NGM: the photo visit

I went back. And I took photos.

Neighbourhood Goods Market.

It's all the rage:

The clever homonym. Vegan do it too.

Whilst waiting for breakfast:

The scrambled egg and bacon roll, with the cheese and the rocket and the rosa tomatoes.

Breakfast

Yung Chen Noodle Den

It sounds ridiculously pretentious (I make full apologies), but I have often said that one of the Great Mysteries of the Universe is how it's practically impossible to find good Chinese food: whereas bad Chinese food has an apparently infinite supply.

Now some cynics may point out that this actually suggests that I don't like Chinese food. But this would be the same as telling the man that searches loudly and constantly for his perfect woman: "Dude. Have you ever thought that your not-finding-the-perfect-woman may mean that, well, you know, you're not really into women?"

Sometimes that may be true. But usually, it isn't. Much like people just know their sexual preference, I know that I like Chinese food. Only, I refuse to settle for one-night stands. Those leave me feeling cheap, and a little bit dirty after. And I always regret it. But at the same time, I suppose it doesn't really stop the Friday night search now, does it? 

I guess we're all dreamers like that.

And everyone has a story of "that one time". Mine was a Chinese Restaurant called the Paddyfields. It was in Oxford - the Oxford of university fame. Sherbet. I could weep. I just remember thinking that even the rice tasted like it was being hand-fed to me by a tame red dragon called Mushu. The same one that later was immortalised in a fully westernised movie about a homespun mandarin girl called Mulan who sounded a lot like Christina Aguilera when she sang about being reflected in a pond. 

Sadly, subsequent returns to the Paddyfields were never quite like that first time.

But I have good news. 

I have found a Chinese restaurant that is most promising. And (!!) it tastes good. Very good. Apparently, I've just been looking in the wrong places. 

If you want good Chinese food, it practically goes without saying that you have to go where the Chinese go. Not the westernised Chinese who float through Sandton and Bedfordview. No. You want old school Karate-kid style. And that's the Chinese quarter on Commissioner Street in Ferreirasdorp - right opposite Johannesburg Central. It's the original Johannesburg Chinese quarter. No english spoken there, boy. It's all:

 "You on Koh-Mi-Shna Sa-Ree-Ta".

Just before you hit Alexander Street and go under the M1, you'll find the Yung Chen Noodle Den. On your left. Painted a dull yellow with caged windows and floor-length white muslin curtains. You walk in, and it's all plastic and red wall hangings.

So I ordered. Sesame chicken and chow mein and stir-fried bok-choi in oyster sauce.

And then some inner suspicion made me ask if I could pay with my card. Which I couldn't. So I cruised down Koh-Mi-Shna in search of an ATM. For those in the know, this was NOT AT ALL ADVISED. Much like swimming in the Zambezi, you may be fine if it's just a quick dip. But any longer, and someone reptilian decides that you look tasty. 

Anyway, I made it to the Shell garage on the other side of the highway, and made it back: cash in hand, still in possession of my cellphone. And my virtue.

But so worth it. The food arrived. And just know that it's a good sign when I forget to photograph it for the first ten minutes. 

what was left of the sesame chicken by the time I remember to take a photo

the chow mein about half-way through

I know that the sesame chicken looks orange. And it was. But it was like Mushu had returned in true imperial style.

For a very reasonable price.

In a slightly dodgy neighbourhood.

Cash only.

Do it.

Bean There in 44 Stanley

Okay - before I start, I must declare outright that I am going to be biased. I love this place. 

Example: "it doesn't have wifi which makes me sad, but that also keeps out the anti-establishment emo kids. The ones that would arrive in charity clothing and pull out their iAccessories, parking themselves in to blog about the evils of the capitalist man in between phone calls to their executive daddies about bank transfers and the payment of rent. I can't stand the hypocrisy - it makes my coffee taste bad."

You see? No wifi = better coffee. Shocking.

44 Stanley. 

When people from Joburg tell me that they have never yet visited, the following physiological reactions take place:

1. My jaw drops
2. My eyes widen
3. My nostrils flare as I breathe in; and
4. My tongue begins to wrap itself around equal quantities of profanities and praises as I reach for my iPhone to pencil in a visitation date (I have no issue with my iAccessories - it's only those other emo kids - the hypocritical asses).

