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.