Black South-Eaters

Address: Mitico Pizzeria, Kloof Street (next to Hudson’s, where St Elmo’s used to be).

Imali: ± I can’t remember, but cheap (thanks Voronki). Take you own booze – free corkage for now.

Gianni Vigliotti, the restaurateur at Mitico, is worried: “How’s the pasta? Al dente? Do you like al dente? I find South Africans, they like their pasta cooked, hnng? Overcooked. Too soft.”

He shakes his head, pulling his mouth in mild distaste.

We nod drunkenly enthusiastic, appreciatively, because the penne al arrabiata is delicious – al dente, and bursting with a sauce that is layered: pungent tomato and hot chilli that doesn’t sear, but which lingers on the tongue. For such a basic sauce, it’s rich, but also not oily.

We were at Mitico, Voronki and I, to have an impromptu celebratory drink with food after some good news on the publishing front concerning the Black South-Eater’s poetic endeavours. Mitico is new – it opened last week – so it might be some time before the place lives up to part of its name (“mitico” means “mythical”, but also “legendary” and, in colloquial speech, just “fantastic” or “marvellous”).

Mitico doesn’t have it’s liquor license yet, so there is no corkage charge. In fact, when we discovered this and as we had arrived dry, we hesitated. But the waiter suggested we get some drinks across the road. Which we did – some Darling Brew Bonecrusher (lulz)* and Solms Cape Jazz Shiraz – and which meant that our drinks bill was low.

Service was friendly, if a bit slow and inattentive, but we’ll forgive them that for now. Gianni, on the other hand, was anxiously busy, touting the place at the sidewalk entrance, talking to tables, making sure anybody didn’t need anything.

I suppose the best way to test a pizzeria is to go for the classics: Caprese salad starter, a salami, mushroom and olive pizza (the waiter encouraged we try the pizza), and the penne al arrabiata. I’ll eat the caprese, but I’m not a fan of it. I mean, yes, tomato, basil, mozzarella – it’s good and you can’t go wrong and it washes down well with the sparkling Shiraz, but I always think the caprese is more colour than anything else. (By the way, the wine goes well with anything, but I particularly like it with a cheddar or any stronger cheese.)

Caprese done, we lingered before ordering the other two dishes.

But the pizza! I haven’t been to Massimo’s Pizza Club, but whatever Massimo has to offer in faraway Hout Bay (and I trust all the reports I’ve been getting), I believe that Gianni has it on offer right here in Kloof Street. So, mindful that Massimo could trump Gianni, the pizza at Mitico is the best pizza I’ve eaten in Cape Town. I’ve never been a fan of Col Cacchio, I haven’t tasted the pizza at Il Leone, etc., and, recently, I wasn’t impressed by Baccini’s. But I’ll be back for more pizza at Mitico.

It’s thin without splintering like a cracker, it’s not over-loaded with mozarella, the tomato sauce base is simple, never sweet, mildly tart, and the salami is good quality salami and not the fatty, greasy gristle found often on the your everyday pizza in Cape Town.

Don’t get me wrong. You know the Black South-Eater moves between the high and the low, and there’s nothing wrong with a Butler’s pizza when you’re serial slumming (thin base margherita with anchovy and pineapple, ask them to use half of the cheese; try it and broaden your snobbish horizons). I have a soft spot for Butler’s, ever since I was a student, when I had an account as “Kaiser Strozek” (No, Kaiser Strozek, not Keyser Söze), and their pizzas have always, ever since, arrived hot and in less than 30 minutes. But should Mitico get a delivery service, Butler’s will be toasted cheese. Unless they name my favourite pizza “The Strozek.”

As mentioned earlier, the pasta was also delicious. Again, that mildly tart, non-sweet, non-greasy tomato sauce and the lingering burn of the chilli. I swallowed down mouthfuls whenever Voronki looked the other way.

As a smoker with dulled taste buds, I like my salt on my food, and with the first mouthful of pizza, I thought it needed a bit of salt. Then I tasted the pasta and also thought perhaps some salt would liven it up. Voronki cautioned against it, wisely so, because with the second bite for both dishes, I thought it was all good. I could taste and appreciate all the flavours and, rare for me, enjoyed what I would normally consider under-salted food. I take my hat off to Gianni and to the mysterious Sicilian and his helpers slaving away in that hot, wood-fired kitchen.

I had a macchiato for afters and now I know also where to go for that little upper. Unlike at other establishments, it’s not a mini cappuccino.

So, if you’re looking for a good pizza or bowl of pasta for an informal lunch or an early, sundowner dinner, get to Mitico, take your own booze, get an outside table and watch the outlandish outfits drifting up and down Kloof.

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Notes:

* Thanks to Suip! for reminding about the Bone Crusher link.

Address 1: Café Ganesh, Trill Road, Observatory, 021-448 3435

Imali: R60.00 (4 drinks for two, free orange vibes) + R9.00 for crisps from the corner cafee.

Address 2: Mezzaluna, 16 Loop Street (corner of Loop and Riebeeck Street), Cape Town, 021-421 6391 (see previous review).

Lire: Can’t remember, it was a lot (courtesy Voronki, and included a bottle of wine at excellent value – R140.00 – and four grappa at ∑R100.00)

The long introduction

The worldcup finals are moving at pace – like a German counter-attack – to the final final and, like many football crazy people, I wish it could start all over. Like many sentimental fools, I feel for all the teams that played hard but who, alas, did not make it.

Except for England, simply because of the hype in the anglophone media and popular anglophone/anglophile imagination that always accompanies that team’s forays into international competition. Made up of players from the ‘best league in the world‘, it is repeated ad nauseum. But sans any acknowledgement that that league competition itself is made up of many non-English players. Who might make shine players like Rooney and Gerrard. Or that there are other club competitions which Commonwealth fans do not follow as closely because of colonial legacies (football and politics… there, I said it.)

That colonial legacy dictates cultural strains (yes, I mean it in both senses) and determines which leagues get the best coverage in local media and which leagues are most popular. But it is odd that punters may be shocked to discover that there actually are other league competitions and other countries in which the quality of football outstrips the only football they know about. Sold on the marketing. And ignorant of Flavour Flav’s admonishment: ‘Don’t believe the hype!’ It’s almost as if some people are shocked that other countries could have premier leagues from which players may be drawn for national teams that turn out to better than Ingerland. The temerity!

I attended, among others, the England-Algeria group game in Cape Town with Mr. 302 and BookSA (thanks to 302). We were surrounded by South African fans of the England team. Every now and then I would yell in support of Algeria as counterpoint, much as one would perhaps have some mint sauce as counterpoint to rich lamb. Call me contrarian, but I was really rooting for an England booting, so as to avoid an England-Germany clash in the Round of 16, an unnecessary anxiety.

Every time I yelled for Algeria, the SA-England fans would turn to look at me as if I was a traitor in their midsts. But it seemed as if the fans could not even comprehend the existence of a country called ‘Algeria’, much less that they could have a football team, and much less one that could hold ‘mighty’ England to a draw. And everytime chants swelled from the Algerian fans’ block, I noticed people around me look in that direction, ‘What are those Arabs chanting?’ written nervously across their faces.

Anyway.

So, yes, I am sad because I always have more than one favourite team, or I have favourite players in a team. Or I like their names. Or I have a virtual relationship with some players via computer games. Etc. Thus I am sad that Cameroon just never got it together. Nor Ivory Coast. Nor Japan. Brazil taken out by the Netherlands. Brazil! Etc.

