the lifestyle macher – he’s a restauranteur, cookbook author and retail renegade – looks back on an unforgettable night
The year was 1986 – a great time to be young and free, albeit on the streets of durban. Punk rock was emerging and folk music was everywhere. I wore cut-off tops and pink, permed my hair and drank white wine from five litre boxes. My mate’s mom made us pleated pants that ballooned out on the sides and ended tight against the ankle. The eighties – the decade that taste forgot – was rocking.
If you wanted to invite guests to a party, you’d pick up the phone and ask. If you wanted to be invited, you’d skid your way at top speed across the parquet to the phone to ensure you picked it up. Miss the ring-ring and you missed your lift to the club. In a world now polluted with words, images and excessive averageness, it was the best