About the souffle

Well, okay, not really.  It was more somber and overcast…  Right then, if you want to be a stickler for the truth, it was a fantastically summery Cape Town duskiness that was settling on Long Street.  But there is a dark alleyway involved somewhere.  Let me start a bit less sinister.

A few Mondays ago, I was hit with an incredible craving for sushi.  Now, anyone who has read Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential will know well enough to steer clear of the seafood section on Monday nights.  Monday night seafood is usually the fishy equivalent of the once-a-week koshuis salad/soup where all the week’s leftovers are thrown together to make an “exotic” combination.  (I will never live down The Day of The Green Salad:  The salad that went green, unwillingly…)  Monday night sushi, briefly put, is not for the faint of heart.

In the end, this craving was altogether stronger than me.  I phoned a friend, cancelled out half the available options and asked my slightly unwilling conversational audience for an opinion.  I ended up at Silver Fish.  Oh, watch out, the dark alley bit is creeping up…

Silver Fish is a relatively new establishment just around the corner from Café Mojito and Long Street Café in Long Street.  It is situated at the end of an alleyway – which, yes, gets dark at night – and puts me in mind of the type of places that only locals know about.  I have been living in town for a few years now and tend to describe myself, somewhat haughtily and to the amusement of my friends, as a rehabilitated suburbanite to whoever cares to listen or just cannot extract themselves from the conversation hastily enough.  With this in mind, I flattered myself for a moment with the thought that I, The Local, have found a spot to bring my expatriate and suburb-dwelling friends to.  Best of all, it is situated next to Julep, my number one hidden cocktail spot in the world. 

Just a swift aside on Julep:  you may have climbed Everest and conquered the moon with the cunning use of flags (thank you Eddie Izzard), but you have not experienced life to the full until you had a custom made cocktail at Julep. The menu contains more cocktails than you can shake a stick at, which is especially noteworthy as they have more than two gin based cocktails included.  As much as I adore my gin, I can only face a limited amount of Singapore Slings – the average gin-based staple at most cocktail bars – before I am tempted to bellow “Why?!” with a raised fist to the heavens and an unshed tear in my eye.  Their Old Fashioned is ambrosia.  The Watermelon Ling is summer in a glass (and happily for me, gin-based).

Back to the fish at hand.  Silver Fish is a sushi and seafood joint with an unpretentious nod to the simplicity of Japanese design. They seem to exist solely to cater to your every piscetarian whim, be it a seafood curry, sushi or just good old fashioned fish and chips.

Their prices are extraordinarily reasonable when you take the quality and quantity of the food into account.  Our 28 piece sushi platter amounted to an unlikely R120.  Needless to say, we ordered another platter and hastily scoffed the whole lot before our stomachs could plead for mercy. 

The only negative aspect, which I am disclosing with a heavy heart, is that the wine list was particularly limited.  If I recall correctly, there were only a handful of wines, none with a price tag attached.  Even if limited, the wine was also reasonably priced at well below R100 per bottle.

In a city where sushi is seen as a staple food as much as white bread is to my family, Silverfish truly exceed expectations in the midst of tough competition.  Best is, you do not even require the drama of a dark and stormy night to enjoy the quality of what is served.  A Frankensteinesque operation for an extra stomach might help though, because one serving will never be enough.

A personal note:

I do realize that this may not be the most comprehensive review and may even appear a tad biased in favour of the establishment.  Unfortunately for you, my dear reader, I am unabashedly still posting this review unedited.  Rest assured, however, that I am not finished with Silver Fish by a far country mile.  As I revisit this light at the end of the tunnel (or alley, you pedantics to the literal) I will continue to elaborate on their menu.

Firstly, my apologies for the long absence. In between the U.S. elections, economic crises and my hair falling flat every Tuesday, I’ve been so busy eating comfort food at home that I haven’t really had a chance to get back to the restaurant side of things for a while.

Below is my sincerest apology. The Anzac bit of the name apparently has an epic story connected to it, worthy to star Nicole Kidman and a whole tribe of newts. Unfortunately my mind was wandering over at 7de Laan while the Posse was explaining the significance. Unless my laziness recedes and I decide to Google the name, you will have to be content instead with my fount of knowledge concerning Afrikaans soapies.

And so on to the biscuits themselves. This is basically a tarted-up crunchie biscuit, but the addition of the chocolate makes it exponentially more… uhm… moreish. They are delectable right out of the oven, when the crispy exterior gives way to the melted chocolate centre.