But I am happy that Germany (!) appears unstoppable, although Spain (Spain!) could block them. And don’t forget the Netherlands (Hup!). Uruguay! (I’ve always liked Diego Forlan as a striker and that goal against South Africa early on made nonsense of any complaints about the ball.)

Anyhoo, let’s get onto more serious matters. For the games that I have attended, circumstances and the weather have conspired against me going on the fan walk and stopping off at Lusitania fisheries for their very excellent fried fish, which, a week before the worldcup,  was cheap at R21.00 for a piece of fish. I hope tomorrow, for the Brazil-Ghana Netherlands-Uruguay semi-final, that the weather is fine. I want some of that fish.

Food and football adventures have had their ups and downs. The biggest downer was Dias Tavern, although the food was good. Voronki and I, wanting to experience a bit of the gees of a sunny Saturday afternoon, decided on lunch and Netherlands vs Japan at Dias Tavern. We called. ‘Yes, we are showing that match. There is rugby on later (SA vs Italy) but we’ll keep everyone happy.’

We started with some delectable grilled sardines and squid tentacles, drenching all in Dias Tavern’s own peri-peri sauce. Good times as we watched football, talked, explained, laughed… but stopped short of singing and dancing as we quaffed the Graça. Yes, we seeked the high in the low, and often a popsong can have more depth of feeling than a Shakespeare sonnet.

Orders in for mains of trinchado (damn, that stuff is good) and fish&chips. All good, all peri-peri. Have more Graça.

Half-time and the sound gets turned down. Surreptitiously, the channels on all the screens are switched. A rugby crowd drifts in. Fifteen minutes later, 2 English tourists are complaining. OK, Dias will turn on the football on one screen, but sans sound. English tourists decide to go elsewhere. They settle the bill, but grump on, justifiably. We too had been led to believe that, yes, there will be football and everyone would be kept happy. We were also grumpy, despite the tender trinchado and crispy fish, despite the haze of  contentment settling on our brains like a sluggish gastropod. Make that the sluggish tail of a crustacean, lightly dusted and seasoned, flash-fried, served with peri-peri.

Wait. What?

Oh, right. It’s not like SA vs Italy is a meaningful rugby game. And I overheard the owner/manager say to English tourist 1 that rugby is more popular ‘here’ (in South Africa? at Dias Tavern?). As a business proposition on that day, it was clear that the shebeen had big bookings for the rugby match. Why could the tavern not simply have said: ‘Big crowd for the rugby match today, so we may have problems accommodating the football.’ But no, they wanted to get the earnings of the measly 3 football tables in as well and thus hoodwinked us football fans. Greedy bastardo!

Well, English tourist kept on grumping and eventually the owner/manager gave him his money back with a dismissive wave of the hand. 0-0 draw.

We maintained our quality of movement off the ball, settling the bill with panache (thanks Voronki) and wishing Portugal an early exit (hah!). It will be some time before I am persuaded back to Dias Tavern. But then again, that trinchado is something. And so are the fish&chips. God, I am of weak principle when things fried crispy are mentioned…

Netherlands vs Brazil – 2:1 (0:1)

Voronki and I decided to provide some gees at Café Ganesh for this game. A regular there had taken over and decked the place out in orange balloons. Some counter-attacking came from the organiser of a birthday party there later that evening, but the blue, green and yellow ribbons kept on bursting.

Ganesh was selling drinks only. Following the radical dip in attendances after South Africa’s exit, they closed the samoosa bar (hot snacks including their delicious crayfish [lobster] samoosas). But the Castle Stout was only R15.00 a bottle and Ganesh allowed snacks in. That’s Lays crisps at R9.00 a big bag from the corner cafee, picked up during a counter-attacking run down the left channel.

The crisps were fresh and crackling, the stout was dark and stout. The vuvuzelas were joyous, but sometimes mournful, like an unnameable beast retreated behind a bank of reeds to there accept its death in age.

Uruguay vs Ghana – 1:1 a.e.t. (1:1, 0:1) 4:2 PSO

Voronki came up with the sparkling idea that a dinner at Mezzaluna would be just the thing to extend some worldcup gees. Not a ‘boo’ or a ‘bah’ you’ll hear from this black south-eater at the mention of Mezzaluna. And off we sped in the Volvozela.

Our favourite restaurateur appeared tired, but welcomed us as early diners (6.15 pm I think we got there) and ushered us to our favourite table in a restaurant all to ourselves. He had just seen off a slagorde of Dutch journos, clearly wasn’t expecting droves of ‘normal’ diners, but warned us that a squadra of Italian journos would be watching and eating in the lounge/smoking section across the hallway.

We didn’t mind at all. In fact, we will be joining after dinner, we said. But, are you open for dinner? And my condolences for Italy’s early exit.

At the mention of the Azzurri, Mr. Fiore cocked his head in his inimitable style, hunched his shoulders and drew his hands palms upwards: ‘Well, if you don’t want to play football…’

While he went to check on the state of the kitchen, a waiter brought us bread and menus. As usual, indecision with the wine.

But Mr. Fiore returned, happy that the water was on the boil. He quickly told us what was no longer available. More importantly, and what I like about him, is that he knows just when to enter the fray of indecision and solve your problem. And so he decided that we should have the burrata, mozarella and prosciutto crudo for starters, as well as a Tamboerskloof shiraz (I forget the vintage. My apologies, but I have football on my mind).

At R140.00, the wine was a ridiculous bargain.

The burrata and prosciutto, locally made, were excellent. The cheese is for dairy lovers: as you cut into it, creamy milk spills out, which you can sop up with bits of ham. (Alas, it is cow’s milk.) I did not quite catch who the cheese makers are, but Mr. Fiore waved with his hand when he said that it was locally made, as if to indicate a garagiste cheese operation somewhere in Green Point.

Having vowed not to order something we’ve had before at Mezzaluna, Voronki chose the calf’s liver and onions fried in butter and served with mashed potato, and I plumped for the tagliatelle e salsiccia. Both were sensational, and sensationally rich. I want more, of both. The sausage, also local Italian, reminded me of the fagioli e salsiccia I had in Umbria. Rich and salty and, it goes without saying, perfectly cooked tagliatelle. Excuse the expression, but I hoovered that up.

In between me drawing breath, Voronki offered me morsels of the liver. A little pink on the inside, it maintained that ferric taste, but not as strong, obviously, as ox liver. It was tender yet stout, and rich, and the onions… probably the most delicious onions I’ve ever tasted done that way (OK, maybe the onions I once simmered for an hour+ to go on boerewors rolls were better.)

Content with The Warm Glow, we decamped to the smoking area where soon the squad of journalists arrived and pierced their burrata. There was no controversy at our table; no handballs, no penalties, no nothing. Just espresso and grappa. A perfect prelude to the next day’s stout questions put to Argentina by Germany.

Address: 16 Loop Street (corner of Loop and Riebeeck Street), Cape Town, 021-421 6391

Lira: R370.00 for two (small carafe of white, 2 starters, 2 mains, 2 espresso, 2 complimentary grappa, for we were gracious, appreciatively slow diners). Excellent value. Dinner sponsored by Voronki.

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Setting out one’s store

The Black South-Eater is completely enamoured with Mezzaluna and wishes to add his voice to a chorus of approval among Cape Town reviewers. Owned and run by Jimmy Fiore, a former banker from Italy, Mezzaluna hits the right spot in almost all matters, but mainly, and importantly, in matters of the welcoming atmosphere, the quality of the food, and the cost/value consideration. Added to this are Signore Fiore’s views on football.