I mean - 44 Stanley is home to Vovo Telo and the Salvation Cafe and some other places that I can't remember the name of. There is also a secondhand bookshop (albeit an overpriced one). But mostly, it is the home of Bean There.

Bean There is a micro-roaster specialising in African Coffees. The old roasting mill runs in the middle of the shop, with the bags of raw beans piled up around the sides. The air is honeyed with the crisp chocolate aroma of roasted arabica and the burnt nuttiness of robusta, framed by white walls and pale wood counters. 

The roasting mill

The Roasting

The decor

The product:

The flat white

If I could, this would be my everyday place. R15 for a flat white? Not bad. Not bad at all.

Do yourselves a caffeinated favour.

Yamato

There is nothing quite like the freshness of sashimi sliding over the tongue on a hot summer's day, washed down with a Wild Yeast unwooded Chardonnay from Roberston. Or better yet, a Viognier from Vrede en Luste in Franschoek, with all the elegant highlights of a mango and lime fruit salad tapping its lively bouquet against the smoothness of Atlantic salmon.

It's music in your mouth.

But sadly, it's been mostly music in my Capetonian mouth. I left my sushi restaurant behind in the Victoria and Albert Waterfront (Willoughby's, God bless its heavenly Rainbow Rolls and Rock-shrimp Tempura). And since I arrived in Johannesburg, I have been on the scrounge for a replacement.

I tried the Willoughby's in Hyde Park. Which was like going to a Whitney Houston concert and getting a Jennifer Hudson rendition: painful, off-key, and morbidly depressive. 

And then I tried Ruby's in Parkhurst, which was delightfully cheap, which in turn was about the extent of the delightfulness.

After asking around, I was told about a place in Rivonia. But Rivonia is far away, with many secondhand bookstores in between. Also, my directions were given with Mavericks as my starting point. Therefore: not really boding well for an arrival at destination. 

And I really don't like the atmosphere at Tsunami in Rosebank. Sidebar: Tsunami has the most confusing sushi menu in the world. I am convinced it's deliberate - because you eventually just order stuff by pointing at pictures without any real idea of what anything costs.

But last week, I found my new Japanese place. My dad was visiting me in Joburg, and after we'd finished a few things in the morning, he asked me if I knew anywhere that does good sushi for lunch.

Crisis. Of epic proportion.

I swear - part of the reason that I try different restaurants all the time is because dad has such a demanding palate when he comes to visit. I mentioned "Tsunami" and he visibly blanched. The pressure was on, I said a brief prayer, googled on my iPhone, and found Yamato in Illovo.

What a win. 

When you walk into a Japanese restaurant filled with Japanese people that is located nowhere near a Japanese embassy or a tourist sight, you know that the chances are good that you've won.

We started with warm sake:

Sake

Then they bought out an amusee bouche! It was tuna in a delicate sesame oil-laced fish sauce (delicious). I lost all sense of decorum (I blame the sake) and drank the sauce once I'd finished the fish.

Tuna Amusee Bouche

Then for mains, we ordered the Yamato Bento lunchbox each. It came with miso soup, steamed rice, sashimi, prawn and vegetable tempura, japanese-style potato salad, stir-fried vegetables and japanese pickles.

The Miso Soup and Rice

The Yamato Bento Lunchbox

Some observations:

1. As I was eating the stir-fried vegetables (which included butternut and japanese horse-radish), I realised that sushi restaurants are a lie. You never see root vegetables on their menu. Let me tell you - that lunchbox had a lot of root vegetable.
2. The sashimi was sensational.
3. There was not a piece of pink ginger to be found.
4. The miso soup was divine.
5. There was a lot of sweet omelette in places that I didn't expect to see it.
6. I don't really like turnip.

Would I order that again? No, I don't think so. It was a bit expensive, and I'll confess that I'm a westerner; and can therefore do without the root vegetables. 

However.

If you're looking for authentic: it is the place.

And it's going to be my Japanese place because:

1. The sushi selection is giant;
2. The sushi is awesome;
3. I want to try some of the teppenyaki-style dishes available; and
4. The miso soup.

Harare Interlude 5: Deli

When in Harare, you do breakfast at Delicious in Borrowdale.

For the eggs benedict.

So unbelievably good. The eggs are well-poached, the bacon is super crispy, and the hollandaise has the perfect consistency and flavour.

