As a former food ambassador – that’s waiter to you – who, on a busy Sunday morning shift, could be seen balancing up to four plates on his forearms, trayloads of drinks and grinning at the most undeserving patrons, being away from the big-city restaurant scene, I found myself brooding as to what comes in its place in the platteland?
During my stint at that Italian joint, working for a kind but often kantankerous couple, I learned the smalls and littles of the trade. What plonk to pair with what dish, how to whisk up a margarita and grill whole fish Greek-style. I kid you not, such a cooking method actually does exist. The pay was awful but at least the tips made up for it and there was always tequila to be had when we’d called it a day. Fifty percent staff discount, why would anybody ever want to leave?
A homely establishment it was: wooden flooring, pots of geraniums masted to the walls, antique mirrors up on the ceiling and a hearth burning softly during winter nights. Gluewine to warm the cockles. One half of the owner duo was a chef, earned his jacket somewhere in Scotland but, no, there was no haggis on the menu. But we did have Scotch as a consolation.
And the closest we came to black pudding was the palate-pleasing black beast fillet. 300g of prime steak, grilled, smothered with black peppercorns and drizzled in garlic butter. Paired with a glass of veritable merlot, say a Meerlust, and you could be dining in the finest restaurants along the French riviera.
The sucullent pork chops in a creamy apple and mushroom sauce with crispy crackling harvested from the dome-shaped woodfire oven were the stuff of dreams. Which would explain why the place was always teeming. Why the waitstaff knew the regulars by name and exactly what they liked to drink.
I had other gigs too.
At a seafood joint that had baby kinglip on the menu, a perpetually irate boss at the hatch and lots of feet sauntering through the doors. I also bartended at weddings on a massive countryside estate where the kitchen staff whipped up Afrikaner delicacies passed down three generations.
Then I came back to Colesberg, half-drunk, half-miserable, and thinking is this all there really is to it? Nothing was happening, life became slow and there was just nothing to write about anymore. Then I bumped into Maeder Osler, retired Umso High School principal and something of an old-school idealist. In his former life he used to publish the Towerberg Indaba, a liberal local newsletter way ahead of its time. He had ideas, but I was thirsty, so he bought beer and under the shade of a mulberry tree at Han’s Tavern, he took me into his confidence.
The social iniquities are glaring, says Mr Osler. Rampant unemployment, substance and alcohol abuse, housing shortages, global initiative goals left to gather dust, somebody needs to step up and do something. I thought this guy must be off his locker. We are mere nobodies; no imigodlo – refuse bags brimming with public money. No big government tenders, no political connections, just an ageing farmer and an unemployed graduate.
We could apply for funding. But we’d probably be pushing up daisies long before that ever came through. Somewhere between sensibility and being three sheets in the wind, it suddenly dawned – I’m not sure who thought it first. This is the era of digital migration, the Fourth Industrial Revolution (4IR) sans steam engines and factory lines. Anybody with a decent phone is a potential photographer or publisher. Mr Oz and I, sure we’ve read a few books, have some qualifications in the social sciences but all what we know of computers is that when you double-click, something opens. The two of us alone would crash and burn before the idea ever took off.
If there’s but one person in a room, there is a story waiting to be told, so that shouldn’t be a problem, our problem is that we needed a tech-savvy guru. Our own Mark Zuckerberg. Local businessman Tiago Rodriguez knew just the guy: Janco Piek. Janco’s maddening diary is scheduled around updating software, fixing up PCs, lumbering up Coleskop to set up wi-fi connections, websites and and and. He always loses me in the jargon but his handiwork speaks for itself.
Thus eParkeni was conceived. Nothing glossy or major-league, just a simple platform to tell the local story. Mr Oz runs his own https://towerview.co.za/ and Janco mans an online business directory https://colesberg.info/ .
For the most part we’re mostly upstarts though, fumbling, dawdling around for worthwhile stories, especially the sort that speak to the local experience. Janco’s track record is decidedly more solid.
On quiet nights out on his farm Mr Oz is mulling over the idea of a journalism training programme for youngsters. A backwater facility for anybody interested in the written word and willing to learn the craft. In his mind’s eye it’s crystal clear; young, eager minds sat to learn shorthand, media ethics, communication law and, hopefully, scoring themselves bylines on the big papers. The vision and wisdom are his entirely…Janco and I are just tagging along.
Being in the nucleus of the country means lots of stop-overs in Colesberg, lots of visitors looking where to sleep, dine or get hammered. We hope to be the ones who let them know where to find the best burger in town. Tell them of the hidden gems that they may not find on Google. Food, it would seem, is big business. Writers the world over burn the midnight oil polishing their words so that they describe, to the T, their culinary experiences. Cooking shows are in vogue, chefs have become celebrities and foodies are always on the lookout for the next big recipe or restaurant.
I read somewhere about Woolworths shopping for Wagyu beef in the Karoo. This cattle breed, for centuries hidden from everyone outside Japan, has found its way down here. No doubt inaccessible to you and I (it’s darn expensive!) but we have Karoo lamb as a worthy substitute. Apparently, some farmers’ association is trying to secure it protected destination of origin status. If they get their way, nobody outside the karoo can call their meat Karoo lamb. Just as nobody outside the historical province of Champagne is allowed to call their bubbly Champagne. Interesting developments indeed.
Also, the grapevine has it that there’s a place in town where one can buy buffalo pie. Not some fong-kong beef masquerading as the real deal. These are things tourists want to know about. For which they’d want to stop over. Tell us about them. We’ll write the reviews, snap the pics, and scream your name across every available platform.