Yardstick launch goes KABOOM

We don’t get typhoons down here on the Southern tip of Africa, but Sunday’s weather-tantrum in Stellenbosch was a fairly close approximation of what I imagine it would be like if we did. 

Despite the obvious signs that nature and all her forces were opposed to this meeting of foodies and quaffers, all went ahead as planned. A non-plussed DJ Rene calmly set up his disco in the back of the cellar while the debonair guys from TRUTH coffee manned the prow of their stand like hipster Captain Ahabs. 

It must have been a combination of Pete Tempelhoff’s culinary wizardry and Adam Mason’s generous desire to ply people with his deeply satisfying wines that kept the guests on that long wet road to this unique “coming out” event. 

I think the specific reference to children being welcome also had some kick. Limber kids spilled out of station wagons, saw the piles of hay and, for the rest of the afternoon, stormed them like a castle while their parents milled and bobbed around tables of endless eatables and drinkables.

  

In addition to the boards of cheese and meaty olives, Pete’s team gently kicked us off by walking around with crisp little triangles of prawn and sesame toast cunningly arranged around bamboo bowls of soy-based dipping sauce. After two petite glasses of the Yardstick Chardonnay I was still able to resist the temptation to follow the prawn-toast guy around with a skewer. 

Then came the duck spring rolls. Oh my. Wrapped in soft glass rice paper and served with a roasted chili sauce, I enjoyed a few of these chaps with the Yardstick 2011 Pinot Noir. 

We found a spot in the corner and the prawn-toast guy (God bless him) made regular visits to our locale. He served us well through the speeches. I had to laugh when my brother spoke because he must be one the few people in the world who can geek out about varieties of grapes. 

I guess that’s what it’s all about though, that passion and dedicated exploration of things that fascinate you. It’s what makes this unique partnership so exciting.

                                       

The concept is simple. A chef and a winemaker join forces to pair good food up with outstanding new blends of wine. Sunday’s launch was an occasion that celebrated indulging in simple pleasures: fine company; happy families and a smorgasbord of tastes.

After disappearing for a while, my husband (damn I love him) returned with plates of grilled entrecôte and fries, served with a truffled hollandaise sauce. I paired these doozies up with a not-so-petite glass of SHAZAM! Adam and Pete’s answer to a Syrah heavy blend with touches of Grenache, Mourvedre and floral Viognier. 

As I was trying to contain the inappropriate noises of pleasure that were escaping my lips, Adam approached with a gazelle-like creature who turned out to be the deputy editor of House and Leisure. I was wiping hollandaise sauce from my chin when he introduced me with a chortle: “This is my sister. Bless her, she came for the food”. This elegant woman took pity on me as I tried to become one with the couch, wishing my alter ego would stride confidently though the doorway with a winning smile and a leather-bound portfolio of my work. Aye me.

It took me another bolstering glass of SHAZAM! To recover from that moment of shame. Not one to be deterred for very long, I found solace in a wee plate of waterblommetjie and mushroom risotto. This dish was superb. I switched back to white but went with Ka-POW! - my firm favourite. Adam’s artful use of Chardonnay and Viognier showcases a delicate Chenin blanc base. Interestingly, this wine is partly barrel fermented - this is possibly why I like it. I have a thing for the subtle spicy characters of barrel fermented wine.

Even though I was full I couldn't help nibbling from my husband’s bowl. The Cape fish stew was accompanied by saffron pap and of course there had to be wine so I topped up, this time with KABOOM! It’s a blend of the “Bordeaux 5” and while it’s more robust than say, the Yardskick Pinot Noirs, it was remarkably delicious between morsels of this inspiring seafood dish.

To be honest, by this time I was a bit unsteady on the old pins and after this it all becomes a blur. Single frames from my memory include: a monstrous vat of Brewers & Union beers nestled in ice [egad]; Grappa with coffee and Truffles [yeep]. Other frames show images of a straw castle laid to waste as children returned to the warm laps of their replenished parents. And rain.

Thanks guys, you are magnificent.

Hic’

Photo by Wine Gems

Dredd 3D

Yes folks, this is how you do it. 

Dredd 3D is nigh on perfect. Alex Garland (Google him and then bask in his reflected glory; the man wrote Sunshine ffs) took on a potentially hazardous mantle when he wrote the screenplay for this adaptation. 