My mother also insists that the cucumber is the perfect condiment. Bacon hot crisp, Cucumber cool crunch, soft egg, saucy butteriness. 

I'm just saying.

PS: but the coffee is unpleasant. No one in Harare seems to have realised that if you make cappuccinos with long life milk, then it's going to taste terrible. After some thought, I reckon that good cappuccinos have the following:

1. The right roast;
2. The right grind consistency;
3. The right amount of water expressed through the grind; and
4. The milk must not be frothed past boiling point (because then it tastes bad).

If you use long life milk, the milk has already been boiled. 

Fail by default.

Harare Interlude 4: The Cocoa Tree

Gracious.

It's been far too long since I last posted. In my defence: general business. But no real defence.

Just a couple more of the Harare posts to go, and then I can get back to talking about Joburg, and more specifically, Franco's - which is my new favourite dining destination.

So the Cocoa Tree in Harare. The Cocoa Tree is a belgian chocolate shop. You go in, and the place smells like a honeyed Aztec temple, with a nutty overlay and a dark cocoa edge. Is it awesome? Well - it certainly used to be. 

Whenever I brought back friends from University to visit and go fish on Kariba, the Harare layover always included a visit for hot chocolate. Because the place is magnificent - mad layout with crazy hiding places and nooks and plants randomly sprouting from picture frames set in the red-brick walls. Clearly, they were aiming for an Alice Through the Looking Glass effect - because it sometimes feels like there's a caterpillar round the corner with a hookah pipe. 

The Looking Glass

And that's just the back of the Village Walk. When you go round the front, the nursery gardens swirl around tumbling waterfalls and bridges over koi ponds. Provided that there's electricity, the air is alive with the tinkle and bubble of water - and it suddenly feels easier to be zen about life and love and chocolate - like you're living a passage from a Joanne Harris book.

The koi

Foliage

Into this happy environment, I sat down for lunch with my mother. And typically, I made my first observation. The place may smell like a chocolate-hazelnut orchard, but the chairs are bloody uncomfortable. Like this, for instance:

The seating

I ask you, with tears in my eyes, where are your legs supposed to go? Not under the table - that's for sure. Or, like Alice, I'm meant to eat a magic mushroom to make me smaller. Which is a good point - next time, I shall ask.

And then, the waiter arrived with the menu. The conversation went like this:

Me: Do you have your soups?

Waiter: No

Me: Salads?

Waiter: No

Me: Quiche?

Waiter: Aah - just the bacon one.

Me: Muffins?

Waiter: Aah - just the bacon ones.

Me: What if I want to be vegetarian today?

Waiter: Aish - you can have a toasted sung-wedge.

Me: A what?

Waiter: A toasted cheese sung-wedge.

Me: What about the chicken liver bruschetta?

Waiter: Yah - we have it. But there's no bruschetta, so we just do it with bread.

Me: As in, sliced white bread?

Waiter: Yah - we just put the bread, and then we put the chicken liver shua.

Me: Mother - I'm not eating.

Mother: Do you have scones?

Waiter: We do.

Mother: I'll have a scone then. Thanks, my friend!

waiter wonders off

Me: Well he's certainly not my friend - that's for shua.

So not a truly auspicious start then. They also didn't have croissants (surprise). My mother then offered to cancel the order to leave - but I'd already ordered a praline milkshake and I wasn't about to give up on it just then.

Enter: the praline milkshake.

The chocolate praline milkshake

 It doesn't look like much. But let me tell you - the best milkshake moment of my life. Real chocolate with real hazelnut cream. It was almost sacred.

And then the scone arrived:

Before Picture

After Picture

So unbelievably delicious. 

And just like that, forgiven. 

Dear restaurant owners: take note. If you don't have a lot, what you have better make me delirious. Because then that'll be all I talk about!

PS: get there quickly if you want the scenery. The rumour is that it's moving to a more mall-centric position. Sadness.

Harare Interlude 3: Victoria 22

One of the best things about being home is going for lunch with my mother. Mostly because she treats lunch like it's a special occasion, so we go to awesome places.

Victoria 22. It's true colonial-style - wooden tables and wicker chairs and sprawling rooms that open out onto a shaded veranda and rolling lawns with swimming pool and granite rockeries.