Chocolate Anzac Biscuits

1 cup rolled oats
¾ cup desiccated coconut
1 cup plain flour
1 cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
125 g butter
2 tablespoons golden syrup
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 tablespoon boiling water
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
250 g dark chocolate, chopped

Preheat the oven to 150ºC.

Mix together the oats, flour, sugar, salt, coconut and chocolate.

Melt the syrup, butter and vanilla essence together.

Mix the bicarbonate of soda with the water and add to the melted butter and syrup. Add the mixture to the dry ingredients and mix.

Place one tablespoons full of mixture on a greased tray, allowing room for spreading.

Bake for 20 minutes. Loosen while warm and cool on tray.

Makes approximately 35 biscuits.

Below is a review written today by my most loyal friend and a member of The Posse.  This was contributed after she heard my wailing and gnashing of teeth caused by my lack of exposure to dining spots in the past week. 

I’ve been asked by the lovely poiakasha to review Jake’s in the Village, so here we go.
 
Now, this is not a restaurant I would normally go to, for two reasons:
1)     Jake’s is a semi-chain and I am a snob possessed of, as well as demanding, great individuality
2)     The Village in Tokai is a little far to walk to from town (I have no license and thus no car)
However, my brand new workplace had organized an anniversary lunch for the whole office, so along I went to Tokai and Jake’s.
 
First impressions were reasonably good – leather chairs, fireplace, etc., but more importantly, a large outside seating area with a canopy made of branches and lovely stone tables. All very pretty. This is where our function was, and fortunately the weather was for once passable and outside seating did not induce pneumonia in anyone. (I, however, walked away with lungs ten times blacker as an outside venue meant all my tablemates smoked throughout lunch. Only my new-girl-trying-to-make-friends status kept me from coughing ostentatiously whenever the chain reaction lighting-up commenced.)
 
We were handed cocktails, appropriately in alcoholic and non-alcoholic options. Not wanting to be labeled an alcoholic, I followed my colleagues’ lead and asked for a non-alcoholic version while my individuality protested but was ignored. It was generic fruit punch, the glass’ rim coated in very hard and very bright pink sugar that rubbed off on our noses as we drank.
 
Conversation flagged amongst the now stickily pink-nosed colleagues once seated, so attention turned to the menus. Starters were a choice between baked camembert with basil pesto and tomato relish and Thai duck spring rolls. Four options for mains: rump steak (grilled to medium) with potato wedges, angelfish with herbed butter sauce and crushed potatoes, Thai chicken curry or butternut and gorgonzola parcels with a mushroom sauce. For dessert there was white chocolate and rose water panna cotta or deep fried ice cream with butterscotch sauce.
 
As an ex-vegetarian who rarely eats meat and enjoys light food, I should have ordered the camembert, veggie parcels and panna cotta. Once again, however, the need to conform got the better of me and I ordered the exact combination of practically everyone at my table: spring rolls, rump and ice cream. The dying voice of individuality inside me wailed faintly, so I asked the waiter if I could please have my steak rare. Now I would be boring, but at least a little bit different. I considered Individuality appeased.
 
At this point, though, guilt over slowly killing my individuality combined with the awkward stilted conversation around the table had me throwing back liberal amounts of Van Loveren, red and white. (Sidebar – why is Van Loveren so often the wine served at functions, weddings, parties, etc.?) If my colleagues decided I was an alcoholic, so be it. Unfortunately they might think I am even more than an alcoholic, as, apropos of nothing (other than, possibly, too much Van Loveren), I told one colleague that I write erotic fiction in my free time. But I will not be embarrassed in retrospect. They were boring, which is worse.
 
Food provided a distraction, though the distraction could have been more accomplished. The springrolls were well seasoned and spiced, but I spied a grand total of only three duck slivers amongst all the vegetables and noodles, while the dipping sauce was sickly sweet, like warmed golden syrup. My steak was indeed rare, thankfully, as it was not the best-flavoured rump I’ve had and overcooking would have killed what flavour there was. Finally, the ice cream. Yummmmmm. Crispy ginger biscuit crust, melting vanilla ice cream, rich butterscotch sauce. Hmmm. Just far too much and too rich, with two large balls of ice cream and a giant lake of sauce for every portion.
 
