just want their friends to be happy. Whether they’re realistic or lacking in ambition is a debate for another time. Of course, my fear of commitment is becoming evident, and I might just have to concede to giving someone a chance, sooner or later.
When Gray leaves, I switch to coffee. Drinking in the morning is one thing; drinking alone in the morning is perhaps another. The coffee is as well-priced as the wine, and I'm yet to have a cup I don't enjoy here. On the topic of that soup - if the tomato kind is on the menu, try it. It's R25 and comes with warm bread. The waiters remain in evidence, but no-one asks me if I want to order anything more. I don’t know whether to praise or criticise this – I presume that on seeing that I was busy, they decided to leave it up to me to make it known if I needed them, but by conventional waiting wisdom it would probably be said that they weren’t attentive enough.
It’s the atmosphere at Depasco that I love. Palm-patterned wallpaper, linoleum striped in shades of brown and cream, mirror-tiled pillars and faux-tacky green furniture create the feeling of a retro beach house where there’s nothing more important to do than enjoy the luxury of a few hours spent surrounded by beautiful people in a setting that’s cool in every sense. There aren’t many restaurants or coffee shops where I’m okay with just sitting on my own and writing, but somehow I can do it here. In fact, I’m not generally very good at sitting still for any length of time under any circumstances. When the young, suited businessman at a table littered with Vogues and Elles orders a pink Snapple, I realise that it's almost summer, and I'm happy. I leave two and a half hours later, newly scribbled notes in hand.
Next time I’m at Depasco, I’ll be trying the sandwiches. That’s one commitment I’m willing to make.
My next must-try? Silver Boutique and Cafe, across and a little way up Kloof Street from Depasco.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Societi Bistro - August 31st
For what might be the first time in my life, I'm not in the mood to go out for dinner. This is far from ideal when I'm not only starting to write about food, but also on the way to one of my favourite restaurants, for one of my once-every-few-months meetings with one of my favourite boys, Donnie. Our relationship history is that of a typical "on again, off again" affair, without it ever being one hundred per cent on, and spans five years. It's safe to say I'm excited to see him.
He'd asked me to choose the restaurant, and I'd picked Societi Bistro because he'd mentioned that he felt like Italian and Societi does great pizza and pasta, and because the restaurant has never failed to impress me. The portions are small, but the food is delicious, the staff are friendly, and the atmosphere unfailingly warm.
I'm eager to order the Doolhof Dark Lady of the Labyrinth Pinotage that I had the last time I was here with my friend Gray, but none is available, so the next choice is Donnie's. He opts for the Hartenberg Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz, which I - never a fan of Shiraz in any form - can describe only as watery. He enjoys it, and I don't tell him my thoughts, which might say I lot about me. Of course, it could also say a lot that I've chosen a restaurant where the lighting is dim enough to have once prompted Gray to remark that "I feel like I should be proposing to you, or you should be selling me drugs." It's the space clearing around us that makes me realise that the atmosphere is becoming altogether intimate. As it's Monday night, many of the patrons are taking advantage of Societi's special: in conjunction with the Labia Theatre, they offer two margarita pizzas and two movie tickets for R70. While others move off to their movies, we keep our waitress waiting because Donnie has a lot to tell me: his best friend has just revealed that he's gay, he's moving into a new place, and he's quitting his job because he felt that it was going nowhere. When we do eventually order, it's the Fettucine Con Limone, made with lemon, cream, and parsley, for me. I'm disappointed, but am perhaps partly to blame for this - I've ignored my longing for the pizza I've had before and followed Donnie's advice and my own compulsion to try something entirely different. The complaint that it's too tangy sounds a little silly when describing something that does in fact have "lemon" in its name. The pasta is well prepared and presented, and a substantial portion in its "Mains" incarnation (R60), but I'd advise ordering it as a starter (R40) before moving onto something less delicate and interesting and more enjoyable and satisfying. I am jealous of Donnie's Mushroom, Bacon and Rocket pizza (R60) - very savoury bacon and mushroom with piles of impressively fresh rocket. He passes over a slice, although he, a self-professed "rocket man" loves it too, particularly the fact that it was an authentic, not perfectly round, shape.
This is what life would be like with him - being adored and looked after - but I am very used to being single. I like making all my own choices, and the minute I'm with someone I feel my opinions being easily swayed.
"Is he a dessert guy?" Gray has asked about Donnie. I do not trust non-smokers (I'm a non-smoker myself); Gray does not trust people who must have dessert.
"He's a whatever-you-prefer guy." I replied. This evening, though, he insists that the meal doesn't end at mains.