The house is tall ceilings and wooden floors and large vases of fresh flowers. As you walk in, the tables are filled with foreign dignitaries and Members of Parliament, businessmen and high-ranking members of the Pentecostal church. It's a hub of high-flyers.

I felt quite underdressed in jeans and trainers.

Victoria 22 is famous for its food. I started with the chicken livers, which were cooked in a paprika and port sauce, with bacon and onion, served on slices of fresh apple. For the record, the apple was genius. The sweet port, the juiciness of the liver and the smokey bacon were perfectly offset by the crisp sharpness of grannysmith.

My only criticism was that it looked a bit messy on the plate. But all was forgiven after that first mouthful:

For mains, my mother opted for a Caesar salad. Not my first choice, if I'm honest. Not the biggest fan of anchovies; and while it looked quite pretty, that dressing was overpowering. But what do I know? Maybe in the world of Caesar salad lovers, the anchovy dressing is king.

My mains was the pork-fillet. It was done in a mustard cream sauce with red-peppers and dates. And honestly - how good does that sound?

Sadly, also a little disappointing. Sometimes, I worry that my decision to blog about food has stopped me from enjoying it. In fairness, the fillet was perfectly cooked and the vegetables were awesome. But I just feel that pork fillet with dates needs a little more date. I like to have enough date for each mouthful.

And then dessert:

Homemade berry ice-cream, crushed meringue and fresh strawberries. So so delicious. THIS is a summer dessert. All lightness and crushed sugar and sun-ripened fruit. 

Then, because it's colonial dining, we had tea and petit-fours.

Oh but it's good to be home.

Harare Interlude 2: Domboshawa

I'll be honest. For the first time since I started writing, I wondered whether I really needed to add words to this post. I feel like the photographs speak for themselves. But because I can't really resist, I'm going to add background commentary.

The day began with brunch. Which became a bit awkward for everyone once I found the muffins. Julia, bless her God-gifted culinary hands, made two versions:

1. Spinach, Butternut and Feta (I'm sure that was the kind of cheese). I had four. Most people had none.
2. Chocolate chip and cherry. Really, I should have been left alone for that first mouthful. Zerene has not been afraid to comment on this point. 

Apart from the muffins, there were flapjacks, bacon, strawberries (some whole, some sliced), scrambled eggs with chives and pseudo-marscapone cheese (it was cream cheese). And syrup that had crystallised in the bottle (#CondimentFail). And the bucksfizz (#Winning).

I drove home for a much needed afternoon nap, and then drove back to Zed's, where the party had grown. After much packing of drinks, confusion over cars, shotgunning of leftover muffins ("they're MINE Jayson"), and general miscommunication of ETDs - I drove off to Helensvale to buy fuel and Willards Tomato Sauce chips. 

I then continued on to Domboshawa. Where typically, the group congregated to wait for Zerene; who arrived in the back of a Mazda sporting a pair of vintage sunglasses and a pashmina she'd "borrowed" from her mother's wardrobe. And promptly went in search of a bathroom.

After a series of negotiations with the gatekeeper (always complicated - when you charge $4 per person and have no change smaller than a $10 note - agility is required), we began walking up the rock/mountain/gomo/doo-ala(being the english teacher pronunciation of "dwala").

I recall from high school geography that Zimbabwe is famous for coining the phrase "dwala" - the official name for these large smooth outcrops of rock. Sadly, wikipedia proved that geography teacher wrong - as it's known officially as a "Bornhardt". But dwala sounds a lot more exciting.

As we climbed up, the sun lit up the lichen that covers the rock, turning it a bright fiery yellow-dappled orange.

The lichen

After a photo pause, we had fallen behind. When we eventually caught up with the rest of the group, they had stopped here:

Domboshawa

And in the other direction:

The peak point

Breathtaking.

And time for sundowners. So out came the wine, the crisps, the muffins, the orange juice, the beer and a bottle of JC Le Roux sparkling wine that Zerene had discovered on top of her fridge. Interestingly, the addition of fresh orange juice only lightened the colour of the sparkling wine.

I stopped drinking it.

Zerene did not.

Then the sun set:

The Sunset

Enough said.

Harare Interlude 1: Treetops

So last week, I made a decision, and booked a flight back to Zim. It was time - and I'm celebrating by launching a set of blog posts that I'm affectionately entitling "The Harare Interludes".