Of course the camembert, veggie parcels and panna cotta looked divine. Absolutely vegetarian, flavourful and light. Individuality managed to sneer at me despite being mostly dead and I went home chastened, agreeing with Individuality that I must from now on continue on my snobbish path, avoiding chain restaurants and ordering the less obvious choices.
 
And thus concludes my review of Jake’s at the Village. Apologies to Jake’s and my brand new colleagues.

How great is it that the general Polinesian area has decided to name its staple foodstuff after me?!?

Today is completely without inspiration.  Yea, even though the sun is shining, the crickets are chirping (where did all the birds go?) and the trees are green, there is nothing foodwise to share.

Except that you must visit this site.  It is a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because everything is so pretty.  But beware the curse of this site, as you will not be able to resist buying and ending up at a foul cross road with your relationship with your bank manager. 

Mr. Bank Manager, please respond to my pleas for an extended overdraft…

A few weeks ago I was rambling along with The Companion, blissfully unaware of the stares my drawstring pants were attracting.  It was therefore quite a shock to trundle into a rather large yellow sign.   

Now, before continuing, I must explain that yellow is a very positive colour for me.  Except for being the mascot colour of a group of endearing individuals hanging out on the lunatic fringe who go by the moniker of “The Cult of The Yellow Line”, it is also the colour of the sun (I proved this by looking at the sun directly and damaging my corneas for a couple of hours), egg yolk, my dear friend ____’s skin and most importantly, bananas.  According to a website named “Psychological properties of colour”, yellow is the most effective emotional colour and “the right yellow will lift our spirits and our self-esteem; it is the colour of confidence and optimism”.   It is a luminous, upbeat colour and has long been utilised as such by the Traffic Department to indicate jolly lines in the road, which the average Capetonian in turn uses as a personally reserved parking space.  

But let’s get back to the yellow sign at hand.  My eyes, still recovering from my short-lived adventure gaping at the sun, struggled at first to make out the words.  Eggs, it assured me, with bacon and tomato are waiting just over the threshold.  The sign went on with rash promises of toast and even coffee, all for R20.  My wise friend in The Posse once said that if something looks too good to be true, it probably is.   

Won over by these sweet words, I very nearly stepped into Arnold’s.  Very nearly, because up to this point in time, it was always Arnold’s, bless their souls, who nourished my pitiable morning-after-the-night-before body with Mike’s Breakfast.  This time, however, the sign belonged to none other than Café Sofia, the restaurant directly adjacent to Arnold’s in Kloof Street.  Intrigued by the name slightly reminiscent of the Soviet Bloc and the direct rivalry that they are giving to Arnold’s, I stepped inside.  (Honestly?  My loyalty to Arnold’s was immediately dampened by the price tag.  R20 for full breakfast and coffee?  Bring it on!) 

The interior was a smidgen lacking in warmth; this is obviously more of a night-time haunt for tapas-devouring, sangria-scoffing waifs.  The wrap-around windows, however, affords the diner (or in this case, breakfaster) the best uninhibited people-watching session I’ve had since I lost my cloak of invisibility and my flying-under-the-radar capsules.  You better not smirk – watching the pedestrians on Kloof Street is almost always better than the daily soaps shown by SABC.  To round off the good side of the restaurant, the service was extremely friendly and jocular and the manager even sauntered over to inform us of their wine promotion, unfazed by the fact that the first Boeing was yet to pass over our heads.   

The only off-putting aspect was that the service was s-l-o-w.  No, wait, that was not nearly enough build-up.  The service was so spectacularly, mind numbingly s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w that in the time that we waited for our breakfast, there were at least two changing of the informal car guards and one sunset and one sunrise.  Table Mountain eroded by one foot and global warming caused the sea levels to rise with 15 centimeters.  Café Sofia’s service takes the lackadaisical Cape Town standards to a whole new level.  As one reviewer on Food24 so pithily stated, it was “like being stuck in Groundhog Day”.   

The colour yellow can also have a severely negative impact, as per the highly informative “Psychological properties of colour” website.  Too much exposure can cause “Irrationality, fear, emotional fragility, depression, anxiety and suicide”.  Between The Companion and me, we either considered or experienced all of the above during our waiting period.