My companion and I were the last to leave and while we lingered over grappa and espresso, Mr. Fiore would occasionally pop by from the smoking lounge. He was watching football. Inter Milan versus Juventus.

“Who do you support?” I asked.

“Juventus”

“Right,” I said. “Inter is not quite the right team to support.”

“No. No, they’re, how do you say, incorrect hhm? Politically incorrect,” he said and smiled. And so it’s charming to see a former banker dismiss a brauscia team such as Inter Milan.

But I get ahead of myself.

This was our second visit. Last year, we tasted Mr. Fiore’s now famous smoked tuna carpaccio, as well as the equally famous but more astounding sea urchin pasta. Fresh, bright, summery with its dash of sunshine on a plate, sea rich, the sea urchin pasta is a must-have if you haven’t had it. And even if you have conceptual problems with sea urchins, I implore you, try it. You will be astonished. Then I had the cotoletta alla milanese (veal cutlet in breadcrumbs), which was superb, tender, well-seasoned, and my companion had baked swordfish, which was also fresh and superb (and good on sourdough rye the next day).

The Black South-Eater was hoping to report on it, but, alas, black south-eater adventures in food and other delights have been experiencing some difficulties of the hiatus kind over these last several months. Here’s to Signore Fiore for the spark provided by Friday’s meal.

Mr. Fiore is the perfect host – dashing, friendly, warm, accepting of a patron’s whims, a modicum of humour, easily enters diners’ personal space without invading it. His flair is also balanced by a simultaneous humble demeanour. In other words, while he has strong convictions about quality, he does not come across as arrogant. Mezzaluna, for instance, does not charge corkage and on our first visit, when confirming this with Mr. Fiore, he looked at our bottle and joked that he might charge corkage if the wine is “not so good”. But he manages to say this without slighting the diner. Italian food people know about balance, the golden mean. And, he loves food and appreciates diners who love food. So, it’s not difficult at all to go back to Mezzaluna.

Friday evening thus saw Voronki and I back at Mezzaluna. There were some wobbly bits with the waiter, but we shan’t dwell on it as Mr. Fiore’s approach to the matter of a broken cork was smoothed over with characteristic aplomb and the rest of the evening smoothed over any such trivialities.

Starters

There is some difficulty with food this good – it is impossible to decide what to order. And even though Mezzaluna’s menu is modest in variety by most South African restaurants’ standards, the Black South-Eater is wont to simply order the dish he had last time, because he knows it was good and he would not be disappointed, and he doesn’t have to agonise through his pathological indecisiveness when confronted with options. But with Mezzaluna he is adamant that he will trying “something else” on each visit.

So, while we revisited the tuna carpaccio as starter, the Black South-Eater, not a fan of melanzane even if it may be caviar alla casciavit, showed a revolutionary intention and ordered a portion of melanzane alla parmigiana. I’ve had it before, melanzane alla parmigiana, and I’ve had brinjal prepared in many different ways, but never been a fan.

Yes, brinjal, from the Sanskrit and Persian roots via Portuguese “beringela”, is the common name for eggplant or aubergine to many South Africans (brênjal in colloquial Afrikaans), and I’ve had brinjal curry (typically it’s beef-mince-and-brinjal curry), masala brinjal (thin slices smeared with masala and fried almost crispy in oil ), brinjal in all forms with a lash of olive oil roasted in the oven or over coals. But I’ve never been a fan. Perhaps it was that first brinjal curry I tasted as a child, where the brinjal was overcooked gloop.

Anyway, so, yes, melanzane alla parmigiana as another starter.

I want more! This was brinjal at its best. Layered with a rich, piquant tomato sauce, fresh basil and a strong parmesan footprint… Good lord who squats in heaven, hallowed be thy humble eggplant.

Mezzaluna’s brinjal starter (don’t you just love how languages can jostle up against each other) is a good portion, two slices on the plate. Mindful of mains to come, I coyly asked for a dog bag of the melanzane. In his infinite wisdom, Signore Fiore added another slice to my take-home goodies, and the next morning it made a superb breakfast. Topped with a poached egg, it nourished the body exhausted by red wine, cigarettes, grappa, Cointreau and more.

These were washed down with a carafe of house white.

Mains

We skipped the pasta this night, but I vow to go back and try a good portion of Mezzaluna’s pasta. Mr. Fiore advised that we might want to slip in our mains order before a big table arrived at eight. We would have liked to linger a bit more after starters, but took his advice. Voronki opted for the veal ossobuco on a bed of saffron risotto, and I for the fillet of beef (medium rare, pan-fried) and fried potato cubes.

When delivering the food, Mr. Fiore advised that the fillet may be perhaps under-cooked for my liking, but that the chef will happily cook it more. It does not trouble me that meat might sometimes be more rare than I like, and I cut into my fillet with only an iota of apprehension.  No need. It was deep red in colour, but it wasn’t bleeding. And it was unbelievable. It was more tender than the most tender piece of fillet I have ever tasted.

Many people with rarefied airs pooh-pooh fillet: yes it’s tender, but it has no taste. Twaddle. Fillet has its own taste. You can taste fillet. It’s not in your face beef like rump or sirloin, but fillet has a taste, subtle and delicate like its texture.

And get the potatoes. Many chefs always warn against frying garlic in too hot oil – it chars and becomes bitter. But I like that. And my potatoes had that note of charred garlic and rosemary – it’s perfect with fried potatoes.

A few bites into the meal and the chef, after whose name I failed to enquire, came to check that everything was fine and good.

But let me tell you this. I tasted some of Voronki’s ossobuco. You thought the fillet was tender? Well, the ossobuco drives me to cliché – it was butter soft. Butter-soft beefy goodness on a bed of saffron risotto with some crispy bits. Heaven extends its boundaries yet more.

And even more as the food went perfectly with the Waterford Estate Cabernet Sauvignon Voronki had brought along and to which Mr. Fiore had the eminently good sense not to joke and insist on corkage. The wine is actually on Mezzaluna’s list, a fact that elicited a pang of guilt on our parts.

Afters

We skipped dessert, having had our fill, and settled for espresso and grappa

While they apparently do good trade over lunch, it is a pity that Mezzaluna doesn’t see more diners at night. Not that it was empty on Friday evening.

There were two big tables on Friday evening, one looking like a big family affair (it can get noisy with good cheer at Mezzaluna, given that there is no fabric to dampen the hard surfaces), the other, a table of twenty-somethings who arrived an hour after us and left an hour before us. They ate and left.

Can people not linger over a meal? Must it always be a functional rush?

There was also a bistroist, eating and reading. But one wishes there was a bit more bustle. Or perhaps it was that I was absorbed by talk and food that I did not notice the bustle.

On the other hand, Mr. Fiore is happy to close early – he is reportedly hard at work by seven in the morning. He didn’t rush us out; he apologetically presented the bill, but more for the cash up, and asked us not to rush our grappas. But it is also clear that these are long days and Mr. Fiore himself would not want to linger. (I think we suitably lingered over our meal, but did not take note of when we left, the last to do so.)

I will not hesitate to go back there. Not at all. The food is superb and at that quality – and consistency, from what I gather from other commentators – it is probably the best value in town.

Get thee hence to Mezzaluna. You will not be disappointed. And thank you to Voronki for a delightful evening.

Oh, and sorry to Mr. Fiore that his team unfortunately lost to the damn brauscia.

Address: La Petite Dauphine, Excelsior Road, Franschhoek; 021 876 3936; cafebonbon@lapetite.co.za

Francs: R460 for two (1 bottle, 2 starters, 2 mains, espresso). Steep. Sponsored by the H-foundation.