One slip-up and he would be hounded by Comic-Book-Guy types for years to come. “Worst comic book movie ever,” they would say, snidely pointing their hot-dogs at him. I reckon he’s safe. Right now those would-be hot-dog pointers are weeping into their Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back pillow cases. Grateful tears. 

Comicy folks are a snippy crowd at best. If, in terms of story, there’s a hole to poke, then a-poking they will go. Where a long-running publication like 2000AD is concerned, fanboys and girls will no doubt find things to deride, but on the whole folks, ON THE WHOLE, I don’t know what the wizards who conjured up this blood-a-polooza could have done better. 

True fans of Judge Dredd were particularly hurt by Sly Stallone’s lack-lustre portrayal of the man himself. I bet that when he watched this movie he was all like, “Ahhhhhhhh...” as a light went on somewhere in the dark recesses of his noggin.

New Zealander Karl Urban is no stranger to action and sci-fi movies. Even though he spoke some patriotic nonsense about the All Blacks in last night’s premier, I have to admit that the lower half of his face did a superb job on screen. Those classic one-liners and that trade-mark clenched jaw were spot on. He even managed to make his chin frown.

Oh sure the story has weak points. It’s pretty far-fetched, but you know what guys, if you could commit  regular Saturday mornings any time from the mid 1990's to collective sessions of Magic: The Gathering or Dungeons and Dragons you can suck this one up. Sit down and have a hot-dog.

The 1995 Judge Dredd had a wussie Janet-Jackson vs KY feel about it, but this year the grading is marvellous. The costumes show actual wear and tear, and that nasty hopeless feeling that you got from the black and white comic pages is right up there. Moreover this sucker was made for 3D. I'm not a big fan of what I feel is a gimmicky advancement in cinema, but Dredd 3D outstrips Avatar in terms of visual chicka-bow-bow.

Ooh ooh, Cersei Lannister?! Lena Headey must have one hell of a man at her side in the real world. Playing two repugnant women in as many years takes (net) balls of steel. She is outstanding in her truly terrifying portrayal of Mama. 

Anderson. Oh PSI Judge Anderson was just the business. Olivia Thirlby successfully balanced the rookie deer-with-a-semi-automatic-weapon-in-the-headlights role with a dangerous soupçon of “I’ll mind-love you to death” that will no doubt make her a hit with the hot-dog guys.

Other things I can gush about:

It’s one of the finest, tightest and most impressive pieces of international cinema to come out of South Africa. It’s also the first mega-movie to be shot in our own Cape Town Film Studios. The sets that were made there are flipping spectacular.

A number of SA actors had roles in the film and a large whack of the crew, above and below the line, were also from our very own land of love and vexation. Dredd 3D made good use of our outstanding film workers and their expertise. Check the credits. 

Also, true to the comics, this is a gorgy, a gore-gasbord if you will. Which is to say unless you’ve been on call in the emergency ward on a Saturday night in Lavender Hill, you haven’t seen violent destruction of the human body quite like this before. 

I’d give it two thumbs up but I’m afraid of my thumbs. So I’ll whistle my appreciation in ominous tones instead. 

Go see it.

Ps - hot-dog guys, I've got nothing but love for you. You were my only friends in high school.

Gypsy Café

I have a few firm favourite restaurants in Cape Town: El Burro, Woodlands Eatery and Hello Sailor. I am loyal to these guys but hope they can share because last night a pretty young thing joined their ranks.

Gypsy Café in Observatory is one of the special ones. You can always tell if a restaurant has heart, and this one does. My husband and I have been wanting to go for months because we drive past 87 Station road daily. My beloved mum is in town at the moment so last night we found the perfect opportunity to visit this fairy-lit half-hidden bistro of quirk and joy.

The first thing that struck me was the decor. From the bird cages, thoughtful paintings and suitcases to the festive bunting and higgledy-piggledy potted succulents in the alleyway, Gypsy doesn't just excel in the culinary arts, it is a feast for the eyes as well. Everywhere I looked I found something for my peepers to drool over. It reminds me of the little family-run cafés that we'd discover when I was a surly teenager being dragged reluctantly through provincial France by my monstrously unfair parents. Aye me.