 When our food eventually arrived, I was grumbling and ready to give our waiter the death glare.  Obviously quite experienced with out-of-patience customers, he diverted my attention with a plate of toast, swirling it in a flourish that would make his (probably) matador pappy very proud and made good his escape before I could unleash my irritation. Luckily for them, the food was faultless.  The Companion’s eggs were made exactly to order and the bacon did not at all resemble the tongues of my dad’s old work shoes.  My omelette was bursting forth in an unstructured merry eruption of feta, bacon and sweet peppers.  It was all a bit much and after hours of only imbibing coffee, my blood sugar levels were practically shouting “BANZAI!”.  

It’s well known that anything worth having is worth the wait.  I think after visiting Café Sofia, they should be an exception to this rule, along with having to wait to see your arch enemy’s hair-rinse come out navy blue.  Do not despair, the food’s too good (and outstanding value for money) not to visit again, but next time I’ll pack some trail mix and a picnic basket to keep me going until breakfast arrives.

It’s another overcast day in the Southern Suburbs.  After working in the City Bowl for several years, the dramatic difference in weather conditions are still rather confounding for me.  I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll have a sniffly nose for the duration of my employment, but it’s the glumness that is most overwhelming.

How are you supposed to concentrate on work if the weather puts you in mind for red wine, lots of blankets and just staying in?  As I type, I’m conjuring images of comfort food:  creamy pasta with portabellini mushrooms and parma ham, anything with melted cheese and to round it off, one of the hand-me-down recipes for malva pudding drenched in custard. 

If however, the inclement weather does not tempt you with cooking your own food and hibernating, I’d recommend that you swing past Limoncello’s in Breda Street.  My judgement may be a bit clouded, because I think they are the bees’ knees when it comes to Southern Italian home cooking.  The menu may appear a tad limited, but as my good friend always says:  Never trust a menu that comes out in hard cover.  The brevity of this piece of gastronomical literature means one thing and one thing only:  that the chef would rather be a perfectionist in a few things than bungle up a mass of dishes.

Most items on the menu (because yes, I’ve been working my way through it and only have the starters left to taste) are made with fresh ingredients and never over-complicated.  No jus here and you can forget of seeing the words “reduction” anywhere.  This is a place for expansion, be it of feelings of wellbeing or the drawstring waist of your pants that you have wisely decided to wear. 

Except for the normal pasta and pizza, they also have a range of meat dishes such as veal and lamb cutlets.  I once nearly sold my grandmother for a second portion of the lamb cutlets, but she unfortunately refused to go along with the ploy.  The pizzas are good enough to rival most in town and the pasta is always a joy to behold (and eat).  I am yet to resist a portion of their seared tuna steaks.    

Best of all is to finish off the meal with a glass of their homemade limoncello liqueur and mulling over the immorality of ordering all the desserts for yourself.

From the first bite of straight from the oven bread through to the last drop of liqueur, this is one of the few restaurants that beats staying in with red wine.

Contact details are here.

Note:  Even though I have just sung the praises of Limoncello’s, I am still paying for every meal there.  Unfortunately for my wallet, but fortunate for my already tight collection of drawstring pants…       

You’re completely right.  It’s been almost two weeks and not one review has even been posted.  Time to be honest:  the restaurant owners are yet to beat a path to my door, lavishly showering me with trinkets and invites to their establishments. It would probably help if they knew where I lived.  Or that this blog existed. Instead of a review, I will now share a recipe for banana loaf.  As The Posse is obsessed with all things banana, a song has already been devoted to this tropical fruit: 

Die Piesang Liedjie

Lyrics by:  The Posse 

O jy is ‘n piesang

Jou naam sit so dig in my kies en wang

As ek daaraan dink breek ek in sang

En maak al die buurt se katte bang! 

(Refrein:)Piesang, piesang, piesang,

Jy is ‘n piesang,

Almal wil aan jou lippe hang

Want jy is ‘n fantastiese piesang! 

O jy is ‘n piesang

Ek stap en ek dink so af in die gang

Hoe kan ek jou as piesang vasvang?

Met die melodiee van my sang! 

(Herhaal refrain)

 O jy is ‘n piesang

Terwyl ek smul aan kerrie en blatjang

Dink ek by myself, wat’s aan die gang?

Dink ek vermis ‘n sekere lang

Geel vrug om aan te kou in my wang! 

(Herhaal refrein) 

O jy is ‘n piesang

Gladde geel lyf gebuig met ‘n tang

Dis na die goeie goue dae wat jy verlang

Want jy’s glad nie ‘n bangjan! 