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Mid-winter November found us (V. and me) in that corner of South Africa that forever will just not be France: L’angle Franc.

I don’t know – when I was a kid growing up in Paarl, we all learnt about the persecuted French Huguenots driven from France by the Catholics, and of whom a small band came to the Cape Colony in the late 1600s and started viticulture in Olifantshoek. Most of them came via Holland, where they had already been assimilated over the course of a century and, I guess, learnt to speak Dutch at least as a second language.

Thus probably the Huguenot’s easy assimilation into the Cape Colony – most French surnames in South Africa are indeed firmly associated with Afrikaner history: Du Toit, Cilliers, Du Plessis, etc. That’s right, the surnames are not readily associated with a Francophone culture in South Africa because there isn’t a Francophone culture in South Africa.

There’s a Francophile culture for sure, an invented one. And so my childhood memories of Franschhoek is of a town with a very different, how can I say,  ‘structure of feeling’ to the one that has evolved over the past two decades with its proliferation of le this and la thats. I mean, really, Dieu sait quoi with that?

There’s nothing wrong with recognising historical origins (cf. the monument there), but, look, there hasn’t been a continuous historical connection with France. Where is the linguistic community, for instance? Farmers huddling in the back, drinking hearty reds, discussing the boeuf bourgogne in Gallic grunts that neither modern French nor South African can understand, but which linguists will argue show a strong latinate strain? That connection was lost, first somewhere on a polder in Holland, and then when the last French-speaking Du Toit at the Cape Colony died.

What exactly – apart from tourist money – is Franschhoek reaching for – and away from – in this perversely over-strained and faux frenchifying? I still can’t pronounce ‘Le Creusset‘ even though I have had the pleasure of cooking in one (damn, they make fine non-frenchified curries) and here now I must get hot under the collar in embarrassment because in a good old South African boere dorpie I’m struggling to order a petit pain et fermier saucisse. Just give me a bladdy boerewors roll!

Look, this black south-eater does not mind at all the sheen of sophistication when the money is available. Nor is he adverse to the frisson that a French word can add to talking about Renoir or Jean Genet.

Maar ‘n mens kan gesofistikeerd wees in enige taal. You don’t have to torture your staff and patrons in a language that has no continuous, living tradition here. And sure, I like my cassoulet, and aah! Baudelaire… And sometimes I have champagne. But other times I enjoy the sparklies in the Cape Classic Method. Kaapse vonkel as opposed to Kaapse vonklé. But sometimes I just run out of jus when I have to distinguish between my coulis and my cholic.

It could be sepulchral in a Conradian sense, but in a global industry of ethno-tourism this imitation is merely laughable. It must be weird being a French tourist in that town, sort of like experiencing an inverse colonial anthropological themepark. Come to South Africa and see how authentically French we can be. Franco-Disney, in Africa, or something twisted and perverse like that. Sooner or later there’ll be a replica of Lascaux in Franschhoek, where visitors can marvel at cave paintings 16 000 years old, while kicking the 50 000 year old hand axe lying about in the field where they’ve parked the car. Sacrebleu! What would Claude Lévi-Strauss do?

Anyhoo.

Our main engagement was at Soms-Delta on Sunday 15 November, with the famous professor as host (more on that in part 2), so we decided to make a weekend of it and booked ourselves into a self-catering cottage at Three Streams Trout Farm. Drive straight through Franschhoek and at the t-connection facing the Huguenot monument, turn right and follow that road to its end. Up against the mountain, it is considered a budget getaway, but it is not Withnailian at all.

The cottage can sleep 6 (1 double bed and two rooms with 2 singles each) and with 2 bathrooms (bath, shower and toilet in each), it is the ideal family getaway. As we were only two, it was palatial, with a well equipped kitchen, a braai-place, as well as a Weber. Since the weather wasn’t playing along, the wall-mounted heater in the bedroom and the fireplace in the lounge were put to good use (lots of wood provided).

Even given the weather, the setting was magnificent. It is on a working trout farm, where one can also fish. A clear, natural farm dam (i.e. not constructed from cement or other manufactured material) with a running mountain stream feeds a second dam into which fish are occasionally let through for fishing. While the cottage is close to the main house on the farm, it is nevertheless quiet and private, and affords views of the surrounding Franschhoek mountains, the farm being on the slopes of the mountain. Alas, given the weather, we left our rods at home.

On Saturday, we decided to have lunch at Café Bon Bon, recommended by a friend, although she did not point out that it was infamous, as proudly proclaimed on the website of La Petit Dauphine, the farm where these linguistic bonbons are cooked up. Notice the grave accent (instead of an acute accent) in ‘cafè’. Is it just me? Is it something French? Or is it the heady French atmosphere in Franschhoek that has gone to the copywriter’s head?

The infamous Cafè Bon Bon

I’m sorry, but I shall now taunt Franschhoek a second time because this is exactly the kind of detail that shows up Franschhoek’s pretension for what it is, a pretension. In the quest to show itself off as rich and sophisticated, the gourmet capital of South Africa (proes), it just goes all Pythonesque, gravely, leaving one to fart in their general direction. I mean, really, couldn’t someone at La Petite Dauphine get a decent copywriter/proofreader? Or, for goodness sake, just google it!

Look, I have nothing against Keffie Bon Bon per se. We had a very good meal and I highly recommend the place (more below). But really, if you are going to pretend, be good at pretending. And don’t be infamous about it.

OK. Enough spleen.

So, off to Café Bon Bon for lunch. We initially sat outside, but there was quite a chilly brise and so we went inside – all rich wood and white table cloth, though I feel that the wood can get a bit heavy, leaving the decor unbalanced.

In any case, we were in Franschhoek and, goddamit, it was late Spring, so we were going to have the Pierre Jourdan Brut. No trouble there. The menu, however, presented the dreaded indecision. It is not a large menu, but everything on it looked delectable and V. and I struggled to make up our minds.

I initially thought I’d go for the parma ham and pecorino as starter – while eyeing the snoek fishcakes – and the spaghetti and artichoke for mains. V. instinctively coveted the pork belly or the rack of lamb as mains, and was also interested in the fishcakes. The description of the burger then got me salivating, V. returning salivations over the chicken in saffron and rosewater. Then we learnt that the linefish was cob, swaying V. Then I saw a rack of lamb delivered to another table – Cor! it looked good. What to do? Not to mention the grilled smoked trout.

A complimentary bread and some spread kept us going in the meanwhile. One of the breads was heavy on the sunflower seeds, so, if you have an allergy of the sunflower seed, it is easily avoided. I don’t know quite what the spread was – cream cheese and perhaps sundried tomato or something, but it was nondescript and surely does not inspire faith in the menu. But fortunately that little tidbit was misleading and was no indication of the quality of the food in general.

The host came over to help out in choosing, and forewarned that there was only one serving of cob left. It was a trick because it hastened our decision, but it was a true trick as later we overheard a waiter apologise to another table that there was no more cob as V. was tucking into hers.

Planning on braaiing a whole sheep that evening, we finally decided to steer clear of heavy dishes and settled on fishcakes and grilled smoked trout for me, while V. decided on the parma ham and pecorino starter and the grilled cob.

I’m not convinced by the fishcakes. They’re made with smoked snoek and so have the character neither of smoked snoek nor snoek. I would have preferred them had they been made straight from fresh snoek – give it a quick steam, flake off the flesh and make your fishcake, and so retain the taste of unadulterated snoek, which is a delectable fish.

