Finally, after living here for about a week and a half, I have experienced South African cuisine and culture. The experience was, of course, put on by my new best friends Mike and Trevor of the 2WayTravel company (check out the Botswana and Vic Falls Camping Safari…I’m going to try to do that for Spring Break!). The group of about 40 people, all Ida Cooper’s darlings, met at the Tugwell Jammie stop (like the BC buses). We all packed into two minibuses and we were off. To the heart of South Africa. To the epitome of cuisine and culture. To the townships.
The scene was unknown territory. Here, in the middle of clotheslines, filthy streets, and houses made of tin, sat the crowded and well-known Mzoli’s, a restaurant famous to Cape Townians. We parked on the sidewalk, squeezed between numerous other cars from the city. From there we were instructed on what the protocol was. First, you were to buy drinks from the Chill House, and then you were to head into Mzoli’s and find the table that had been reserved for us. Let me help to set the scene for those of you unlucky enough to never have the chance to happen upon Mzoli’s. The Chill House is a tin shack on the opposite side of the road from the restaurant. This is where you buy the alcohol. This is where the men behind the iron bars quickly take your money and pass you back a six-pack of the famous African beer, Black Label. In front of the Chill House, three or four tables are stationed along the street. At each there is a man, dressed in rags, mismatched clothing, and shoving trinkets of cups and glasses made of beer and wine bottles at you. 
Across from the Chill House sits Mzoli’s. In the U.S. I’m not even sure we would consider it a restaurant. There is no building that is Mzoli’s. Instead, it is one massively large tent, with clear plastic down the sides doubling as windows and walls. Inside there are numerous tables, all filled with empty bottles and cups. People are standing around barrels used as tables. People are dancing. People are smoking. People are enjoying themselves, as is expected from Friday-Sunday, here at Mzoli’s. The music gets louder as you walk to your table, but the music gets better as you sip on a Black Label. However, the scene gets more surreal. As you sit, surrounded by friends, enjoying a drink and laughing and talking, you can’t help but notice the people on the other side of the plastic wall. Through the “window” you see two men, one holding a rack of sunglasses, the other sunglasses and plaid fedora hats. They try to persuade you to buy their goods, walking back and forth from one end of the wall to the other, hoping and praying to get your attention. Next to them is a little boy in a blue sweatshirt. He is holding is stomach and reaching his hand out to touch the “window”. He puts his hands to his eyes and squints against the sun, struggling to get a good view of what you are eating inside this sacred tent. This is South African culture. A mix of poverty and depression amongst song, dance, and company.
Next, came the South African cuisine. For a starter, we were given bread, but not just bread. Trevor, one of the travel guides, heaved a blue trash bag onto the table. From the bag came smaller green shopping bags filled with these balls of dough. Grabbing at the bread, it immediately spread its grease down my fingers, the heat from the oven burning my hand. I was hungry and chowed down on this grease ball, food at last. What happened next was a mix of memory and shock. In my hands I held a piece of my childhood. It was South African fried dough, it was the Minnesota state fair, it was the circus, it was the wind whipping my hair as I rode a merry-go-round. It was beyond delicious, better than I would have ever imagined, and throughout the time we waited for the main course, I helped myself to two more…whatever they were called.
As our table began to get restless, standing up and swaying to the beat of the music, the meat of the day finally arrived. Before us, were laid two trashcan lid sized plates of meat. What type of meat it was must be left to the imagination. There were some sort of sausage links, something that looked and tasted like chicken wings and legs that had been covered in spices and sauces, and then some kind of red meat that had also been slathered with herbs. Along with the meat, we were given two big bowls of something that looked like mashed potatoes. Upon questioning, I was told the white stuff was in fact a substance made of flour and a plethora of other ingredients. Everyone grabbed at the food. There were no utensils and there were no napkins. This time I had listened to the email from 2WayTravel advising everyone to expect to get the clothes they wore extremely dirty. So I happily gorged my face with unknown meat and flour mixture and wiped my hands down my Mahtomedi basketball shirt. The table ate, drank, and celebrated this great South African tradition.
But once again, looking past the clear walls of the tent, the scene was different. The men continued to try to sell their goods, and the little boy in the blue sweatshirt continued to stare. Once our hunger had been ebbed by the delicious food, there were still scraps of meat on the trays. Suddenly, my friend Jessie whipped around in his seat and began to talk to the little boy in the blue sweatshirt. “Are you hungry?” Jessie asked the boy, pointing his hand to his stomach. The boy nodded and Jessie proceeded to produce a long link of sausage from the table and pass it through the crack in the tent out towards the boy. He smiled widely at us and took a bite of his sausage, tightly secured in his small and dirty hands.
After a while more of talking, dancing, and drinking, our guides schlepped us from the venue and pushed us again into the minibuses, making quite sure we were extremely uncomfortable and tightly packed in. But the trip had been an extreme success, and I can now finally say that yes, I have indeed tried South African cuisine, and yes, in fact, I do love it.
Off to get ready for hump day!
(The first picture is of Mzoli's, the second is one of the balls of bread...the picture doesn't do the size and amount of grease justice, the third is the tray of meat, fourth is the flour mixture, and the last picture is of the little boy in the blue sweatshirt with his sausage!)
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