Braaing with Foreigners

Dear Dreb

I hope you are well and that your wardrobe remains infused with the delicate fragrance of braai smoke. I would like to report on a series of braais I held recently that all involved an American and a South African/Australian who has spent much of his life in the USA. Now don’t get me wrong here. I have searched my soul for xenophobia and have decided that it is correct for all South Africans to show kindness and empathy to foreign people.

The problem I face is that these particular foreigners are fantastic people and my daughter really likes their daughter. This makes it very difficult for an experienced South African braaimeester to utter barely concealed jibes to the effect of “Australians cannot braai and their barbecuing skills are worse than English pommies” or “I find it strange that all American barbecues seem to involve huge vats of deep-fried fat”. I invited these people with some trepidation and bought caseloads of alcohol in case anything turned nasty.

The first braai they attended involved the usual waterblommetjie bredie and a rump steak. I started chatting to the SA/Aus lad and he distracted me to the point that I forgot to add baby potatoes with the waterblommetjies. I simply pretended that I had decided to spurn the potatoes on purpose but was not sure he believed me. I also forgot to check my liquid levels but managed to be more convincing this time around. I simply poured in some sauvignon blanc as if it were water and managed not to drink the remains of the wine straight from the bottle.

It was at this point that the braai started to become unstuck or in fact very stuck. The Cape rains had increased in intensity and I expertly manipulated a rump steak onto my indoor fire. This fire was very hot on account of the use of Namibian hardwood and the steak immediately erupted into flame. I attempted to ignore this, but by now the stench of charred cow swirled around the lounge. I then turned the steak and attended to my steamed Basmati rice. You can imagine my shock when said Aussie chirps quietly “I think your steak might be burning”. I sprinted to the lounge but it was too late. The steak was not only charred. It continued smoking and I had to use my tongs to bash off flaming pieces of carbon. I sliced it and left muttering an apology that I hoped nobody heard.

The next weekend I invited them again with the sole impression of re-asserting my braaimeester status. I cleverly invited a long time friend and her children so that the foreign family would not unduly distract me. This time I had marinated a leg of lamb in sherry, garlic, rosemary and a hint of coffee. I also bought another caseload of alcohol for emergency purposes. I fired up the Weber (forgetting that it is an outside oven) and served everyone with drinks. I then carefully laid my leg of lamb in the middle of the divided fire. At the time I was vaguely aware that my right hand and arm hair were burnt and smelt awful but brushed it off as part of my macho exterior. The foreign couple then suggested a walk on the beach and I felt it was my duty to point out that South African nature in combination with a South African braai is an ultimate art form. We returned from the beach with soaking children and I realised that my lamb was already overcooked. Once again I had been terribly distracted. I yanked the lid off the Weber and my leg of lamb had twisted itself over the coals. The heat of the Weber could have cooked another 3 legs of lamb and would probably have also burnt them. Once again there was the un-mistakable stench of charred sheep. I removed it to ‘rest’ and quickly dispatched a bottle of red wine down my throat. I then reprimanded my braai helper and told her that her roast potatoes were under-cooked even though they looked fine to me, which made me feel a little better.

I got the SA/Aus/USA lad to carve the meat hoping that he may take some blame for serving charred lamb, but instead everyone praised his carving skills. My braai then got totally out of hand. One of the child guests was very sick but felt a lot better after depositing the content of her lunch over my lounge couch. The American leapt up, despite my warning not to leave the table under any circumstances, and raced off to help. She ended up washing my entire lounge covers and cleaning everything. I waited until all was done and then offered help. I decided to pour a full glass of whiskey to assist with the residual stench but was relieved that this recent event had made everyone forget the charred lamb. 

We then watched the Argentina South Africa rugby match. Watching rugby with foreign people is very strange and particularly awkward when people of Australian heritage are in the same room. They were astounded at my roars of ‘Bokke’ even when it seemed we were about to lose and my wife had to tell me in no uncertain terms to keep quiet and be decorous. 