You see - I realise that it's quite a personal thing - but one of the most awesome things about Joburg is the immediate proximity of home (or, more accurately, my home home). A couple of clicks on the internet, a short car ride to the Rosebank Gautrain station, and I'm approximately two cappuccinos and an in-flight bar service away from Harare. 

It really is awesome.

So let me go on a bit about my birthplace. I love being back - but I really love being back in January. The rainy season has lasted long enough to turn everything a startling shade of lime green. The road curbs are now luxuriantly over-abundant with wide-leafed weeds. And the 4 o'clock storms wash the skies a vibrant cornflower. And, oh my, the smell. 

When I go running, there is msasa woodsmoke and rain-soaked loam overlaying the warmth of freshly-cut grass, steaming damply in the mid-afternoon sunlight. And as you move, the air is gently peppered with the scent of flowers blooming in the sprawling colonial gardens just on the other side of hedges and brick.

I really can go on about it. A lot.

But to get back to my story: I got back, I called my friend Zerene, she called our friend Julia, and all three of us went to the Mekka cocktail lounge for drinks.

Enough said.

Then the next day, we went to Treetops in the afternoon for waffles. The parking looks a lot like this:

Parking

Having parked, I spent some time taking a lot of photographs that looked like the one above. I then found the two girls, and ordered a waffle, extra crispy. My mother has since told me that the chef there is French. But let me tell you three things:

1. Zimbabweans, contrary to popular Italian belief, actually make the best ice-cream;
2. That waffle may have been the crowning waffle moment of my life; and
3. That waffle was definitely a crowing moment for Zerene; who claimed full credit for the waffle, the setting, and the cloud formations that followed.

The waffle

Having had the waffle, spent some time gazing into the trees, and listened to Zed and Jules talk about Zerene's new manfriend (I was playing on my phone, taking more photographs) - we decided to walk down through the putt-putt course to the river area.

I found a trampoline and bounded onto it.

Instant. Crippling. Headache. 

"Age, it seems, has finally caught up with me". And just like that, the Frodo dream ended and I was being referred to as Bilbo. 

The trampoline

As we walked back to the car, I snapped my new most favourite photograph:

And that, dear readers, should tell you why every Zimbabwean wants to come back.

Home. 

It's like a childhood dream of white-barked trees and putt-putt courses and waffles and trampolines.

Narina Trogon

Last Thursday, I went out for dinner. Jacqui (AKA my favourite Joburger) booked for Narina Trogon, which I thought was an Ethiopian restaurant.

It's not an Ethiopian restaurant.

Which was a slight relief - because: 

1. I'm not such a big fan of sharing between 6 people a giant pancake laden with various stews (standard Ethiopian cuisine, I'm told);
2. I'd have been forced to bring out my small bottle of dettol waterless sanitizer (an OCD fixation that developed during two weeks of illness); and
3. I've been told that the Ethiopian district in Joburg requires a Bhuddist non-attachment to one's virtue and one's possessions.

A sigh of relief later, I remembered that the Narina Trogon is a type of bird (I remembered because Wikipedia stopped being in blackout and reminded me). When I first saw its picture, I automatically assumed that it was a bird of paradise located somewhere on an island in the Philippines (because naturally, all birds of attractive plumage must come from an island somewhere near Asia). 

Also wrong. Wikipedia reminded me that their home range is, in actual fact, Africa. 

So Narina Trogon is aptly named, and it specialises in "urban comfort food". And on a Thursday evening, the urban crowd needs a little comforting - especially in Joburg.

Narina Trogon in Town

On arrival, the outside section that we had booked was being fully occupied by two smokers. So we sat inside and ordered wine. The wine list was covered in crimson velvet, which I thought was a bit bizarre. That said, my 2011 Christmas lunch was spent at a vineyard that didn't have a wine list (Oh Cape Town...) - and the wine had to be specially requested (not because of snootiness, but because of general ineptness). So frankly, ever since then, I've just been grateful to see a wine list at all.

And the wine list is the kind I like. The selection does not leave you overly burdened by choice (a good thing) - and the minute I saw Springfield Whole Berry listed under the Cab Savs, I was happy to order almost anything off the menu. Which was another relief - because often I'm asked to pick a wine; at which point I pretend to be in the know and start commenting on the nose and the tannins and the quality of the barrelling process. But really, I just know that there are some wines that I like, and some that I've heard of. And I'll order either.

