Confessions of a lapsed glutton
ONCE upon a time, I used to love food. Those were the days. Nowadays eating is a psychological trauma wrapped inside a tedious chore. It is an affliction that I seem to have passed onto my nine-yearold. Every afternoon we have to go through his lunch boxes to ensure that he has at least made an effort to eat half of his food.
The other day I was in the middle of chastising him yet again for only taking nibbles at his food when he looked up at me defiantly and said: “Ja, but you also never finish your food.” I looked down sheepishly and mumbled something about back-chatting and changing the subject.
But he was right. I have even had a doctor tell me that my generally round shape is due to the fact that my body is in perpetual emergency mode because it assumes that there’s a famine going on and it needs to store all the morsels of food I consume for a rainy day.
It hasn’t always been this way. A friend, Vusumuzi Shongwe, recently reminded me of an episode from my teen years that I must have tucked away in the mysterious corners of this malfunctioning mind.
When I was in matric we had some kind of talent show during which I competed with a schoolmate we called Stambu (on account of his legendary prowess in consuming incredible amounts of samp and beans) at eating peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches. I’m proud to announce that I won by wolfing down two loaves of peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, washed down with two litres of Oros squash, in less than 10 minutes.
Afterwards I felt just fine and when dinner time came, some two hours later, I was stuffing my face with Bull Brand corned beef sandwiches as usual. The scary part is that I weighed about 51kg with rocks in my pockets. And I was perpetually hungry. However, I was 16 years old. At the same age my eldest, Ntobeko, was just as much of a food Hoover. I remember watching him and a buddy polish off about 1kg of ribs and buffalo wings before asking for a burger each to “fill a small gap” in their respective tummies at Musgrave Centre, Durban.
I felt like a python just after swallowing a springbok whole
The idea made me physically ill. But then I remembered how, when I was a 17-year-old varsity student in Wentworth, I would take a minibus taxi to the Workshop mall to meet up with a childhood friend, kwaito and R&B singer Sandy B Jones, at the Oriental restaurant.
The restaurant has lots of tables outside in the mall’s corridor. We would find a table furthest from the probing eyes of the cashier and order mutton biryanis, rotis and burgers, which we would obliterate at a supernatural pace, washed down with Sparberry and cream soda.
I would like to apologise to the management of the Oriental for the next bit. Sandile (that’s who he was before becoming this Sandy B character) would surreptitiously slink away from the table as if going to the john. I would then call the waiter to go fetch the bill for us. As soon as he turned away, I would be halfway to the exit and then we’d walk to the Milky Lane for some waffles and ice cream.
As I wait here, hanging my head in shame, waiting for your harsh e-mails castigating me for my fiendish ways, may I ask you to be gentle in your condemnation by quoting these words from Chapter 8 in the Gospel according to John in the Christian Bible, “Let those among you without sin cast the first stone.”
To make myself feel better for what I thought, at the time, was a clever and hilarious trick, I remind myself that I have subsequently supported that establishment to the tune of tens of thousands of rands over the years.
Fast forward 25 years and I am paying for my sins. My legendary appetite is a fading memory. While staying at The Royal a few years ago, I walked to the same Oriental restaurant and got myself a chicken biryani. Mild, of course; 25 years ago it would have been extra hot but my 40-odd-year-old tummy cannot stand the aggravation of excessive chilli anymore.
I was whistling with joy in anticipation of the feast I was about to have in my hotel room. I sat down, opened the styrofoam container, jabbed at the food three or four times. My palate started singing heavenly hymns of joy as the flavours of the East exploded on my tongue. It was a beautiful experience . . . while it lasted.
Round about the sixth mouthful, the all-too-familiar feeling returned. Someone turned off the appetite tap and within seconds, I felt like a python just after swallowing a springbok whole. I tried to force down one more forkful and ended up masticating the rice for a good three minutes before I decided to abort the mission. I had a few jabs at the carrot, onion and chilli sambals and closed the container, breathing heavily and fantasising about a large bottle of Gaviscon.
I miss food. I miss my large appetite. I miss tucking into a greasy Dagwood until egg yolk starts dribbling down my chin. If my father is to be believed, it’s downhill from here. That upsets me. If anyone finds a lost appetite, please return it to me. I believe I lost it somewhere in the Harrismith area during my many trips between Durban and Johannesburg.