Now we will sit back with a contented sigh and wait for the record contract offers to roll in. But until such a time that The Posse starts a riveting new career in psychedelic-fruit songwriting, food shall provide diversion and comfort.  On to the banana loaf recipe, kindly provided by one of the Posse member’s mother. It’s easy enough to bake while thinking of catchy tunes to set the lyrics of the “Piesang Liedjie” to: 

125g butter, 250g caster sugar, 2 extra large eggs, 2 tablespoons (30ml) yoghurt, 1 teaspoon (5ml) vanilla essence, 6 ripe and mashed bananas, 4 tablespoons (60ml) chopped nuts (optional), 250g flour, 1 teaspoon (5ml) bicarbonate of soda, ¼ teaspoon (1,5ml) salt 

Cream the butter and sugar until it is light and fluffy.  Whip the eggs lightly with a fork and steadily add it with the yoghurt and the vanilla into the butter mixture.  Fold in the bananas and the nuts.  Sieve the flour, bicarb and salt twice and fold it into the banana mixture until mixed well.  Pour the mixture into a greased bread pan. Bake it at 180º Celcius for 50 minutes to an hour. 

Would love to keep this discussion on all things banana going, but still have to work my way through half a loaf of banana goodness. 

One day, not so long ago, I was having quite a heated debate with one of The Posse.  With, what I would imagine, a flash in her eyes, she called me a “pieasang”.  Firstly, the conversation was via e-mail, so there’s no way to be certain about the flashing eyes, but I’ll ask her and make sure.  Secondly, my fount of general knowledge was baffled with the termonology.  When asked what exactly a “pieasang” constitutes, the following response was sent to my inbox: 

A small animal to be found only on remote islands off the coast of mainland Malaysia. It is the size of a large cat and has smooth, dark grey skin. The head is small in comparison to the rotund oblong body, which body rests on four short legs with small rounded feet. The eyes are large and protruding from either side of the head, ears small and pointed and snout short and stubby and adorned with many long whisker-like hairs on either side of two small nostrils. The mouth cannot be seen as it is found on the underside of the snout and is simply a small, lipless opening. There is no tail. Not much is known of the habits of pieasangs. They were officially discovered on 17 October, 1973 by the Danish anthropology professor, Dr. Dagfinn Knudsen, who was travelling through the Malaysian coastal islands in order to research the birthing rituals of the tribes living on the islands. Dr. Knudsen accidentally came upon a grouping of five pieasangs whilst returning to his tent from a night-time birth and, having a camera in hand and thinking the animals to be unusual, took one photograph as the pieasangs began to run away. He thought no more of this photo until a colleague in the nature conservation department of Dr. Knudsen’s university came upon the photo accidentally months later and began to investigate these as-yet unknown and undefined creatures.  Since 1973 only five further pieasang sightings have been recorded by various researchers: three pieasangs in 1977; five pieasangs in 1982; one pieasang in 1983; two pieasangs in 1993; and one pieasang in 1999. It is feared by some that pieasangs were already on the verge of extinction when discovered and have, since 1999, become extinct. However, as a ten-year period has previously passed without a sighting only to be broken with a sighting of two, it is possible that there are still pieasangs in the Malaysian island jungles. The name “pieasang” comes from the language spoken throughout these islands in differing dialect forms and means “small kind silent one.” It is thought that there have always been very few pieasangs and that they are extremely shy and nocturnal as the creatures do not feature in local mythology or stories, unlike almost all other animals found on the islands, and as the islanders themselves know very little concerning pieasangs. No explanation has been given by an islander as to the reason for calling piesangs “kind”. No islander or researcher has ever seen a young or smaller pieasang – all sightings appear to have been of fully-grown adult animals.  

Research continues, mostly funded by and springing from Rosklilde University in Roskilde, Denmark, where Dr. Dagfinn Knudsen still lectures and presides over the university’s annual Pieasang Day (17 October). On this day, all available photographs (seven, gleaned from the five brief sightings) and information is once again discussed and examined. On a lighter note, students prepare meals comprising a Danish take on Malaysian island food and gather at one another’s homes dressed as islanders, with one guest dressed in a pieasang costume arriving late as the feted guest of honour. The “pieasang” guest is greeted by a song written by students in the 1970’s, describing the pieasang’s kind but silent nature, after which the merriment continues.