The white was a Tamboerskloof Viognier (delicious). Viognier is not a particularly dry variety, so it's normally mixed in with one of the drier wines to give a fruity bouquet to the blend. However, I really like it on its own. Personally, I'm a giant fan of the Vrede en Luste Viognier. It's often sold-out at the vineyard - so if ever you find it, you won't regret it (unless you only like your whites dry). The red was an Excelsior Cabernet Sauvignon - which is practically the definition of "value for money".

For starters, I shared a beef carpaccio in a mexican dressing with my new favourite NGO employee, Suzie Q. I'll admit that I was aiming for a beetroot rosti with smoked salmon and horseradish cream - but SQ was out for beef. So we had beef. And it was very pleasant. Personally, while a mexican dressing is an interesting twist, I'm still a fan of old-school carpaccio with the rocket and the balsamic and the parmesan shavings. But that's a personal taste issue.

Continuing the beef story, I followed SQ's lead and order the sirloin with the béarnaise. 

The Sirloin

The pros: 

1. The homemade chips were fantastic - my inner fat kid screamed in carbohydrated delight. Honestly. So good.
2. The sirloin was cooked perfectly to specification (medium rare).

The cons:

1. Possibly not the best cut of sirloin. I realise that sirloin traditionally has sinew in it, but this had more than usual. 
2. The béarnaise had too much vinegar in it. So it went really well with the chips (inner fat kid: "HURRAH!!") but not so well with the sirloin.

At this point, Jax got upset with me. Apparently, I should not have ordered the sirloin. So I tasted her lamb and herbed couscous. She was right. I should not have ordered the sirloin. Because that lamb is worth another visit.

I passed on dessert and ordered an espresso. That blend tasted most promising - I look forward to drinking it in cappuccino form. 

Observation: the dessert menu I found to be a little short on variety. But I'll admit to a personal bias here: I'm not a fan of chocolate in desserts, and I have to be in the right mood for a baked pudding (the malva, the sticky toffee, and so on). I think that the dessert menu felt too wintery for a balmy summer's evening. Summer is about fruits and berries and italian pannacotta. I'd like to see what they can do with pavlova. And sorbet. Yes please.

As we left, I got told to go and look at the aardvark. 

The "Aardvark"

Wikipedia then reminded us that it's actually a pangolin.

Wikipedia for the win.

And visit NT for the lamb.

Motherland Coffee Company

Recently, I read an article in the Economist about the rampant piracy of Civet Dung coffee. And I was like - I'm not sure how they pirate that, but whatever way, it sounds disgusting.

And then I read the article.

As it turns out, I've been wrong all along. Contrary to popular (my) belief, Civet Dung coffee is, in actual fact, made from real coffee beans. Apparently, these civets (affectionately referred to as "weasels" in their native Vietnam - I thought they were African - wrong AGAIN) are quite discerning about the type and ripeness of the coffee beans they eat - I like them already. Once the choiciest of the coffee beans have been swallowed, they pass through the cat/weasel, and leave the other end sweeter than they came in. The dung is collected by enterprising peasants; the beans picked out and sun-dried until the husks open, and the inner beans ground into some of the most expensive coffee on earth.

And there I thought it was the dung itself that was roasted, espressed, and mixed into freshly steamed milk. But now that I think about it, the whole process sounds wholesomely organic, and I'll confess that I'm now dead keen to try it. After all - my favourite part of the chicken is the parson's nose, and we all know what that is. I also like body-filters in general (liver, tripe, kidney). So if I'm entirely honest, I'm a peasant. 

What does this have to do with Joburg?

Well nothing really - I just found it interesting. But it does lead me onto one of my all-time favourite, most necessary, topics: the one-stop coffee shop. In Cape Town, I had Loading Bay. And Loading Bay was my place. I was there most mornings before work, and Saturday mornings were a given. In fact, I used to feel a little lost on a Sunday while it was closed!

