tosca - suzuki

Word's are useless.

Cheese & Wine Tasting, Bon Fromage, Sunday 20 July

It seems like my favourite cafe in Cape Town (the entrance of which is behind Mummy & Daddy) hosts monthly cheese and wine tastings, in conjunction with Hillcrest Wine Estate.

The next event will be on Monday, 20 July 2009.

The wine list for the evening is:
Sauvignon Blanc 2008
Chardonnay 2008
Rose 2009
Cabernet/Merlot 2006
Merlot 2007

The dinner is a choice between the Gratin Savoyard (with Raclette) or the Vegetarian Bon Lasagna (prepared with lentils and Bolonaise sauce).

The cheese platter comprises five local cheeses, and I suspect that a cuppa tea or coffee is included in the package.

The evening will cost you R80,00; this includes everything mentioned above. Anything else is, of course, at your own expense.

Also, the sampled wines will be available at Bon Fromage, and can be purchased at wholesale prices.

You can contact Bon Fromage at 021 685 3631 to make a booking.

If you're interested in going please drop me a line and I'll make a group booking.

Gabin - Midnight Caffe

Micatone - To The Sound [nu-jazz]

Cloudy Days and Contemplation at Sophia's

Sitting here, having my traditionally lazy Saturday afternoon lunch in Rondebosch, I find that there are many things on my mind.

Cleaning up my toxic kitchen is one of them- my surrogate sisters left me a wonderful welcome-home surprise, in the form of decaying bags of garbage (that's left a patch of green growing on the wooden-floor beneath); a fridge full of turned condiments, meat and leftovers, and a microwave full of freshly spawned insects.

The place now stinks of caustic soda, incense and citronella. I'm not looking forward to a the latex gloved labour that awaits me, and as I sip my coffee, postponing the inevitable, I consider the events of the morning: RC removing her response to my open invitation to the Cheese and Wine Tasting at Bon Fromage (in reply to my harsh comment on the non-qualification of exs as good company) and, of course, the death of my grandfather; that vague stranger with whom I can't remember having a single conversation with.

Intellectually, I reason that RC is justified for being angry at me (if she is) and maybe I ought to attend my grandfather's funeral.
Emotionally, I'm indifferent to both.
The status of these two relationships are so similar - they've ended and exist only in memories that are fast fading; their protagonists keen to violate the sanctity of 'endings'; both people having hurt me (either actively or passively, as a function of doing or not-doing), both people are part of past days, a different life.

The fact is that I don't have any regrets about the way I've treated either.
I have a kitchen and drawers full of crumbs waiting for me.

So here I sit, alone, surrounded by strangers after having forced myself to like bolognaise that tastes like what dog-food must taste like. One way or another, you'll always pay for your meal.
I not languishing alone, I'm thriving. having reinvented myself, again, after having kept and discarded relationships that were worthy and worthless, repectively.

And so without any guilt or hesitation I live enjoying every moment in this, la dolce vita.

Dinner For One: Michael's Cafe & Deli

Thursday 09 July 2009

Michael’s Cafe & Deli - 88 Campground Road, Rondebosch Tel: 021 689 9188 email: michaels@mdeli.co.za

There are two things that I missed dearly whilst in India: a clean, fresh, uncomplicated meal, and a medium-rare steak.
My last real meal was a rich chicken biryani at Mumbai International, which was excessive down to the last elachi.

On my first night out on Cape Town’s lonely Rondebosch I stopped at a corner on Campground road that I’ve been eying ever since I relocated here in January.

Upon getting out of the blackbird I noticed a inviting black-board advertising a dinner steak-special in the glowing eaves of a mysterious and crisp diner.
The cafe turned out to be the 3-month old Michael’s Cafe & Deli (Michael was behind the counter, doing time during the tough winter vacation).

The service is young and inexperienced - I had to ask for a steak-knife and a sugar bowl for my coffee; they make up for it, however, with sharp eagerness and a sense of humour that, though generally lacking in many South African cafes and bistros, seems to be a signature of the cosy restaurants in Cape Town’s southern suburbs.

Not knowing what to expect (and more than a little nervous at allowing my first steak back to be in untested territory), I ordered a medium-rare 250gram fillet (which wasn’t part of the special, actually - that was for the rump and sirloin), which was accompanied by potato wedges and a light, fresh salad.


My stern policy of “Rocket should be seen and not heard” was, unfortunately,violated as the bitter taste of the thick, unassuming rocket stems threatened to overpower the entire meal.
I refused to be daunted, though, and plunged into my steak with a verve and rigour comparable to a neanderthal raw-meat appetite.
I wasn’t disappointed.

The steak was warm enough for the smell to be palpable (i.e. enough for the palate to be guided by olfactory direction), yet cool enough to taste the gentle (honey?) and pepper. My idea of a perfect steak has the consistency of several layers of cold meat, gently heated with crisp peppercorns on the top. This was close to it, and it got better as I reached the centre.
A pleasant house shiraz completed the unexpectedly lovely meal


The cafe is quiet and cosy; with delicate globe lamps lending the place a romantic atmosphere. The table-clothes were covered with crisp brown-paper and I had struggled to negate the effect of the inviting leather couches that sat next to my table.