Each month the Gypsy finds a new country to explore and offers specials inspired by these new regions. The gastronomes have kitchen-traveled to such exotic places as Thailand, France and - where we landed last night - Argentina. The main courses on offer were well-priced and well-spiced and left me with a belly full of wanderlust.

Currently, Gypsy's specials reflect the fierce Argentinian love of meat. The starter sets this scene by using a salad to artfully uplift the flavours of prosciutto. To follow is a modest 300g rib eye steak, encrusted in crushed coriander and served with a chimichurri sauce that'll have you saying "¡Olé!" in no time.

If you're not a carnivore don't be dismayed, they cater for a range of preferences and have vegan options that are actual full meals. I find this a feat to marvel at.

While we gargled in delight at the nomadic specials, the three of us did pick our fare from the more permanent chalk-board selection. We sampled the blue cheese and garlic snails - each mouthful of which brought forth goaty noises of pleasure - and the fresh spring rolls which are served with a sweet chilli sauce that is more Thai-spicy than your regular sickly saccharine goop. Other starters available included chicken livers, salmon cannelloni and a roasted veg salad.

I opted for the "Two Tarts" main.  My plate arrived with two heart-shaped phyllo pastry tarts. These terrific little guys were filled with different cheeses and served with a tangy onion and balsamic reduction, and a fresh salad. My husband opted for the line-fish, which was ocean-friendly silver, served with a creamy garlic sauce and generous lashings of dill. Our dear mum had the chicken. This was a bird as moist and succulent as you could wish for, perched on a plump nest of roasted veg. At this point conversation slowed down. It was limited to the sounds of gnashing mastication and grunts of contentment as we swapped forkfuls of morsels and restrained ourselves from licking the plates like we would do at home. Sorry mom. We do that at home.

I firmly believe that most of the time it's the little things that count, so when bill arrived as a wee scroll wrapped up in a ribbon, and surrounded by chocolate coins, I nearly swooned. So I went outside and smelled the jasmine creeper that grows by the door until I had successfully come back down from the clouds.

What will be bringing me back to this gem is its winning combination of very well-priced meals that are obviously prepared with pride and care, and a warm, personal ambiance. When we were first seated, by one of the owners, my mum gave him the 3rd degree about how he should stock the wines that my brother makes. Bless this man's soul if he didn't twitch an eyebrow. He was the picture of grace and good manners as our mum continued to extoll, at great length, the virtues of said brother until hunger itself made her stop and choose her dishes. Instead of taking the gap and legging it, this good gentleman then took a seat at a neighbouring table and talked us through the menu with the same thorough dedication as my mother so clearly has to her beloved offspring.

The wine list samples a wide variety of cape classics and while corkage exists at R30, there's something for every palate on the Gypsy's list. One of the three owners is an experienced wine sommelier and the selection at Gypsy can only benefit from his considerations. Soon I am sure, this poor man will be worn down by my mother's conversation and we will see some Mulderbosch and Yardstick wines on their already impressive list list. (Ahem)

Gypsy Cafe

87 Station rd Observatory

021 448 8336

Mmmmm.

This is a post about writing, and how difficult it is.

I haven't posted anything for a few weeks. This is partly because I have been away and partly because my husband came home after a lengthy job in Austria so I've been hanging with my good man, but if I have to be honest it's mostly because I haven't had anything to say.

Last night I was watching The Simpsons, and in an episode that cut particularly close to the bone, I saw myself and my dreams from another perspective. Way to go Dan Vebber - HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME THINK. The episode in question is cunningly called "The Book Job" and is the sixth episode of the 23rd season. If you haven't seen it I recommend that you do. See it.

In this episode, Homer and Bart team up Ocean's Eleven style, with some of our other well-loved Simpsons characters, to ghost write a book for teenagers. Even Neil Gaiman is in on the action. Lisa is outraged at their soulless approach to writing and in a sanctimonious rage, she vows to write her own book.

She sits down to write, but within five minutes she is reordering her CDs and playing online Boggle. Basically doing anything other than writing. "I just need to win two more games and then I'll write for an hour". It is a fairly close approximation of how I approach my writing. The punch to my solar plexus is when she says "A hard deadline is just the kick the pants I need to focus and get some serious writing done." HAH.

