I propose bottling boerewors aroma for wistful expats

AFTER reading my column about artificial aromas, my friend Dave Hughes told me about an incident he experienced while working in America some years ago. He was strolling past a row of shops when he smelled the delicious aroma of freshly-baked bread wafting from a bakery.

He went in and was surprised to find the bakery was not working that day. The ovens had been switched off and a technician was servicing them. Dave remarked he was attracted by the smell of baking and the technician apologised and said he had forgotten to switch off the machine that pumped out the fresh bread aroma.

That made me wonder about all the other aromas that assail me every day. As a regular wine taster I am particularly sensitive to smells and a walk through the village is like an olfactory symphony concert to me.

Coffee in particular is an irresistible magnet for me. If I smell fresh-roasted coffee my mouth starts to water and I simply have to go in and order an espresso.

After talking to Dave I wonder whether it’s the real thing I’ve smelled or have they switched on the coffee aroma pump. (I never get that intensity of coffee aroma when I brew coffee at home.)

Just give me a sniff of that heady scent of boerewors rolls grilling over the coals and I’m a push-over. They often have a portable braai outside the entrance to a local supermarket and I am drawn in every time I go there.

Mmmm! That smell of sloppy overcooked onion slices and sizzling sausages is magic. We should declare it South Africa’s national aroma. Maybe we could bottle that smell and export it for sale to homesick ex-South Africans over the world.

I rather suspect, though, that the Cape’s serious water shortage might soon create a very different kind of regional aroma. I don’t think it will attract many visitors to the city.

A typical example of the city’s changing stink pattern: My two cats have a favourite spot in the garden which they use for their morning ablutions, diligently covering up the evidence afterwards, as cats tend to do. In “normal” times I go out from time to time and give the place a soaking with the garden hose and everything’s rosy again, pong-wise.

Now I have to hold my nose when I walk past that particular spot. It stinks like a pool of cheap Sauvignon Blanc.

Last Laugh

A young couple were strolling through the streets of the city late at night when they passed a jeweller’s shop and the girl murmured: “Ooh, I’d love a diamond necklace like that.”

So the lad heaved a brick through the window, grabbed the necklace and presented it to the girl.

A bit further along they passed an electronics shop and the girl sighed: “Oh, look at that new iPod. I’d love one like that.”

Again the boy tossed a brick through the window, snatched the iPod and gave it to her.

Along the street was a shoe store and the girl admired a pair of gold fashion sandals. “I’d love those,” she said.

At this stage the boy turned to her and said: “Honey, we can’t go on like this. Bricks don’t grow on trees, you know.”