The Drunchies and Other Musings on my Diet

Before I came to Cape Town, I was warned that I needed to be constantly vigilant because of its high crime rates. After living here for a month, I feel like the most dangerous risk to my health is the food.

Chapter 1: Late Night Eats

In 3 years of college at Yale, I have sampled just about everything you can eat after a long night of drinking, partying, and Toad’s. As much as I love the butcher-paper plainness of a #3 at GHeav (with it’s mozzarella, lettuce, and chicken cutlet glory smothered in honey mustard), the thick, gummy texture of my traditional fish ball udon soup or the spicy nuttiness of sesame wontons from Ivy Noodle, or the delightful fresh green tang of pesto chicken pizza from Est Est Est, Cape Town may have won my heart.

Cape Town’s late night fare is influenced heavily by both English/Dutch and Cape Malay culture. The second time I went out with Fredre and Gareth, I learned about Cape Town’s love for pies. We’re not talking apple pies like cartoon grandmothers left on window sills to be stolen by animals (Capetonians bluntly call those tarts)- these are manly pies, pies that I could see the knights eating after a jousting tournament and then ravishing the town wench. These pies are about the size of your hand, if not a little bigger. Forks are somewhere between optional to unnecessary. So far my favorite flavor has been steak and kidney, though chicken and mushroom and peppersteak are also good. And vegetarians, do not fret- spinach and feta pies have been spotted.

The second dish (which I have seen but not sampled) is the chow- essentially a bigger sandwich, usually rectangular in shape. With Pierre, I saw the chip chow, a big sandwich with steak, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and of course chips (fries). But another delicacy that I’m waiting to have is the bunny chow- essentially a loaf of bread filled with a meat curry that Moira really likes. Originating in the Indian communities of Durban (in the north), bunny chows exist around here, but aren’t as appreciated as the king.

The king of course is the Gatsby, named because of its resemblance to the hat that the Great Gatsby wore. And yes, the Gatsby is impressive enough to merit being capitalized. In my book, the Wenzel is a symbol of late night perfection- easy to eat, messy enough to lower your guard and enjoy it to the fullest, filling enough to not want more (though sometimes it happens). Here, the Gatsby is the South African response. The Gatsby was created by people in the Cape Flats, mainly a colored community here in Cape Town where I happen to live, as a way to eat their leftovers in a creative way (think the post-Thanksgiving sandwich or the Wawa Gobbler). Literally, you take a long loaf of bread and jam as much shit into it as you can.

My first experience with a Gatsby was a few weeks ago, when I had part of a Vienna sausage and a steak Gatsby, gatsbies which my host dad said weren’t worthy to be called gatsbies because they were small (about Wenzel size). For Quynh’s first experience, I told her that we had to go to the best. And that’s how we ended up at Golden Dish.

Golden Dish is strikingly like Alpha Delta. Sitting in the Rylands area of the flats, it looks like a run down restaurant save for the big neon sign outside. Parking attendants hustle cars out from the curb, and my parking attendant persistently jokes me for my inability to parallel park under pressure. When you walk in, the restaurant looks like it’s breaking multiple safety codes but is still bustling. Most places that serve gatsbies are owned by Indians or Muslims, and this is no exception. A long glass case extends for the entire front of Golden Dish, displaying snack foods sitting under heat lamps- sausage rolls (like pigs in a blanket), samoosas (triangular pastries filled with beans and meat), donuts, and éclairs, among other things. People of all types wait in front of us- Muslim women wearing headscarfs, black construction workers, World Cup volunteers, a white rasta, businessmen, whole families- this is the food for the masses.

The Gatsby that we order is called the chicken full house Gatsby- the biggest one you could order, and at R72, $1-2 US more than the Wenzel or GHeav. The pictures of it on the menu look like a loaf of bread having a C section to reveal the remains of a garbage disposal, but it looks delicious. Seeing it presented to us, it actually looks to be the size of a newly born baby wrapped in butcher paper. At about 2 feet long and weighing a few pounds, the chicken full house Gatsby is awe-inspiring.

Other than chicken, the Gatsby was loaded with cheese, seasoned chips, thousand island dressing (an unusual favorite in South Africa), 4 fried eggs, and lettuce and tomato for good measure. We cut it into 4 pieces- traditionally, Gatsbies are to be cut into no more than 4 pieces, and in restaurants you can’t get them cut into more than 4. And you usually don’t eat them by yourself- often they are shared by entire families. Traditionally you also drink something called “Cabana Juice”- a packaged drink made of skim milk and fruit punch, but I subbed a nice bottle of Windhoek beer.

If the Wenzel was a prostitute, the Gatsby would be its overweight, Siamese twin madam smoking a cigar when you met her at the brothel. Biting into my piece was a shameful piece of heaven- the fries are delightfully pungent and sharp in their spices (almost like Old Bay seasoning), but mix well with the cheese and dressing. There aren’t many vegetables to mask the large pieces of boneless chicken, but it’s the eggs that make you self-conscious. After eating a quarter, I just wanted to go run some laps to make myself feel better about what I had just done. It’s such a heavy sandwich and you feel as if you’re eating years off of your life, but it’s so good that you just keep going for more. And eating it is a precarious operation, trying to find the right grip and the right way to wrap your fingers so you don’t lose any of the goodness inside. Quynh and I essentially split the sandwich (her host mom eats a small bit of mine not because I couldn’t finish it but because I’m generous) and attempt to watch the Spain/Germany game, during which she promptly falls asleep and I last until 10 minutes into the 2nd half. Food coma at its finest.

I still have to sample the milkshakes at Mr. Pickwick’s, but from what I saw on the menu they look damn good. Anyone who makes milkshakes with Jager must be right.

Chapter 2: Daily meals

I lucked out in my host family in finding someone who would cook most of my meals. Unfortunately, Moira cooks some heavy food.
First off, our house (and Cape Town in general) has interesting habits. Milk mainly comes as whole milk (called full cream milk) and is in bags, as jugs are an innovation of the last 2 years based off of larger American portions. Milk and eggs are also routinely left out. The house also doesn’t really have a lot of produce, especially vegetables. Often, my lunch and dinner end up being super carnivorous. The other day, my lunch was a sandwich with butter AND mayonnaise (WHY???) and fried eggs. Occasionally I get something like cheeseburgers (not always made with real beef and using sliced bread) or biryani. One day, my dinner was literally a rib, a chicken wing, a sausage roll, and 2 pieces of mozzarella chicken. And if you tell Moira you like something, you’ll get a large quantity of it. That’s why the house has such a large repository of Tang (yes, the orange drink powder) and sweet chili sauce on my sandwiches.

Also, springbok (the national animal of SA) tastes just like a gamy beef pot roast and has the same stringy texture. And ostrich is surprisingly tender and lean for a red meat. And biltong (their version of jerky) is moist and wonderful.