For a long time I have been Lisa-Simpsoning my way around writing. I have procrastinated to the point where I don't even believe my own excuses. I was fine with knowingly and actively disappointing myself, but then I went and read a book that is, ironically, about procrastination.  I have mentioned Steven Pressfield's The War of Art before on this blog. Pressfield tears apart all the justifications we have for not doing the creative things that we really want to be doing. Then he goes even further and portrays Procrastination as a malevolent energy or force.

And now I am stuck on my own writer's block. I would pause a while to decorate it with meaningful doodles, but then Procrastination has won.

I quit my job as an English teacher last year so I could focus on writing. I had a salary and medical aid. I had paid holidays and safe parking for my car. I had structure, and regulated tea breaks. I had also become a mean person and the kind of teacher I always hated. I thought the change would be "just the kick in the pants" I needed but I did not know that it would be this hard. I now work four days a week, co-ordinating a special effects and prosthetics studio. On Fridays I stay at home to write, and three out of five times I do manage to string some words together. For other two, I weep.

There are so many writers out there; we are legion. We are always broke. We have good ideas but don't know how to follow them through. We troll the internet in times of devastating and hollow indecision. We have too many words but not enough to say. The blogosphere has a wasteland that borders it, where half formed blogs whimper and slouch in the shadows. I imagine their malformed cousins, the pathetic skeletons of novels, waving limply from their long forgotten folders, aching for flesh and muscle.

So what to do? The dream is to make money by sitting on the window ledge in a ray of late afternoon sun, note book computer on lap, typing away about important and relevant life experiences. Unfortunately the collective-unconscious has screwed this pooch; very few of us have the intrinsic motivation to do anything worthwhile with our words. My insides writhe as other people run with the good ideas that made it, gasping, onto my thought train. While I mull them over as I look for new stickers on Little Big Planet, other people are making the ideas work.

I am going to put on my writing hat now. It's the only way.

Don't call me "Babe"

In my former life as a teacher, I was called a number of things. To my face, however, I was mostly referred to as Ma'am - only when the kids said it they didn't use the apostrophe. Being a Ma'am started to get to me and it was one of the things I was happy to leave behind when I quit my teaching job.

I now work four days a week, co-ordinating the madly-creative-and-talented-but-not-very-practical people who run a prosthetics and special effects studio, and no-one calls me "Ma'am". Why do I not seem gleeful then? Why do I not skip about glibly, scattering confetti? Why have I not written a self-help book on How to Be Happy Like Me? Because now people call me me other things, to my face.

I deal with producers and production co-ordinators. This involves many phone calls and meetings, but mainly it entails me standing over the schedule like that angel with the fiery sword who guarded Eden after Adam and Eve boned it for all of us. I can deal with the requirements of my job, no problem. Seriously, after teaching senior high English, I can handle pretty much anything. This having been said, there is one thing I loathe.

Who I actively channel when I am at work.

I hate it when I'm on the phone with someone, discussing some work issue, and they call me "My Love". Don't coo "Angel" at me. Don't "Hon" me. I am remarkably few people's love. I am no angel and only my mother calls me "Darling". Nothing makes my rage flare up faster and hotter than this presumptuous and familiar way of address. Don't do it. It makes me want to leopard crawl down the phone-line and vomit in the eyeballs of the smarmy production git, who makes up for what he/she so clearly lacks in good judgement with generous dollops of fawning insincerity.

I don't know if it is the tone of my voice that makes it so. If we were speaking face to face, the chances are that you would not call me sweetie. Why do some people feel safe enough to be that familiar with me? I don't know if it's only production people who do this. Perhaps I am whiney, or perhaps (and my money's on this one) it has nothing to do with me or the timbre of my voice, but is because they are so used to dicking folks around that they have learnt that they get pretty much whatever they like so long as they coat their requests in saccharine endearments.

HAH! Little do they know that I would crawl over fields of Lindt chocolate just to get my hands on a party sized bag of Cheese Curls and a beer.

Seriously, I hold this form of address in the deepest, vilest contempt because it knocks me for a six. One moment I am focused on the task at hand and the next I am a wide eyed five-year-old girl looking at the phone in astonishment. "What happened to my unicorn, Papa?"

What these thoughtless and meaningless forms of address reduce me to.

