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
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