On The Job | Electric Spaghetti

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December 21, 2006

Scenes from Cité, Dunkeld West, Johannesburg

The sofa Rowena dubbed “orgasmic”.

A stripey wall effort, strategically placed next to the bar. I’m guessing this will provide patrons who’ve imbibed one too many Cité Coolers with hours of “yellow submarine/lucy in the sky ” burlesque wonderment.

Stating the obvious: Their interesting wrought iron door.

The Cucumber Mousse with Caviar starter (summer-creamy meld that held well with the cucumber, offset by the subtle snap of the caviar).

Mains was a Tomato Soup with Cumin and Coriander (dhana-jeeru addition brought on a soothing reminiscence of home and a tongue-pleasing combination of sweet and spice) with a Passion Fruit Mousse for dessert (like an oral inhalation of a smoothly flavoured cloud, thrillingly airy) .
I recommend their Chocolate Gateau too (with all the quality of swoonish oh-my-almighty-Deity-this-is-so-damn-good).

And to end off my foray into the domain of the gourmand, an almost God-Shot, capped by a perfect crema, like sunshine caught in porcelain.

November 29, 2006

at the office…(1)

Rowena: “Saal, can you start a sentence with But”
Saaleha: “I know they said that you can’t. But you can.”

That is so profound in so many ways.

October 12, 2006

capsule kimberley

Kimberley. Hot. Flat. Sparse.

You walk into the airport to walk out of the airport.

“Everything’s five minutes away,” I’m told.

This is a full-on work trip and time is not lenient, so I don’t get to see the big hole or the diamonds this unassuming dorpie is claim-famed to. I spend the day in a building with inactive airconditioning, compensated only by the friendly willingness of the people I have to interview, the real diamonds in the dust.

It looked like rain in Johannesburg when I left in the a.m, but here it’s 29 celcius, and the sky is a stubborn blue.

Duties discharged and it’s back to the corridor through which I catch the return flight. It’s 4.30pm and the curio shop is closed. The waiting area is too small to people-watch, and I don’t want to come across as a loon. It’s a small town, you know how people talk. I wittle away time on
Mxit and Opera mini (glory, glory).

It begins to drizzle as I step onto the little plane. My window seat is seated right next to the propellor, and I found myself slipping hypnotic as i watch it pick up momentum until the edge of the blades disappear. That’s the super power I want, being able to move so fast, no one sees me. The buzz from the propellors is so loud, I stop hearing it, and I’m looking over the landscape, an abstract carpet. This is farming country; a Mondrian of reds, greens, yellows and browns, circles and geometrics.

Flying through the clouds, I indulge in pareidolia, seeing monsters and gods in the cumulus. I’m looking at the spires of a castle on a mountain with a mermaid in the moat, when I realise it’s sunset, time to break fast. A mid-air iftaar; I’ve packed dates and open SAA’s offering – salmon and cream cheese roulade and some fishy-lookin snoek (obvious pun intended). The salmon’s edible and I smile at the packet of Tumbles. Mmmm…. chocolate. In-flight catering finally gets something right.

Touch down Jhb straight into a traffic freeze. Scattered accidents and breakdowns convert the 20 minute commute to an hour and a half belly-crawl.

If I were in Kimberely, I’d be five minutes away.