 It diminishes me. It demeans me and makes me feel like an incompetent child. In one phone call, just yesterday, a woman persistently called me "My love". Three times, in one conversation, she slipped it in there. I felt the mercury rise and rise until it popped out and I exclaimed in frustration: "MY NAME IS JEN". I was rewarded with wounded silence and an abrupt end to the conversation. I still have to work with this person, but now it is awkward.  I can hear in her voice.

I'm not sure of the best way of dealing with people who insist on using these inappropriate pet names. If you have suggestions, please let me know. The way it stands now it is only a matter of time before I let loose on the offender and hurl insults at them not only regarding their unprofessional way of communicating but also their lineage, and their mother. I would like to avoid this scenario and the subsequent legal repercussions.

What I become.

The Best Places to Walk Dogs in Cape Town - Part 1

These are my two dogs. They take their walks very seriously and I am always on the lookout for interesting new places to walk them. The big one on the left is TheMaxx (named after my favourite comic book character); the one on the right is Trousers (I have no idea why we decided to call her that).

Pitiless reviewers of dog friendly spots all over southern Africa.

As a 100% Dog Person, I make it my mission to ensure that these guys have at least one good, off-the-leash walk/run per day. Living in Cape Town makes that pretty easy because there are so many excellent spots here. My dogs are a handful though, and we have had many an altercation with other dog owners, so I prefer the more peaceful places, where I don't have to bump into too many other people.

TheMaxx, 9 weeks old, contemplating his first poop on the beach.

Maxx is a delightful mix of Rottie, Chow and Alsatian. I got him from a TEARS volunteer when he was 8 weeks old. He's a great guy; peaceful and playful. He is really good with other dogs, except for Alsatians, and male dogs that try to rape him.

He does bark at vagrant men though, something I never taught him. I have no idea where he picked this up, but he does it every time. If I see one heading for us, I have to leash him up. TheMaxx's favourite game: chasing Trousers.

Trousers, the greatest mystery the world has never known

Only the Good Lord knows what went into Trousers' gene structure. We are fairly certain that she has some Staffie, some terrier, some jackal and a bit of goat. She is indiscriminately loving of all humans, but can be iffy with other dogs.

Her favourite game is to run, like a bullet, at dogs she sees on the horizon, bark in their ear, and run away. This, as I'm sure you can imagine, can be awkward. BUT if she has a rock or a pinecone between her teeth, she is blind to the presence of other dogs.

We took her from TEARS when she was already fully grown, and she has a history that we will never understand.

This week, I will be sharing my dogs' opinion of Sunset Beach. This spot is about 14 kms out of Cape Town, just off the R27, before you hit the Blowfish restaurant. As the name suggests, it is an ideal spot for watching the sun go down, and it also has that postcard view of Table Mountain. In the winter months it's even better because as you walk your hounds you can watch the whales living it up. The smug bastards.

View to the left

View to the right.

Why do my dogs like this beach? I'll tell you why:

1. Loooooong, uninterrupted stretches of firm sand for running on.
2. Lots of smooth pebbles for chasing.
3. Easy gradient into the water. The dogs can walk out for 20 meters in some places and still feel their feet on the ground.
4. Nice tall dunes - perfect for throwing tennis balls down.
5. Seaweed for chewing.

I like it because the walk is so beautiful. You can mosey on for hours, or just sit in the dunes. Depending on the time of day, day of the week and weather, there can be very few other people on the beach. This is a bonus because I can leave the pooches off their leashes and If someone is around, I can see them coming. I also like it because the dogs really get to stretch their legs. 

One problem I have with this walk is that most of my unpleasant encounters with other dog owners have been on this stretch beach. In none of the other places that we walk have I met such uptight people - that's why I avoid busy times and weekends. I believe that dogs pick up on their owners vibes, and if dogs are meeting each other for the fist time on neutral territory, stiff legged circling and butt-sniffing is to be expected. When owners get anxious and shouty these innocuous greetings can turn into fights.

When other dog owners freak out, their dogs freak out, and then mine do too. Unfortunately on this beach, people freak out. 

Does this look like the face of danger?

I remember once, seeing a perky gal approaching me as I walked my dogs with a friend and her dog. The bouyant lass was wearing a skin tight white top, without a bra, so we could both see her wall-eyed nerples which were obviously the result of an iffy boob op. She had a cute bull terrier on one of those long retractable leashes. Our three were off their leashes and went to say hi to the dog. The gal nearly had a fit, she screamed at us to put our dogs on leashes as they surrounded her and her pooch. Poor thing, it must have been an intimidating sight for her. Fortunately no harm was done, and the bull terrier was reluctant to leave his new friends, but the gal hauled him off with her.

