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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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.
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