I have since spent the rest of the weekend pondering my braaing disasters and have come up with the following conclusions:

• Even if foreign people are the best people in the world, they are still very dangerous and can help you ruin your braai. 
• All braais for foreign people should be cooked beforehand and kept in the warming drawer. 
• Alcohol and children do not mix and it is strongly advisable to drink copious glasses of water in-between drinks. 
• Foreign people are fantastic at dealing with child disasters and should be invited to any event where children are present. 

I would deeply appreciate your insights on these matters and I suggest we keep this correspondence to South Africans only.

Yours in BIP


Shayfish

Deep South Region

Suburban braai

Dear Dreb 

I have long suspected that people who live in suburbs cannot be part of our Braai Improvement Process (BIP) as they are likely to use their gas oven hobs and call this a braai. However I was pleasantly surprised when recently invited to a suburban braai. This suburb is close to Cape Town’s rugby stadium.  I spent an inordinate amount of time arguing with police that I was due to attend a BIP intervention and should therefore be allowed to drive to my BIP venue that just happened to be surrounded by thousands of walking rugby supporters.

As I unpacked my car I heard the roar of the crowd and bowed, but for some strange reason the roaring crowd seemed unaware that BIP leadership had arrived. They all just carried on roaring something about a storm and bulls. With a regal wave I entered the suburban BIP venue. I carefully unpacked my cooler box and un-wrapped my braai grid. My host seemed surprised that I had brought my own double-hinged braai grid and I did not have the heart to tell him I had no confidence that suburban people even owned a braai. To my host’s credit, he had a large braai machine on wheels and had lit a fire. He explained that he was using oak firewood as he was in the process of cutting down trees. All I saw were two enormous oak branches hanging over the braai. I casually oiled my yellowtail and added salt and pepper to hide my astonishment at the scale of this fire.

As we delicately sipped our drinks, I compared braai notes with the host. He announced his intention to cook a mutton rib first and suggested we then cook the chicken kebabs and the yellowtail simultaneously. I surreptiously choked on my drink as I could not believe that suburban people had any sense of braai process, but held off offering my host admission to BIP. I felt he needed to prove that he could actually braai first. At this stage, one of the flaming oak branches smashed to the floor sending live coals and sparks everywhere. My wife leapt backwards and almost fell into the house drain behind her but recovered in time. My host then picked up the flaming log with bare hands and deposited it back into the braai. I began to develop a grudging sense of respect, which I hid by quaffing more alcohol.

A vegetarian guest attempted to join the BIP discussion, but it emerged that she had bought a cooked chicken for her children and a salad to this braai. I ignored her, but was very satisfied to note that some suburbanites really have no clue about the art of braaing.

My host then wrestled oak branches to the side of the braai and started braaing. The sweat dripped down his face into his beard, which glistened against the light of the patio. Using bare fists, he bashed the braai grid down to an appropriate height. He did manage to burn the fat side of the mutton rib, but this was the only fault I could find with his braaing technique. I was somewhat nervous when it came to sharing the braai. However, there were sufficient coals for my yellowtail even though I had to use sleight of hand to shovel offending chicken kebabs away from my cooking zone.

I have to secretly admit that I was very impressed with this braai. I felt the host had produced an authentic South Africa braai of chicken, mutton and yellowtail with a side salad that any BIP devotee would have relished. I did have to chew on the mutton for a long time before I dared swallow, but put this down to male machismo and didn’t let it interfere with my judgement.     

As my wife drove me home, I recalled the delicate sensation of red wine complimenting the mutton fat and issued a satisfied burp. I am prepared to concede that BIP can happen in suburbia, but couldn’t dispel the image that my host would be equally at home braaing in a remote rural cave. 

Yours in BIP

Shayfish

Quasi Deep South Region

Taking the bus

I would like to share an experience with you about drinking and driving after braai. As you well know, some of us have been known to have had brushes with the authorities on our way home from the odd social session over the years.

A couple of nights ago, I was out for a few drinks with some friends and had a few too many beers and some rather nice pinotage. Knowing full well I may have been slightly over the limit, I did something I've never done before - I took a bus home.

I arrived home safely and without incident, which was a real surprise, as I have never driven a bus before and am not sure where I got this one.