If you’ve ever been a guest at the Netherby table surrounded by the youthful members of Die Vrot Kol, you may shake your head in wonder that I ever became a chef and have as much of a love for food as I do.
With tales originating out of Richmond boarding school, tales of cold fish on Fridays; Bobotie with its swollen raisins; ice-cold boiled cabbage hearts; bowls of porridge every single morning, the worst being Maltabella; that indelible smush of something fishy on toast that crunched under our masticating teeth for breakfast: well the list of our most despised meals is long, and as a group of old teens and youthful 20 year olds’ we certainly tried to make our parents feel quite guilty for leaving us to eat boarding school food for 12 years.
The thing is, food fills a very nostalgic space in my life. As much as the outsiders around our dining room table didn’t appreciate hearing the boarding school stories, those stories form a part of who I am.
Those stories… breakfast at home always fraught with being very quiet so Dad could listen to the news. Being able to eat Pronutro without milk may have been a pretty daring move since I didn’t like milk. (You know, dairy farmers daughter an’all?) but Bacon and Eggs and a fried tomato will always be my most favourite breakfast. There is nowhere (normal) nowadays where one would get away with it, but I still have very vivid memories of Annah asking me how I would like my eggs cooked every morning- fried; boiled; poached or scrambled? (The one tiny positive coming from this anecdote is that this conversation would take place in Zulu.)
Somehow, though, between the worst of boarding school and everything after that, I have always enjoyed my food. Annah always cooked the most fluffy mashed potatoes, complete with the decorative forked design on the top, or boiled new gem squash picked directly out of the garden, with melted ‘cheddar’; her beetroot salad, a salad which, to this day, I still make for the family. It’s not the most fashionable salad considering the amount of refined white sugar I add to the vinegar and onions, but it still goes down well in our home. In fact, for most of my youth, I think Annah even cooked Sunday Roasts and those roast potatoes that we love so much. They were just as amazing as the roast potatoes at The Crags, my grandparents home when we went for Sunday lunch. I’m immediately struck by the feeling of my Grans’ arm fiercely clutching mine as we walked to her dark kitchen, filled with the smells of baked cakes, potatoes and lamb roasting in fresh lard, and I can picture that blue ceramic bowl in the pantry cupboard with fresh stewed apples- a real treat for me.
Obviously Mom’s cooking also has had an impact on me. Christmas cake, sponge cake, rock cakes, Romany creams- well, ALL the biscuits you can think of in fact, then the Mielie Bread, the Onion Bread, tomato and barley soup, and those casseroles, all the casseroles in the Romatopf. Not to forget the little rotisserie oven. See how the nostalgia confuses me? Was it Mom or was it Annah that cooked the Sunday roasts?
Of course, the little hamlet of my youth also may have had a lasting impact on my culinary journey. How much admiration did I have for Anne? Anne Black, BCC Catering Convener, 1980-1995 (or for as long as my memory serves me), I’m certain she fed thousands of people over those years. Saturday nights at the club- did we ever have a bad meal cooked by those clever Boston Ladies? And how incredibly special to be surrounded by families who all shared in the responsibilities of knitting the community like they did.
But those meringues of Anne’s- they will forever be a lasting memory of her. Perfectly white. Mouth-wateringly crisp. Decadently sweet, smooth and luxurious.
Nonetheless, I think I must have shadowed Anne many a day while she served up meals to the Bostonites and beyond, and it may have been my admiration for her that I took such a keen interest in the culinary syllabus of 3 years of Home Ec at school, and between that and the rather luxurious holiday we took touring Zimbabwe in 1990, my passion for the hospitality industry blossomed.
What a ride I’ve had in the 23 years since I opted to go to Christina Martins to study to be a chef. It hasn’t been a famous ride. Nor has it been one with tales of great success and vainglorious achievements. But I never did strive for any of that, so it’s no matter to regret.
Nonetheless, food remains a primary focus in my life. I notice when people around me don’t eat. I notice when people around me do eat. I love to ponder the origins of food. I often have full blown conversations in my head about whose food is better- France or South Africa… I spend more time than others on cooking a regular nights dinner for the family. My ideal birthday dinner would be a 5 course dinner paired with select wine. My favourite food is something that I crave in that moment. I love meat and I’m intrigued about vegans. I would give my right arm to be able to indulge in a food tour in every new place we visit and I believe in eating where the locals eat. In other words, the genre of food fills a platter of discussion topics, a lot of which I have developed many a thought on.
As I wrote earlier, I never set myself goals in my career, but over 23 years, I have experienced a vast array of jobs, worked with an assortment of different cultures, and become a mother. Oh, the stories I can tell you.
Hearing elephants tug at the leaves and tender branches of the willow trees on the banks of the Groot Marico River while serving bush dinners to Madikwe guests remains one of my most memorable moments from my first job. I’ve listened to lions roaring across the nearby plains while I’ve braai’d kudu steaks under the ancient Leadwood trees at sunset. I’ve hollowed our watermelons and carved them into safety helmets for safari scavenger hunts. Working in the industry often means working and playing full-out, so while we’ve pulled 18 hour shifts during the Sun City golf tournaments, we’ve also partied like there was no tomorrow, and often tried to wash away a hangover with jugs of black coffee, chicken liver pate and soft fried eggs. I’ve been held to task by a manager who smelt weed wafting across the Staff Village quad, and lectured about my ongoing partying. While none of that at the time was effecting my work, said-manager was concerned for me, and speaking on behalf of my parents. He wasn’t much more than a much older brother at the time, but I can assure you, while I sniggered at him behind his back afterwards, the fact that I lived 900 kilometers away from my home at the time, and I wasn’t yet 21, I will always remember Sean for his kindness.