I'm on the right track, baby - I'm at Loading Bay

After some careful thought and consideration, I have come up with a list for how to know if a place is your place:

1. You know all the baristas by name
2. You know all the regulars by name
3. The owner knows you by name
4. The baristas don't need to ask what you're having - they just make it (two capps to take away - one steamed hotter than the other so that I can drink it second, one Apple and Ginger juice with extra ginger, and a ham and cheese tosti on sourdough - asap). 
5. You no longer need to look at the menu when you sit down (after an extensive sampling process, you know that the goats cheese and fresh herb omelette is the answer to all Saturday-morning moods).
6. People stop asking what you're up to at 9am on a Saturday morning.
7. You time your visits to start just before it would get too busy for you to get rockstar parking and your regular table.
8. It has a song in your head (Lady G's "Born this way" morphed into a caffeine anthem, with verses and a bridge). 
9. You start to quote their slogan as a catch-phrase (Loading Bay: "Today Is A Good Day")
10. You occasionally post photos of it on Facebook, randomly tagging people you've taken there.

It really is though

And then, because I like lists, I came up with another one. Here are the key requirements for a one-stop coffee shop:

1. There must be good coffee (the beans must not be over-roasted, the milk must not be over-heated, arabica not robusta, micro-roasting preferred, a nutty flavour encouraged). 
2. There must be free Wifi (a NON-NEGOTIABLE - I have been spoiled. It's how I stay there for hours).
3. Clever decor/theme.
4. The food must be exciting (if you're there for hours, you're going to want to eat - and what's the point of good coffee with bad pastry?)
5. The barristas must be interested enough to realise that I'm a regular by day 3.
6. Background music must be non-intrusive (soft-core rock or latin-american jazz work well).
7. Close to parking.
8. They must open early (9 is just too late - I've been jonesing for a fix since 7:00 - to the point where the jonesing woke me)

So I moved to Joburg and despaired. Because Loading Bay is hard to repeat. I went to Bean There in 44 Stanley, and the coffee was delicious enough that I thought I could do without the free Wifi. But then I discovered that it's difficult to sit for hours without it. There's always Seattle - but even proximity to Exclusive Books wasn't enough. 

But then I tried Motherland Coffee Company in Rosebank. The coffee is delicious (particularly if you get an extra shot). The wifi is free (and fast). Everything is in black and wood and concrete. The food is not bad (although I had a moment with a chicken, feta and basil pesto wrap that I'd prefer not to repeat).  And there are solid ticks next to the parking, opening hours and background music requirements. 

"Africa is the Future and You are the Revolution"

I'm probably going to be a bit irritating going forward with that phrase. And there are t-shirts. I have been here everyday: it's where I'm typing this post.

The Motha Cuppa Latte with the extra shot

Dear Baristas - remember me. 

I'll be back.

Terenzo International: Red - it's in. Tell everyone.

Yesterday, I did some things that I'm not proud of. In the early hours of the morning, a mosquito and I engaged in an epic battle of Doom. The Doom won. But then, when I woke up the next morning, I found this:

The Scorpion

I don't want to lie to anyone: there was no cool, calm reaction. There was, however, the emptying of the rest of the Doom cannister.

To congratulate myself on a situation intelligently-handled (if there are scorpions, gas the bastards), I decided to go in search of a haircut. So I paid a visit to the Carlton Hair in Greenside, only to discover that they don't do hair. I'm not sure what the definition of humilation is, but being looked at funny by a group of hair-dressing apprentices seemed fairly definitive to me.

Then I crossed the road to the building with the Woolies Food and the Bookdealers, because I remember seeing an advertisement for hair-irons somewhere there - only to be assaulted by an over-powering chemical odour that reminded me of old-dears taking collective advantage of a perm special. I stopped right there. In my head, the mirrors would have had more than a hint of gilding and the seat-covers would have looked furry. Hairstyle posters covering the walls. The phrase "Sweaty Betty" swept through my head; and I had visions of the type of salon that you leave with a short-back-and-sides, and a headful of wet-style VO5 gel. 

No.

Not even to commerate the heroic scorpion victory of January 2012. 

So I left it. Went home and had lunch (chicken), and had a nap. After my nap, I went for dinner at my grandparents. There is something about home-baked lamb in the oven, cheesed cauliflower and brocolli, and the vegetable sides, that makes me incredibly happy on the inside.

Ye Olde Grandparental Meal

It was honestly too delicious. And there was wine, ice-cream and tea - in that order. So I came home zen, armed the house, and went to bed to read.

