CLAM UP AND PIG OUT
My Portuguese evening was too perfect to be spoilt by ungrateful, greedy birds or knowing the true identity of the wizard in the kitchen
Imet Anatole over the weekend. He’s the chef who takes care of the gastronomic requirements of Bertie Wooster and company in PG Wodehouse’s yarns. Give him a skillet and he will conjure something Bacchus and his friends would admire.
Anyway, my encounter with dear Anatole happened at a place called 1920, in Ferndale. Who finds themselves in Ferndale on a Saturday afternoon, you’d be forgiven for asking. Anyway, I’d heard of the place from someone and because I hadn’t booked I made a point of being there when it opened for dinner at 6pm.
The minute I stepped in, I could identify the table where Michael Corleone killed Sollozzo and that dirty cop, Mccluskey. Or is it Mcskullskey? But there, he got it in the skull, whoever it was.
Unlike the Italian family restaurant where the two were killed in The Godfather, 1920 is neither Italian nor is it in the US. It is Portuguese. But the feeling of being home, among people who recognise you, hits you in the face. So Bethuel, the waiter, gave me half a litre of sangria even before I settled in my chair. That’s how family treat you when you come home. “Hey, Fredo, how many did you kill today? Siddown, Fredo! Omerta, Fredo!” But that’s only in the movies.
What do you have for starters at a Portuguese place? Peri peri chicken livers of course. Which I didn’t have, though they were on the menu. I started with clams in a spicy tomato sauce.
For mains I ordered the trout. But Bethuel said, hold it, Fredo old chum, why don’t you look at our specials? After listening to his rendition of same I settled for porco com amêijoas. That’s pork and clam stew. It comes with baby potatoes. Or, if you are a boring, selfimportant fart, with chips. Duh! So I settled for baby potatoes. Same family, different taste, different style, less oil.
You will recall that at the beginning of this column I alluded to one Anatole. It was as I was wrapping myself around the stew, which comes in a hot skillet, that I thought: Wodehouse’s Anatole must come to SA to learn a trick or two from the chef at 1920.
I chose not to ask who the chef was. Meeting the chef has in the past proven a nasty experience. The sprite who conjures such magic with skillet and ladle turns out to be a sweaty misshapen Shrek. You see? A sight for unsore eyes. I know there’s no expression like that in English, but you get the picture. Let fat Anatole sweat away behind the wall, unseen.
That porco com amêijoas, with my sangria, rounded off with a chocolate mousse, made me forget about the sweltering heat outside; about Bheki Cele versus Robert Mcbride; about Mike Masutha and his amnesia. By the way, in my home language, Zulu, the word ukusutha means “to have a full stomach”.
Masutha, if you follow my logic, is a contented fellow who was made “sutha” by that patriotic SA family, the Watsons of Bosasa. But incredibly, the ungrateful wretch has forgotten who made his stomach full.
Mike, you must thank Watson for all he’s done for you. Ikhuzeni lenyoni, esutha isuthe ihlale phezu kwendlu. That’s what my people say: you must scold this bird that eats and eats, and once its belly is full, stands on the roof and makes ungrateful noises.
My visit to 1920 was sunlit perfection. Why, then, should I stain it with insalubrious clouds of politics?
1920 Portuguese Restaurantl ★★★★★
Ferndale Village, Oxford Street, Ferndale, Joburg Tel: 011-886-0804
★★★★★ Cyril Ramaphosa
★★★★ Mmusi Maimane
★★★ Terror Lekota
★★ Mike Masutha
★ Pastor who allegedly resurrects people
I could identify the table where Michael Corleone killed Sollozzo and that dirty cop, Mccluskey, but here I felt at home