So the meal was surprisingly good and economical; my only gripe due to the salad (this is probably more a personal quirk than a gripe) and the weak cappuccino (which was, to its credit, topped with perfectly frothed milk).

Michael seems like an earnest and pleasant young restaurateur with a keen eye for marketing detail. His cafe is open and uncluttered; it does, however, manage to retain a cosy and personal composure. This might be due to the imperceptible energy and eagerness resonant in the fine print all about the place, clear in the sincerity with which Michael enquires about whether you’re enjoying the meal and in the easy laughter of my waitress.

I hope that this place retains its immediate, romantic charm redolent with the freshness epitomized by the crisp, clear Cape Town air that embraced me as I left the deli with the taste of cheap wine on my breath.

Damage:
Beef Fillet (with a side of potato wedges + salad): R89
Glass of House Wine (Red - Shiraz): R30
Cappuccino (Regular): R14
---
Total R133

Fauxliage - Vibing

That "Truman" feeling came over me again today, as I had a cuppa chai in Ambirka Chowk with a friend from UP. The junction wound down slowly; the dogs were out and the kiosks were closing up - even traffic seemed a little less chaotic than when I had been there earlier.
As I contemplate how my life must be part of some divine comedy, I recall Rajaram's words: "After all, God's create the universe for our enjoyment, right?"
Scarves and saris flutter in the distance, a bright orange turban leads a flock of goats across the road, safely to their death; a world waiting for the monsoon languishes in the heat of expectation and daily disappointment.
"Very filmy, yaar, what you are saying is from the heart".
Indeed.

Sitting in a cosy tavern sipping sweet tea out of a little plastic cup, we chatted about L, about how I had *ahem* loved (yes, I said it) her since the first time I saw here, 9 years ago. This is accutely different from the sort of love that I fall into ±5 times a day in Cape Town.

Is it too late? Are our lives taking us further and further away from each other as I struggle with my disillusionment with relationships? Or am I in love with the idea of her; am I in love with what she represents rather than her as a person?

Whatever the case maybe, these remote wanderings are futile. The opportunity has past; the romantic must be buried.

We went to the GMRT in Khodad a few weeks ago; during a downpour that was more a cameo than a beginning - the rains drenched the roads and the unsuspecting masses and one could almost feel a sense of muted, restrained joy.

The joy was shortlived, however, as the clouds receded into the distance, bringing back the heat, the antithesis of growth in this crowded place. The sprouts broke through only to lilt, slowly and with a sense of uncertain hope.

The rains are late, almost a month late; the foreigners stand around with their umbrellas waiting patiently for the end of an uncomfortable summer.

We make our way to Khodad; I sleep for some of it, but am taking in the sights, careful not to stick my head too far out the window lest it be knocked off by a good's carrier.

It almost seems as if the earth is reaching her hands up to the sky; you can see it as the blue turns into a mucky orange, you can smell mud and newness.

Even now, 3 weeks later, we await the monsoons, we await newness and reinvention. A girl here told me about how they get drenched during the first rains (ceremoniously or unceremoniously, you never know in India); I imagine that its quite difficult if its spluttering out like this.

Mumbai Blues 1 - Parihar to Dadar

Its been a week since my stay in Mumbai; armed only with a clean-shave and a mono-brow I had braved the chaos of Pune's Parihar Chowk (looking for Greyhound), the Deccan highlands navigated by a cng cowboy and the thick, belching smog of Mumbai's city limits' traffic to meet my friend Rohan, a fellow from the wars at Wits.

Okay, maybe it wasn't as bad as I make it sound:
After a slight scuffle between the Greyhound conductor and a mysterious champled side-pathed short-pantsed gentleman, I found myself sitting pretty in a cab with 3 other fresh-faced professionals (computer programmers, of course) bound for the Dadar train/bus/taxi station in downtown Mumbai.

I spent the ride from Pune to Mumbai in a light sleep, broken only by the intermittent screech of tyres and frantic hooting (the car had only been dinged once the whole trip).

Being a classic feringhee I can admit (with no shade of guilt whatsoever) that I was a little apprehensive about the trip: I was actually more than a little anxious about the city that loomed in front of me, 2.5 hours later. With the scars of 26/11 still fresh, my Mum's panicked worry about the regional unrest and my Spanish roommates grim comment ("You are bery brave"), I was unsure about what to expect.

Here I was, brown enough to be taken for a local at first sight, with a skin-deep heritage that crumbles easily under hindi interrogation, almost ready to yield up my personal effects to anyone who would ask, stuck in one way traffic surrounded by an odd neighbourhood in which slummy, derelict flats rub shoulders with clean, sparkly commercial headquarters.

This is my first image of Mumbai and, indeed, the most stark image that I have of India; a place of contradiction in which the modern wealth of a burgeoning economy sits juxtaposed with a busy reality of life ancient - poverty and progress in the same bed.

As our zero-emission jalopy descended into the depths of the city (I didn't even notice us moving; its seemed as if we had reached the chowk by osmosis) I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I spied the large, unmistakable frame of my buddy Rohan and I realized that I wasn't alone at all, and that all my previous misconceptions were about to be dismantled.