And then Joburg saw fit to initiate me. At 03:40, alarm sirens and racing footsteps outside and me locking myself in the bedroom. In less than 24 hours, my inner mediterranean house-wife returned screaming to the surface, and I was madly "saving the valuables" by stuffing them between the mattress and the base. Then I called my grandparents and asked them to call ADT. Clearly - sane enough to know that age, experience, and suitable distance from the situation is a much better alternative to mediterranean panic wielding an iPhone and not-much-else.

Also I'm a wuss.

After a morning spent sleuthing and giving statements to the world (daylight courage), I decided that it was time to revisit the hair-dressing situation. And I said to myself - bugger this. I know that Terenzos in Cape Town was where I went. I know that there's one in Dunkeld. And I damned well want to try it!

So I cruised along Bompas Road, parked, and it felt like I'd come home.

Many people don't understand my willingness to pay an exorbitant amount of money to have a hair-cut. Frankly, I don't understand their not-understanding. If I have to wear that haircut day in, day out, for 6 - 8 weeks - I'd better have a good one.

In fact, I'm sure that these are the same people that choose their lawyers and doctors based on financial reasonability. I'm sorry. But that's how you get burned. I want my doctor and my lawyer to have a very very keen interest in keeping me alive and using their services. It just makes sense.

And Terenzo? Terenzo is not really a salon experience. There's none of the seedy lighting with the basins at the back. No. The hair-wash takes place in an airy whisper-zone where the only sounds you hear are water running over the scalp and the background Adiemus. There are no chairs - there are red loungers along which you recline, with your head slipping over the back into white porcelain basin.

The red loungers

Then, there is the hand massage, with the essential oils and the hot pebbles being rubbed along your forearm. And the scalp massage continues for as long as it takes for the strain to be gone from your hands.

Once you're done here (a good 25 minutes of being touched), you return to the main salon, where you're plied with Illy cappuccinos and wine if you want it.

All the rooms look out toward the Terenzo pool. I'm not sure if people actually swim in it - but it looks immaculate, surrounded by wooden decking and jewelled aloes. 

The Garden with red cushions around the pool

What is my point in all of this? The point is that Terenzo gives you a 25 minute massage with a free haircut. 

And I'm properly from Joburg now.

I've been broken in.

The Johannesburg Thunderstorm

When it comes to taking photographs, there are a four things that I really love:

1. Clouds. For no good reason - I just love them;
2. Panoramic photos - because they're just more awesome;
3. HDR - because otherwise, thunderstorms just look dark; and
4. my iPhone - because it lets me do 2 and 3 instantly.

And if I'm honest (my CT folk will hate me for saying this) - it is way more satisfying taking photos in Joburg. Why? Well - for one thing, the clouds are better here. Fact. It's a climate/geography thing.

And secondly, you get to take something original. I'll be even more honest here - the Mountain, she is awesome. But so many photographs are taken of her that she's become an artistic cliche. It's like painting a bowl of fruit. Almost everyone has been there, arranged that, and thrown away the grapes after because they bought 'em from Checkers. And even if you are aiming for something different ("look at the sunset sky - look at the tree in the foreground - look!") - the first person to look at it goes "oh yes - pretty pic of the Mountain. Love the Mountain". And generally, the first person to look at it is you. Which can be quite depressing. 

So yesterday, while I was driving back from Stryjdompark (spelling??) or wherever, I crested the hill at Linden, and looked over at an infamous Johannesburg thunderstorm rolling on in. 

Magnificent.

Reminded me of the real meaning of the word "awesome". 

Leapt out of car with iPhone in hand.

Just before the storm arrives. You may definitely need thatch repairs. Note that number

At this point, I was beginning to risk my life. And I'm all for risking my life for art - but still. I'd prefer to risk it leaping off the Mountain, shouting "I'm gonna get me an aerial shot, security lady!" - rather than trying to cross a robot-intersection which has recently turned into a four-way stop with the red flashing discolights. And then I realised that the best view was from the middle of the road. Bugger.

So I raced around backroads looking for a better vantage point that didn't include death and rehabilitation, and I found this:

Breaking over the City Center

Now it just looks like it's breaking over Melville. But that's alright. Because I love the clouds. And then I went to Woolworths in Greenside and found this:

Wild success.