GOLDEN OLDIES
The City of Gold was built on hustling, hard graft and a mash-up of cultures
mixing, marrying and influencing what locals eat. Devoted Joburger Sarah-Jane Buitendach grew up at the table of a grandmother who took
this culinary heritage to heart
In
the annals of family lore, it will go down that Bill, my grandparents’ friend in 1970s Krugersdorp, died with a smile on his face.
Poor Bill. Married to Ada – not known for her cooking. That day, his eyes were incandescent at the arrival of my gran, Agnes, with a plate of freshly conjured poffertjes. Warm, carby goodness, loaded with butter, cheese, apricot jam and cream.
That night, Bill passed away.
Happy and sated, we like to think.
Those poffertjes could cure all ills
(or, given the above, perhaps cause them). At the slightest change in weather, a Highveld thunderstorm brewing, a West Rand winter morning icier than usual, a hint of melancholy, and out would come the frying pan and the batter mixture.
Poffertjes are Dutch treats and we have no idea where an Irish Catholic (by way of Jewish) girl, who grew up in Joburg in the 1920s and ’30s would have even heard of them. But that’s our city for you. It’s one big shemozzle of cultures and families – all here for the hustle. For the gold and the opportunities in a crazy mining town.
Krugersdorp, on the western edge of the mineral-rich Rand, was an important centre of this mining madness in the midtwentieth century, which is when Agnes
(or Granny B, as we called her) and Andrew Buitendach – a mining engineer – made it their home. It was a humming hive of people from all over; their influence spilling into the meals Granny B cooked for us.
Easters meant Malay pickled fish, made in a big blue-and-white ceramic jar. And killer bobotie, too. When Charles and
Diana got married, my mom and gran watched the wedding on TV – eating fried hake on brown bread, washed down with Champagne. And the caviar! Old Agnes had a real soft spot for proper Russian fish roe. Thursday nights meant a game of bridge with Joe, a Yugoslavian hairdresser, the local Catholic priest and a Devonshire cream cake from the Geneva Bakery on Human Street (which is still there by the way, selling the same gems). Saturdays and the fierce Buitendach duo would hit the bowling green, working up the space for a lunchtime pot roast. I’d go and spend the night and have a delicious creamy vegetable soup – later revealed to have come in powder form, out of a packet. The scandal!
Food and cooking were central to Granny B’s existence. Shopping done by 8 am, she would phone my mom for a catch up.
“The stew is on already,” she’d say. “What are you cooking today?” Or even, “I’m making pancakes right now. I wish I had a helicopter, then I’d fly some over to you.”
Sunday lunches were central to our entire extended family. Perhaps there would be gefilte fish and brisket – a nod to our heritage and the area’s big Jewish community – or a leg of mutton and Yorkshire puddings. Gran might even choose ham or pickled pork from the local German butcher. And there would be tipsy tart or trifle for dessert, the latter with zero jelly and a lot of booze.
We’d all sit around the table (us littlies too) and there would be heated conversation and much argument, no doubt, about politics. At some point, if at one of the children’s houses, and usually when my father had riled her enough, Agnes would pronounce; “Ghoogh!
(her most often used exclamation). You ridiculous children!” Adding, with a flourish, “Come on Andrew – I’m not going to put up with this! We’re going home … but finish eating first.” By the time pudding was done and Rennie tablets swallowed, tempers had usually cooled. Then we’d have tea and Marie biscuits, watch the sport on TV, have a snooze and start to talk about what to have for dinner.