Why I mention this: I never forgot her nips, just wanted to share, and now when I see a dog on a leash, I leash mine up so as not to cause the delicate human who is approaching to have an aneurism.

Drama Dog

I didn't really mean for this post to be a tirade about other dog owners. I get that no one wants their dogs to scuffle. If you have dogs though, and you walk them, I am sure that you long for peaceful walks as much as I do. It's approaching 4pm now, the universal time when mutts start stretching out of their nooks around the garden/house and come find you to remind you that it is Dog 'o Clock. I am powerless to resist.

Don't forget your poo bags.

How: a Zoiderg themed version of our first encounter.

I am writey. For the most part I prefer words to pictures, and I like a lot of words. This does not mean that I cannot appreciate brevity, or pictures. In fact, pictures of briefs are some of my favourite things. But I digress.

Last weekend, on a walk with the dogs in Newlands forest, my friend and I agreed to write our versions of how we met our respective partners. It is a question that always comes up when you start hanging out with new people. They look you in the eyes, steeple their lobster claws like Zoidberg and ask "So, how did you and ?? first meet?" Then comes the silence. Some well-rehearsed and slappable couples tell the story as a duet. Each knowing their lines and cues. They proceed to dance a perfectly timed ballet, complete with pauses, chuckles and loving glances. (At this point I vomit from my salt water stomach only)

When my human and I are asked this question, we both sigh. Not because we don't have a story - we DO have a story - but because it's always up to me to tell it, he doesn't add a thing. He is reluctant to do the dance, and I am tired of it. Now I am committing it to type and will hereafter direct any lobster-clawed inquirers to this post.

SO, back in the December of 2005 I was dating this guy and living in Johannesburg. One day he says to me: "Jenny, you hate your job, I'm sick of mine, let's quit and move down to Cape Town."
"Sure," says I, all wide eyed and excitable, "A road trip!"

Turns out that he needed to stay on a bit longer in Jo'burg, but he drove down to Cape Town with me on a Friday, in my ancient powder blue Ford Escort. In my car I had: a rolled up foam mattress; Ugg boots; short skirts; a big wooden trunk full of my stuff. The dumbass boyfriend drove half way through the Karoo in 4th gear. My poor old car was an early adopter and being ahead of its time it had 5 good gears to grind. Anyway, in a cloud of panting car smoke, we made it to Cape Town where I was to stay with my boyfriend's older brother in his commune until we found a spot.

HAH

I started working in a props studio, and the hours were looooong. When I hadn't heard form the absent boyfriend in a suspiciously long while my eyes started to wander. There were some gorgeous arty boys working in that studio, and they all had rock 'n roll*** hair. (I have a weakness for rock 'n roll boy hair) After I had a brief, heroin-infused liaison with one of them, my boyfriend called to say that he was doing quite well up in Jo'burg and wasn't going to move down, he said that I should go back up. Whaaaaaat?! I told him I had been with someone else. Boyfriend and I then ended it.

Later that day I was mixing up a two part plastic and this guy entered the room, a really hoopy frood. He had long dreadlocks, all tied up - Basquiat style - in a breast cancer awareness month sunflower bandana. His fingers erect and wiggling in urgent anxiety, in the manner of Captain Jack Sparrow's. He looked me in eyes and asked: "Hither, wither, thither is the fucking spatula?!".

That was pretty much it for me. Thereafter it was merely a matter of time. A mention of a dirty dream here, and damsel's plea to help her pop a bearing in order to wear the casing as a ring there, some furious flirting, and in just a few months we were inseparable and have been ever since.

My husband's version: "Yeah, we met at work"

Balls to brevity.

***ah, the old 'n or n' or 'n' conundrum. I prefer to introduce the conjunction with ', and let the final letter fall by the wayside. I will not coddle or suffocate that middle N with punctuation, nor will I send it on its way with an after-thought apostrophe. The essence of rock 'n roll being what it is, I feel that the middle child needs its space, and if it's a bit rebellious, if it goes against the grain, more power to it.