Don’t get me wrong. The fishcakes were still good, and came with a delectable chutney, but, as said, it was more smoky fish than distinctively snoek.

V.’s parma ham and pecorino with rocket was almost a meal on its own. It was large (of course I helped her out), and good. But I think restaurants would do well to decrease starter portions, offer a lower price and thus entice the patron to have a starter indeed. I know that the counter argument then is that other patrons will moan at stingy portions, but supply shapes demand as much as demand shapes supply. For example, would you rather have 8 slices of ham at R50 or 4 slices at R35? Furthermore, if one wants to follow through on French pretension, smaller starter portions would indeed be français en fait. And so start le révolution culinaire.

The mains were good too, although we felt that perhaps our meals had waited under the lights a bit. It was only when our starter plates were cleared that we asked to wait a bit with the mains and I suspect that by then the chef had already started cooking the fish. Perhaps we should have been told that the chef had already started cooking, so that we could cancel the delay and have the fish straight up. The fish was thus a bit on the wrong side of succulent, but we both felt that Café Bon Bon merits a return visit.

The service is friendly and warm, although our waiter was a bit hesitant (nervous? Maybe I just have that look that makes people nervous?), and the café was much better than one normally expects at SA restaurants. So yes, as it finally gets hotter, we’ll hopefully don our sunglasses, polarise the faux-French vibrations and emissions, and trecque out to Franschhoek for another lunch at Café Bon Bon.

Trust The New Yorker. Another great food essay, this time a scoop with an undercover Michelin inspector, by John Colapinto:

One afternoon last month, a woman in her early thirties, with shoulder-length blond hair and large brown eyes, arrived at Jean Georges, on the ground floor of the Trump International Hotel, in midtown Manhattan. The restaurant, which is owned by the chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten, and is one of the highest rated in the world, has an understated décor, with bare white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. The woman took a seat at one of the tables in the center of the room. She wore a light-blue dress with a high neckline, little makeup, and no jewelry. There was nothing remarkable about her appearance, and her demeanor was quiet and unassuming, as if designed to deflect attention—a trait indispensable for her profession as an inspector for the Michelin hotel-and-restaurant guide.

Read further.

Here’s a great essay on food and culture (and foodie culture) by Adam Gopnik at The New Yorker. An extract:

A kind of primal scene of eating hovers over every cookbook, just as a primal scene of sex lurks behind every love story. In cooking, the primal scene, or substance, is salt, sugar, and fat held in maximum solution with starch; add protein as necessary, and finish with caffeine (coffee or chocolate) as desired….

After reading hundreds of cookbooks, you may have the feeling that every recipe, every cookbook, is an attempt to get you to attain this ideal sugar-salt-saturated-fat state without having to see it head on, just as every love poem is an attempt to maneuver a girl or a boy into bed by talking as fast, and as eloquently, as possible about something else. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate” is the poetic equivalent of simmering the garlic with ginger and Sauternes before you put the cream in; the end is the cream, but you carefully simmer the garlic.

Read it here.

Address: Map

Sjeld: R170.00 per head, spit-roasted lamb buffet. Steep.

Well well, I notice that Mr. 302 was at Backsberg on Saturday, 31 October. The Black South-Eater was there on Sunday, 1 November, independent of that fine gentleman’s visit and unbeknownst to each other.

There were a few other unknown unknowns on Sunday, one of which included a black south-eater locked out of an apartment and tardy locksmiths, another of which was navigational, which meant that we arrived late, quite late, and quite unusual for this navigator. People, check your maps and do not rely on my-old-home-town-I-know-where-the-R45-is wisdom. Quite late also of significance as the person on the Backsberg phone end had said that it is best to arrive early.

So, alas, we arrived only at 2 p.m., but we still had our table as we kept Backsberg apprised of the knowns and unknowns, both the known knowns and the unknown unknowns. The lateness of our arrival then clearly played a part in our experience, which, at the outset, was not good, but I do not believe that our lateness should have played a role.

As we three heads arrived, we wandered into the restaurant, clearly looking a bit flustered and late, and as we passed a burly man at the door who looked like a patron, I asked, musing at the empty air and at no one in particular, now where shall we find the hostess or host. Said burly man became surly man: “I can help”. Not “Hi, my name is Slim, are you X who has been on the phone?” or “Hi, my name is Shady, do you have a reservation?”

In any event, we were shown to a table on the lawn and Mr. Surly ran through the set menu (well, muttered it barely audibly) and mentioned the cost as if to help us ascertain whether this was really what we wanted and could afford. You know, when someone says “It’s R170 per head” in a more than informative manner; when it becomes a kind of social judgement: It’s R170 a head – are you sure you want to stay?

Mr. Surly then cleared the fourth setting, but took two napkins, leaving only two, and wandered off with a vague promise of a jug of water. At some point that afternoon, a waiter arrived and took our drinks order. It was clear that lunch was winding down and clearly, if I may be so bold as to engage in some industrial psychology, at such winding down, on a hot Sunday, no waiter wants to see a new table. Everybody else is clearing tables, one is thinking of finally getting home, having a shower or bath… you’re almost at the last hurdle, you turn the bend, and suddenly there’s a triple-headed hurdle still to clear.

So, most of the afternoon we had to endure flagging and inconsistent service. Small little things that added up and which make me reluctant to go back. While the waiter did at one later point appear in a flash with a napkin once we had discovered that the third one was missing, we waited quite some time for the inadequately chilled rosé and for the water.

I have to differ with Mr.302 about the rosé – it is quite sweet, more than the “slightly sweet” on the label. And while the bottle label says “slightly sweet” (and “serve chilled”), the wine list does not. We would not have ordered the rosé otherwise. And while the sweetness is easily rectified with some ice, we also had to learn that “we’re still waiting for some ice”. I know, we arrived late, but still…

The waiter also didn’t appear confident with regards to us choosing wine. No recommendations or advice, for instance or perhaps, that some may find the rosé too sweet.

Starters, then. Passable parmesan bruschetta (an item on their 2009 summer menu).

Once we got our food from the very friendly spit-men* – god, they make one feel welcome; let them host or train the wait-staff – we noticed a third steak knife missing. Perhaps Mr. Surly had cleared it off earlier? Perhaps it was used with a starter and had been cleared off by the waiter but not replaced? What is it? Is it something in my or our demeanour that made them nervous and made them fumble such basics as counting and calibrating heads and cutlery?

Given the general tardy atmosphere now of the (for them) winding down phase, I wandered inside where all the buffet tables were, in search of a steak knife. Only a plate of forks on a table. Not a staff member in sight. Approached the kitchen doors. Some waiters coming out with desserts. Maybe two or three waiters. Not one asked: “Hi, can I help?” I mean, I was clearly wandering around looking for something. I could have been a robber eyeing the cash register.

Eventually Mr. Surly emerged and I asked him, apologetically, for a steak knife. Genugtig! Op sy eie tyd, drentel hy terug and brings me four (!) knives. My lamb was tender, but it had now been basted and done to a turn in dripping sarcasm. Yes, who would have thought that one could invest a plate of knives with sarcasm?

Dessert: Vanilla ice cream, bits of melon and kiwi, soggy, chewy pavlova, etc. I love sweet, but this was still tasting too much of Mr. Surly’s sarcasm.

Coffee could be good, but too much water. I mean, it’s made via the espresso basket, and I trust they use the obligatory 7gr of grounds, so it has the aroma, but not the profile of a good cup – watery instead. What is it with SA eateries and their inability to make a good cup of coffee? Or why is coffee so often an afterthought when it should be the final note, the just note, to a good meal? When it should be part of the meal? (But more on coffee in the future.)

