Dining diaries: Ouma Anna

It’s a frequent coincidence here at Toverview: the team agrees to meet up anywhere in town but somehow always winds up ‘kicking it’ under the shaded seating area at Ouma Anna. At first it came with the territory, us being backwater journos and they the newest inkommers to Colesberg’s culinary society, the story simply couldn’t be passed over.

We had to check out whether the joint could back up the bubbling hype. Ascertain for ourselves that the social media niceties were genuine and not some ostentatious mollycoddling from bots or paid content from individuals with some skin in the game.

When the restaurant first swung their doors open last year April they had big shoes to fill. Their predecessor, 1989, had made a rather formidable account of themselves. Spanning several years, they’d held the fort; serving up good food, created a homely ambiance and kept a staff who sometimes knew the customer by name. They were hardworking. Always within eyeshot of a raised hand. They smiled. They joked. They brought your Coke before the ice had begun to melt.

Soon, they became our de facto boardroom. Each visit meant trying out a new item on the menu and none of us ever registered any displeasure afterwards. We got used to the pampering. Dug the vibe. Saw the cacti and succulents grow tall out on the verandah. Then the place was gone. No tables on the patio and a massive padlock on the door. We became hobos, stranded as it were, hobling here and there but otherwise with no place to permanently surrender our patronage to.

Enter Blanche de la Guerre. This mother, her son Divan, and son-in law Johan had been running Ouma Anna in nearby Phillipolis and when the owners of 1989 decided to go on to other things, the troika figured they’d reinvigorate Ouma de Villiers’s (the inspirational grandma behind the propriety) culinary legacy right there. The signage went up. Renovations got underway. Johan covered the interior designs, new aromas started wafting from the kitchen and thus Ouma Anna was born.

The menu, a reflection of the diverse clientele who sometimes come ambling through its doors, caters to disparate palates. There are salads and springbok carpaccio for figure-conscious soccermoms. Thick rump steaks and succulent lamb chops with chips for the sun-scorched farmer or plumber. How about the exceptionally-flavourful smoked trout salad washed down with a glass of sauvignon blanc for the discreet bourgeoisie who would rather be off living somewhere along the Atlantic Seaboard?

Even down here in the rugged Karoo, the vegan, once regarded a nuisance in a la carte circles can feel right at home and catered for at Ouma’s. So too the kids. Get me started on their ultra fresh and fluffy farm-style bread and I could get suddenly nostalgic about coal stoves and the sturdy women who’ve manned them from here to Rome. Speaking of which, there’s also a mouthwatering pasta dish, hence the leitmotif of our story persists: here you’ll find a bit of almost everything.

Like, for instance, the skaapstertjies prepared with minimal flavourants and no basting so as not to besmirch the distinct taste of this our famous Karoo lamb. They’ve become an unlikely delicacy, impossible for ordinary folk to get their hands on at the local abattoir. So I order a serving, three tender sheep’s tails falling effortlessly off the bone. Said bones are soft enough to bite into, a decadence known as ukukhukhuza in my native tongue and best done when one is without company.

I, however, am not riding solo. For mains, my companion opts for the golden-fried fish and chips. In his words, it’s tasty, flaky, to-die-for in a drizzle of jalapeño sauce. The next time I look up, his plate is polished clean and he’s mulling over the idea of ordering a slice of the home-baked carrot cake, would I also like one? But I’m barely halfway through the cheese burger in front me. With a slice of bacon, cheese and a soft patty of a taste I’m inclined to believe is unique to this joint, the burger was placed before me well-presented earlier. The chips were thick but soft. But I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.

That is until my eyes fall on the treats splayed out near the reception area. I order one of their soft-centered cookies and some fudge. This is no exaggeration: no doubt the smoothest melt-in-your-mouth fudge I’d ever had. Anywhere. (And Ouma’s have not paid me to write that).

In her restaurant, Blanche is also something of a maître d’, a trendy fashionista who swings by the table to ensure that everything is to your satisfaction. Sometimes she comes just to share an interesting story about a recent patron who looked eerily like a former sports minister. In her former life she was constantly on the road as a provincial netball player, then as an administrator at Netball SA. She’s lived the dream, ate the caviar and marvelled at the big city lights.

Now she is here, whipping up hearty homemade meals in the Karoo. Sundays at her joint are laid-back family experiences with unpretentious oxtail, lamb curries and grinning faces fresh out of church. She loves the almost-rural quiet, appreciates her customers and despite her lanky frame, will bend over backwards to ensure that nobody ever leaves Ouma’s with a complaint. Meanwhile her son, Divan, is a hospitable partner when the place is jumping and the waitron are spinning. He obviously gets the need to please from his omniscient mom. The wide, keen smile as well.

My companion and I have it on good authority that the coffee here attracts people from as far afield as Hanover. Something tells us that that’s a bit of a stretch. But then we remember how every meal we’ve sat down to on our visits here has been well above par and so we end up accepting that this might well be the case.