But I was so incredibly green around the gills when I moved to London in Year 6 of my career. The food industry in South Africa still seemed to revolve pretty much around Iceberg lettuce, frozen fish, Rajahs curry powder, stolen cheese names and borrowed dreams. How far have we come since then? When I started work in London, amidst a young energetic team, I lost count of the number of food ingrediants I had never seen in my life: odd-looking fungi, celeriac, orange sweet potatoes, live langoustines that had escaped a polystyrene box and were recaptured crawling around the walk-in fish fridge. It was while working there I really learned how to make proper stock, hand-made duck spring rolls, we actually made our own terrines, we listened to the head chefs talk about the “French Order”, referring to the once-a-week delivery of vegetables from The Continent and our scallops came delivered on a bed of ice, intact, those fleshy white fishy pieces nestling inside their neat scalloped shell complete with orange roe and that random black knob. Later I moved jobs, and spent 7 months at Bluebird in Chelsea- first time for me working in an a la carte restaurant, where my existence relied exclusively on the ticket-printer that relentlessly spewed out reams of orders. I still picture myself one Friday night, crouched behind the pass, between my under-counter fridge and the steaming stove tops, tears streaming down my cheeks because I was so naive to think I could play with the big people and be a ‘saucière‘ on the grill. Happily, the Bluebird crew of the latter part of 2002 were kind and generous with their time, and I got through without failing miserably.
Upon my return to South Africa I moved to Jozi, and realised how much the food scene had grown in 2 years. It may possibly have been the move to the vibey City of Gold with its iconic mix of cultures and drive for truth that made the difference, but I can assure you, iceberg lettuce was no longer the basis to any salad.
Skip ahead to the years after I had failed at owning my own cafe and had married and became a Mom. While I can admit to never buying a jar of baby food (I swear, not one), learning how to feed children is a story of its own. Let’s not even begin to speak of feeding children while actually having a full time job. Do you know how many days went by when I ignored that path of peas and mielies that lay beneath the dining room table? How many nights passed when I resigned myself to the fact that one kid was going to bed with a bottle of milk in her clutches? A decade later, I think I’ve done okay, and occasionally I find myself wanting to write recipes that are kid favourites, but do you know what I find is quite simply the most effective way to get a kid to eat? Sit at the same table together, and all eat the same meal. Try to have fun, be happy, take the opportunity to connect and let there be less hype on the meal, and more on being together.
As expected, spending 6 years in France has added another dimension to my memoirs.
By all accounts, the French lead the way in the culinary world. With Escoffier leading the way in the kitchen hierarchy, most classic sauces have french names and originate from the steaming copper pots of France. Naturally, there is a certain hubris that rises from the hovels that currently are some French kitchens and the harsh reality has been working alongside a real french trained chef who literally sneers at me when I offer to make Dauphinoise potatoes, or offer a suggestion for la plat du jour. “Does it have a name?” he suggests, because apparently if a dish doesn’t have a name, it’s unlikely to be given a second glance. True story.
French food is good. I love how a knob of butter will caramelise a steak better than a swirl of olive oil. I love the aroma of fresh thyme, how they make a poor cut of meat succulent and mouth-watering and I love the many, many methods that the French have of cooking potatoes even with their specific methods and sanctimonious names.
Is there a necessity to create similar masterpieces at every moment in our humdrum lives? Is Italian food better than French food? Have they perfected tomato sauce? Is there space on your salad table for cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? And where would my summer be without fresh basil mixed into my tomato mozzarella salad? How do we create a healthy plate of food liked by all to fill the hype that is now “Eating In The 21st Century”? Are we all about to embark on a new way of dining? Do we need to?
I think it’s something we should try to talk about, while at the same time do we need to scare ourselves even more to maintain expectations?
Do you have any thoughts? You’re welcome to get in touch with me anytime. I love talking about food and I think we should make good eating a necessity at the same time as taking away from the fear.
Anyway, that’s me today, taking all your well deserved time.
As always, sending my love and wishes to you,
Me.
Xx
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 
Have so loved reading this post and your journey within the culinary industry. Rading about your boarding school food makes me chuckel as I can remember it so clearly just as you describe( admittidly we went to the same high school, but junior boarding was just the same)One pertinant line that stands out to me is your line about eating the same food as a family around the table. I cannot tell you how often I ask my clients if they eat as a family around a table and the anwer I get is -No and a horrified look. This is really something I try to encourage my clients to do.
Have a fabulous week
I think we were a whole lot better off at high school Michele, but the days at primary school definitely left their mark ;-).
This idea of eating together only evolved since we’ve been here in France, it’s most definitely something that works well for them. That said, when you’re feeding little fresh toddlers at 5pm but daddy only arrives home after 6pm, I can understand why people may be sceptical.
However, as soon as kids are old enough to understand small compromises, I honestly believe what I wrote. It’s definitely been good for my girls.