The waiter delivered the coffee, without sugar, and without a word about sugar. Of course, I only looked for the sugar once the waiter had wandered off. So, I got up and accosted another waiter close by for sugar. Friendly, he nodded and assured me he’ll be right back with some sugar. Back at the table, I saw him moments later on another course, with a handful of dirty plates. Eventually, the original waiter arrived with the sugar. Could said waiter not have simply said initially: “I’ll bring the sugar now”, instead of leaving a patron wondering, in the context of the generally tardy afternoon, whether they had forgotten the sugar, or, excuse my Tagalog, but WTF?

A lot of these small things are kind of commonsensical – notice that you’ve cleared a steak knife; as eaters line up for the lamb, glance at the table to ensure the cutlery is all there; say that you’re fetching sugar – i.e. make the patron aware that you are aware and thus set their minds at ease that you are in control. Communicate or signal somehow to your table that you are on top of things instead of leaving the table with doubts based on precedents. I know that you’re all winding down and you want to get the dirty plates out of the way, but is it not the custom to look after new arrivals first (they’re hungry) before worrying about the plates (they’ve already eaten, so less urgent)?

In the context of all this, the R170/head is ridiculous, while some at my table contended that the price could be a notch lower anyway.

The bad, flagging service can of course be understood or explained away by the fact that lunch was winding down. Physical exhaustion is a factor, I admit. And we arrived at that winding down phase. But in terms of service then, the host could also have said to us that the service is winding down and that it may be patchy, and thus forewarn us while simultaneously giving us the option of a graceful change of mind. If we then stayed on, the fact that we arrived at two would have to be a significant factor in our grumbling.

“It’s better to arrive early” is also vague. Would it not be better if they just stated bluntly that no arrivals after 1.30 will be entertained, the reasoning being a marketing one concerned with their own reputation. If you know that most of your tables wind down by 2.00, and that no matter what, the service flags because of whatever manner of psychological signals start radiating from that point on, don’t admit new tables from 1.30 onwards.  I mean, if they show us a table, then they’re open – business as usual; and given that they’re open, one would then expect better service at that cost.

And so it all starts with the wherewithal of the host or management, surely. We had booked for 12.30, a series of mishaps meant that we were late, but we kept on calling Backsberg to apologise and say that we were going to be late. Whoever was on the phone could have sounded a warning or advisory at some point closer to 2.00: “Sir/madam, I understand your situation but, at this late hour, I would not advise keeping your table. Lunch is winding down, etc. etc.” It would mean a loss of an immediate R500+ to them (they probably had turned others away while holding on for dear life to our table), but they would/could maintain their goodwill by showing that they have the eater’s interest in mind. We would happily have postponed our visit to Backsberg and made sure that we were punctual the next time around. Now we’re not sure whether we will return.

Notes:

* I was happy to learn from one friendly spit-man that the spit-braai is Backsberg’s internal venture. I.e. they do not outsource the grilling of the lambs.

Disclosure: I am aware that Simon Back, marketing manager at Backsberg, reads and comments at Black South-Eater. The tone and style of the review have not been influenced by this.

Address: Via S. Andrea, 14, 61129 Urbino (PU), Le Marche, Italy
Tel. 0722/327559
Email: info@angolodivino.com

Website

Directions: Cape Town to Rome by air, Rome to Perugia by bus, Perugia to Umbertide to Urbino by car, guided walk to the right door.

Shilling: High, €25; includes seemingly endless decanters of wine.

Tanti piatti fa, as Amalia, one of the fellows here at Civitella Ranieri, mused the other day*… Since the Black South-Eater likes playing around with language, he added, Tanti, tanti molto grande piatti fa. And big they were in taste when we turned one of the many divine corners in Italy, of a Thursday, 20 August.

Thanks to an anonymous benefactor in these hard times, this black south-eater was able to join his fellows on a trip to Urbino, hosted and guided by the Civitella Ranieri foundation. Given the town’s place in Renaissance history, forgive me the following homo universalis digressions then.

Urbino, a smallish town off the major routes, was central to the flourishing of the arts in Italy from the fifteenth century onwards, cohering around the famous warlord, Frederico de Montefeltro, he of broken nose and gammy eye, with walk-on parts played by the nearby Malatestas (that’s right, those not right in their heads; more specifically, those bad in the head). Curiously, this conflict included showing off who cared most for culture as well.

Montefeltro had designed and built for him a palace that eventually was developed into what was and is considered the ideal example of Renaissance civil architecture and it had the best library outside of the Vatican. The town itself is considered the ideal Renaissance city. As a patron, Montefeltro also sponsored Raphael’s early development.

The Palazzo Ducale now houses the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche where one can see Piero della Francesca’s ‘The flagellation of Christ’, a work of almost contemporary surrealism, foreshadowing Dali, but important during the Renaissance for its consolidation of the use of geometrical perspective. Check it.

Also there is Della Francesca’s ‘Madonna of Senigallia’ and Raphael’s ‘La Muta’.

There was a lot more to see but, being a universal man, the black south-eater is also interested in food; too much musing on perspective and the wars of state also makes one peckish. And so off we hungry fellows went. A short walk through the hot maze of Urbino brought us around a corner to L’Angolo Devino, chosen and reservations made by Dana Prescott, director at Civitella Ranieri. (Two pics here; the Black South-Eater is hidden from view at the southern end of the table.)

People, the Black South-Eater went high, very high. There was no low, no in-between, but all high as if on powerful drugs, or a bat in crazed flight turning a corner and blinded further by divine light.

Osteria L’Angolo Devino is concerned with the traditions of the region and, in the main, as with much food here, the dishes were simple in concept and execution. By that I mean that there were no bells and whistles. It is ‘high’ cuisine in that the tastes are exquisite and the textures fascinating, but it remains rooted by using local, ‘everyday’ ingredients. The decor was a mixture of the authentically old – sideboards and tables – and the plain yet lush elegance of well-woven cream table cloths and napkins. The two waiters that served our table of 18 heads were warm and friendly, patient and seemed to be enjoying answering questions, not flustered at all by a noisy table on a very hot day (the air-conditioning was struggling).

To the food

First, the antipasti. A polenta ‘pancake’ with a dollop of tomato sauce. Now, the Black South-Eater is not too fond of the phutu, but this was something else. Creamy yet light, and the tomato sauce was fresh with a mildly tart flavour. By what arcane and dark art do Italians manipulate the humble tomato?

This was followed by small pieces of bread with a dollop of chunky tonnato (a ‘mayonnaise’ flavoured in the main with anchovy, tuna and capers). The Black South-Eater loves fish and thus loves this sauce, and I can eat bowls of it for lunch and supper. But I’d like to insist that I think Romana, Patrizia and Patrizia’s tonnato is a notch more salty and thus more to the liking of this tongue.

The tonnato on bread was followed by wedges of spinach and cheese piadini. Again, fresh, and the bread, almost pizza but a bit rooti-like, with an unmistakable woodfire flavour.

Then some salami, coppa and mountain ham. Oh my. Tender, full of flavour, where the curing does not kill off the flavour of the meat, especially the mountain ham.

The first mains was a festive pasta, a dish cooked for celebrations. A cubed pasta made of flour, eggs, butter and cheese, it is cooked, held in netting, in a chicken stock. Served in a pale yellow broth of (probably) that chicken stock with hints of citrus peel and saffron, and shavings of truffle.