Dessert is from the specials menu: Sticky toffee pudding, and a cheese platter (around R35 and R40 respectively, if memory serves), both of them shared. Donnie was delighted by the waitress's willingness to provide vanilla ice-cream with the pudding in place of the advertised caramel version; I am troubled by its slightly burned corner. This is test of optimism if ever I saw one, and I think I just failed. Our waitress tells us that the three cheeses that will be on our platter will be blue rock, brie, and camembert, but as one of them is very hard and tastes rather like parmesan, it seems that she might have been mistaken. All three cheeses are delicious, but I would have preferred to have at least one conventional biscuit or piece of bread alongside the admittedly charming breadstick and slices of melba toast.
It's getting late, and I'm getting tired, and when Donnie suggests we have coffee I say that I'm just too full - not, incidentally, a lie. I might be seeing him next week when I'm in his part of the world, or it could be months until we meet again. Until then, he has a rut to escape and I have places to go and people to see. He praises my choice of restaurant again, and tells me he likes my hair, and I wish him luck for the big changes he's about to make happen. I realise that I feel proud of him, then we part ways with the most chaste of kisses on the cheek. Until next time.
He'd asked me to choose the restaurant, and I'd picked Societi Bistro because he'd mentioned that he felt like Italian and Societi does great pizza and pasta, and because the restaurant has never failed to impress me. The portions are small, but the food is delicious, the staff are friendly, and the atmosphere unfailingly warm.
I'm eager to order the Doolhof Dark Lady of the Labyrinth Pinotage that I had the last time I was here with my friend Gray, but none is available, so the next choice is Donnie's. He opts for the Hartenberg Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz, which I - never a fan of Shiraz in any form - can describe only as watery. He enjoys it, and I don't tell him my thoughts, which might say I lot about me. Of course, it could also say a lot that I've chosen a restaurant where the lighting is dim enough to have once prompted Gray to remark that "I feel like I should be proposing to you, or you should be selling me drugs." It's the space clearing around us that makes me realise that the atmosphere is becoming altogether intimate. As it's Monday night, many of the patrons are taking advantage of Societi's special: in conjunction with the Labia Theatre, they offer two margarita pizzas and two movie tickets for R70. While others move off to their movies, we keep our waitress waiting because Donnie has a lot to tell me: his best friend has just revealed that he's gay, he's moving into a new place, and he's quitting his job because he felt that it was going nowhere. When we do eventually order, it's the Fettucine Con Limone, made with lemon, cream, and parsley, for me. I'm disappointed, but am perhaps partly to blame for this - I've ignored my longing for the pizza I've had before and followed Donnie's advice and my own compulsion to try something entirely different. The complaint that it's too tangy sounds a little silly when describing something that does in fact have "lemon" in its name. The pasta is well prepared and presented, and a substantial portion in its "Mains" incarnation (R60), but I'd advise ordering it as a starter (R40) before moving onto something less delicate and interesting and more enjoyable and satisfying. I am jealous of Donnie's Mushroom, Bacon and Rocket pizza (R60) - very savoury bacon and mushroom with piles of impressively fresh rocket. He passes over a slice, although he, a self-professed "rocket man" loves it too, particularly the fact that it was an authentic, not perfectly round, shape.
This is what life would be like with him - being adored and looked after - but I am very used to being single. I like making all my own choices, and the minute I'm with someone I feel my opinions being easily swayed.
"Is he a dessert guy?" Gray has asked about Donnie. I do not trust non-smokers (I'm a non-smoker myself); Gray does not trust people who must have dessert.
"He's a whatever-you-prefer guy." I replied. This evening, though, he insists that the meal doesn't end at mains.
Dessert is from the specials menu: Sticky toffee pudding, and a cheese platter (around R35 and R40 respectively, if memory serves), both of them shared. Donnie was delighted by the waitress's willingness to provide vanilla ice-cream with the pudding in place of the advertised caramel version; I am troubled by its slightly burned corner. This is test of optimism if ever I saw one, and I think I just failed. Our waitress tells us that the three cheeses that will be on our platter will be blue rock, brie, and camembert, but as one of them is very hard and tastes rather like parmesan, it seems that she might have been mistaken. All three cheeses are delicious, but I would have preferred to have at least one conventional biscuit or piece of bread alongside the admittedly charming breadstick and slices of melba toast.
It's getting late, and I'm getting tired, and when Donnie suggests we have coffee I say that I'm just too full - not, incidentally, a lie. I might be seeing him next week when I'm in his part of the world, or it could be months until we meet again. Until then, he has a rut to escape and I have places to go and people to see. He praises my choice of restaurant again, and tells me he likes my hair, and I wish him luck for the big changes he's about to make happen. I realise that I feel proud of him, then we part ways with the most chaste of kisses on the cheek. Until next time.
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