This dish was most incredible. At first, the texture of the small cubes of pasta (of about 1cm square sides; reportedly unique to L’Angolo Devino) was strange. A bit porous, almost bread-like, one may have been eating bread just soaked in soup this very minute. But unlike bread, the pasta maintains its structure and consistency, and after two mouthfuls, the porous, bread-like texture becomes clear, as if revealed in light. It is the perfect company to the rich yet delicate broth – not a thick broth, but one that presents its umami without shame, its osmazome without reticence. And the pasta takes this on board as if they were lifelong, natural companions. Everybody ooh-ed and aah-ed.

This is the thing: balance. The dish made a tremendous impact on the tongue, yet had a transitory feel. It is at once heavy and light. Too quickly gone, but the endorphins still whizzing through the brain. Fortunately, it was a large table and as the waiters started gathering bowls at one end, Moira leaned over to my oohs and aahs dying with a dying fall, beneath the music from a farther room. She couldn’t finish hers and, miraculously maintaining exterior dignity, the Black South-Eater had two more scoops. God, this stuff is like crack cocaine.

Not that I have ever had crack. But, you know, I read. So, someone once described the crack euphoria as this incredible force, akin to being hit by a juggernaut, and if being hit by said juggernaut can be described as euphoric, but a force of great power too soon gone. Heavy and light.

Mains number 2 was called ‘Crazy Roll’. A compressed log of pasta made with breadcrumbs, it is also cooked in a stock, then served in slices – here three to the plate – topped with tomato sauce and formaggio di fossa. Another amazing mouthful and by now everyone was groaning with the weight in their bellies, and indolent from the wine and heat.

A finish with a simple greenleaf salad, and Claudio, the owner-chef and a charming, ego-less man, popped in to see whether everything was alright. More than alright, we chorused. Bene, molto bene, and a few belissimos as well.

It was a great meal, and a huge meal, and we all stumbled up the hill, some in search of gelato (!), some just for an espresso and a cigarette, over which to contemplate the heavy and the light, the balance in perspective.

Notes

* Many plates ago. Many, many very big plates ago.

It’s been a while for the Black South-eater. Tanti tanti piatti fa (many many plates ago), as Amalia Jacir, a fellow fellow at Civitella Ranieri put it. So, I’m bringing over two posts I have written about food adventures in Umbria and which have appeared at the Civitella blog. There are also many notes of said adventures that will be written up in due course. Here’s the first, from 19 August:

Blur

I have forsaken my vow to note all the Civitella Ranieri food consumed and to report on it for the benefit of readers of Black South-Eaters, and now it’s all a blur of pleasure. Somewhere in this blur I remember the amazing bulger wheat (I think) and tuna salad for lunch, tender fillets of pork in a ginger sauce, creamy mashed potato with an edge of parmesan or pecorino, pieces of chicken (on the bone as this Black South-Eater likes it) in a ginger and lemon marinade, and, last night, veal tonnato and fresh peas. Also somewhere in the past week, battered, deep-fried zucchini flowers stuffed with I don’t know which formaggio, and battered, deep-fried sage.

And yes, always there are the fresh vegetables, which I eat con gusto, with no need for Romana, Patrizia nor Patrizia to admonish me to eat them all or forfeit the pudding. Working for the man and such, the Black South-Eater knows the cost and value of labour and thus pays homage to the hands that shell the peas by eating all his peas. So pass the peas is what I always say.

And the pudding. I remain convinced that Romana conducts from within the kitchen a simphony of epicurean pleasure which is at once a fellow of pain, making torture into pleasure and pleasure into torture, and so of deeper pain, thus deeper pleasure, as she tweaks the meals up notch by notch, note by note. Gentle, gentle, pleasure upon gradual pleasure, then bang: orange cake on a lake of chocolate sauce. A pleasure that pierces the heart, that reboots the brain.

Then Romana gently lets go. Have some lovely fruit, some pears, banana, plums, peaches for dessert. Then bang, again: panacotta tart with pine nuts served on the most intense raspberry coulis. Anyone having only half of theirs? Thanks. Pass it along.

I mean, how is the Black South-Eater to retain some sense of decency? How is one to survive? How high, how intense, how broad and wide and deep is the torture going to be next week? And the pleasure? And what will be its release?

But today we are going to talk about the passion, the matter of the porchetta, the porchetta that matters.

Bleep-bleep-bleep…. Dateline: …Umbertide, Wednesday 19 August 2009… market day.

Reports all of the last week have mentioned the matter of the one that is holy in this region, the divine porchetta. Blips on the Black South-Eat-dar that have bleeped and blipped for attention. Keywords: market, street, streetfood, holy roasted porchetta.

Dobroe Utro,* I said. Today I will investigate.

The Man in the White Hat

Special Agents Mencaroni and Keating both gave me the coordinates for the location of the secret of the holy. Agent Mencaroni himself drove me there, dropped me off at a location nearby and surreptitiously pointed to the man with the white hat: “That is him. Ask the right questions. He will answer you.”

Try as I might, it was difficult to blend in, to sidle up, to ask the man the question that will get the right answer. There were several civilians, in front of whom I did not want to ask any questions, right or wrong. My task was going to be difficult, I thought, while around me I heard the occasional grasso. I did not know this word. I did not know how to ask for crispy bits, which, as you might know, are dear to my palate. But wait, I get ahead of myself.

Agent Mencaroni dropped Agent Sosa and me off with instructions on how to avoid the authorities and get to the pig of it all.

Watches synchronised, our rendezvous confirmed, we crossed the street to the stall with the man with the white hat. His is the most basic stall, sans billboards and fancy paintwork – simply a man in a white hat.

Just shoulder high, in front of us, and as simple as it gets, lay the brown log of pig. Oh the crackling! And fresh crispy rolls bundled against the glass the length of the stall. To our left, grinning at us from on high in its own little display cubicle was the head of hog.

Agent Sosa decided to head on to the market proper. But what cares the Black South-Eater for fresh vegetables when Romana, Patrizia and Patrizia make sure I get my greens. Today my mission was a surgical strike. Get pork, get out.

Civilians mustered and demanded: grasso, grasso. Croccante, per favore.

The man in the capello bianco sliced with small flourishes, weighed the merchandise, took it off the scales to add a sliver or two more, a swathe of crackling, pasella, extra et gratis, then wrapped and delivered it to the customer, letting go with an open arm gesture as if to say, simultaneously, voila and bravissimo, look at this flourish with which I slice the pork and oh, what miracle! here is your bundle of holiness too. All with a goodly porcine smile and all at a pace that was neither hurried nor leisurely. It was of appropriate pace in reverence of porchetta. Who cares about Michelin stars and white table cloths and waiters that hover ghostly, neither absent nor present, but in limbo, as if a shade from Dante? Who cares about all this when you have the man in the white hat? The man at one with porchetta. Man and animal in a dance of Zen.

Eventually it was my turn. I spoke the code words: Bonjour. No parla Italiano… aah, eh… p… por…

No problem, he said in English and smiled peacefully.

I lifted my shoulders in a gesture seeking help and pointed at the porchetta, made a little tortoise with my hands, indicating size and breadroll.

He nodded with a peaceful si, si. Then in English again: Bread?

Bread.

He made me a little tortoise with lots of slices of pork, and bits and pieces of extra salty herbaciousness, and a sliver of crackling. Flourish, voila, bravissimo, Zen, as if all a promise to lead one to the true knowledge of all that is holy and transcendent – all at the Black South-Eater-friendly streetfood price of €2.50 for this bundle of holiness deboned and seasoned with fennel seeds, salt, black pepper, garlic, possibly rosemary, and who knows whatnot from the holy grail of a family recipe, seasoned and rolled into a big fat log and roasted over coals until meltingly golden.

Known for skills in hand-to-mouth combat, this Black South-Eater clasped his grail and disappeared through the traffic and chose a spot with a view on the rendezvous point, so he could watch who was watching it, and eat porchetta sandwich without being clocked by the pigs.

Oh my goodness! How delectably salty some pieces are! How succulent! How tender! And, ooh, yes, let’s gobble that piece with the fatty edge. Go away you nosy bee! And the crackling! The crackling, the crackling… Oh my fennel seed, the crackling. Praise be to the holy of holies of North Umbria. Blessed is the pig that roots in the mud of the Upper Tiber Valley.

Seriously, this is some good pork meat. Some edges are a bit dry, but mostly it is succulent, tender. Indescribable.

But I’ll try: fennel is the dominant note, but not forte, rather mezzo forte, which of course makes the all round flavour nevertheless avere un forte effetto. And salt for those who have soul (I have noticed that cooks here are not reticent to salt food, which is solace to the soul of the Black South-Eater.) And the crackling is at once of crisp and of melt. It snaps and cracks at the bite, then melts away in reverent mastication. Who knew that a piece of pork could provide transcendence?

Debrief

I realised I need to ask more questions at pre-mission briefings regarding the proper code for extra crackling; I had only a sliver, a torturously small sliver. But fear not, I shall visit the man in the capello bianco again. He shall know me by my hungered look and he shall know me too by my ability to distinguish fat from skin, to speak his code, to enter the cabal. And I shall know to say to him, sotto voce, porchetta et pane, del grasso, extra croccante per favore. Or is it crepitio? Or cotenna? Or arrostita? Agent Mencaroni, Agent Mencaroni, do you copy? Come in Agent Mencaroni…

Notes

* Dobroe Utro: Good morning (in Russian)

Agent Mencaroni has provided me with a set of instructions:

Please follow the line as a normal costumer;  when it’s your turn, ask

UN PANINO CON PORCHETTA PER FAVORE

GRASSO E MAGRO PREFERIBILMENTE SENZA FEGATINI

ANCHE UN PO’ DI PELLE SE POSSIBILE

GRAZIE

Last night Romana (head chef) and Patrizia or Patrizia (R&P/P) rustled up an Umbrian feast. There were some important or well-liked guests to some opening of some exhibition in the castle’s gallery, thus a mini banquet of 26 people afterward.

Starters were canneloni filled with something green (spinach? broccoli?) and yummy, creamy ricotta, drizzled with a rich yet light bechamel sauce. I think that is the holy grail in any cooking – balance – and perhaps in something like bechamel one can measure how far from the golden mean a cook strays. (My bechamel is, for example, generally a bit on the heavy side, too creamy, too thick.)

Then came platters and platters filled with roasted coniglio and agnello (rabbit and lamb). Hunks of lamb, crispy brown quarters of rabbit. Naughty, crispy little rabbit…

One of this eater’s favourite childhood nursery rhymes concerned a naughty little rabbit, in a family of six. This naughty little rabbit was full of tricks, and did not mind his mother, nor his aunt. Sometimes, this naughty little rabbit even had the audacity to disobey his wiser elders and say ‘I shan’t'!

Hy was baie ongehoorsaam. (He was very disobedient.)

Ignoring warnings and disobeying strictures, the naughty little rabbit went off to play in a field somewhere. Perhaps there were juicy carrots involved.

Bang! Bang! The naughty little rabbit ended up in the sights of a farmer’s gun.

You may all laugh now, but this eater used to close his hands over his eyes just before the ‘bang! bang!’. I identified with the naughty little rabbit and felt sorry for him. Which of course was the point of this nursery rhyme: get the little ones to identify with the little rabbit, kill the rabbit, and then the little ones will never again disobey.

But such socialisation only lasts so long. I remained a naughty rabbit, even as I have lost my sympathy for that other naughty little rabbit. So, whenever pieces of rabbit appear with their goose cooked, I know that they have been naughty. And I fret not for the fate of the naughty rabbit.

I lie. I still feel a little bit sorry for the rabbit; I just cannot help myself helping myself to a piece, especially if it is crispy naughty rabbit.

So, yes, golden brown pieces of naughty but crispy little rabbit. The crisp was a bit too crisp, but there were heaps of bones on everyone’s plate. However, only the black south-eater had cleaned his bones of all tasty, salty, chewy, crispy bits of rabbit.

Nevertheless, and sorry, but I have only one word for the little rabbit: delicious.

You were delicious you naughty little rabbit; almost like chicken, only better, much better (I gotta get me some rabbit raising skills for home).

As always, I get ahead of myself. Crispy rabbit, heaps and heaps of crispy rabbit, alongside heaps and heaps of roasted hunks of lamb. The black south-eater is an everything-eater. But I shall never foreswear my deep love of meat, so do not casually place platters of crispy meat in front of me and expect me to behave.

With all the meat came platters of fine green beans, cooked exactly like this black south-eater prefers them: soft but firm (there’s the balance again). The raw green bean is fine and has its place; but when cooked, the bean should not squeak out in pain when one bites into it. It should have been laid to rest; it should be soft. Of course it should not be overcooked, but it should not still be squeaking. It’s kind of like al dente for beans.

And to round it all off, a salad of green leaves.

I misbehaved and loudly called across the table to a fellow to please pass me that platter on which I espied a darkly glistening chunk of lamb for seconds. My previous piece was a bit dry, and I think R&P/P had been stretched by us getting to the table late, taking too long with our canneloni, having to keep the meat warm, etc. So smaller pieces (I was being modest with my first serving) may have dried out a bit. And so my second piece of peasanty-chunk of goodly Umbrian goodness was indeed good.

It’s an interesting comparison to South African Karoo lamb. It’s not as strong as Karoo lamb, and I’m not talking about herbacious tidbits the SA lamb graze on. You can taste the lambness of the Umbrian lamb, but the flavour is not strong (I know a few unfortunate people who retch when they smell lamb cooking; I doubt this would happen with these Umbrian lambs. I shall delve more into this, but I think it’s probably because it’s real lambkins, slaughtered at an earlier age.)

I rounded off this chunk of lamb with another quarter little naughty rabbit.

An interesting cultural note: this black south-eater grew up with the salad on the plate of the main meal. And I have been to homes where the salad is eaten as a starter, and where it is eaten after the mains as a…? I don’t know.

Of course you can have a starter which happens to be a salad, but when the salad bowl is placed on the table alongside the main dish, what is a black south-eater to do? I, like many others, had their salads with their mains; while many others had their salad after the meat. Is there a calculus that can plot this variance?

And of course, there was the wine from the convent which, I must mention, is served in these hah-hah-weird carafes. I believe they are of the famed Deruta hand-painted ceramics.

The carafes at Civitella are chickens. Shaped and painted like a chicken. Someone mentioned that the chicken looks drunk. But the weird part is the pouring: the wine runs through the beak of the chicken and it is as if the chicken is sticking a long, red tongue into one’s glass.

Dessert was dainty cubes of peach and fig (oh I have not had figs for aeons) on a panacotta base. All delicious, always delicious.

I have a slight suspicion that Romana and Patrizia or Patrizia are playing this like a symphony, and that we are gradually building up to something intense, so intense that it may disturb the black south-eater’s sense of proportion.

Watch this always delicious space.