Linni Eats Cape Town: Africa Cafe

People are constantly asking why I came to Africa to study abroad, instead of the usuals, like Europe or Asia. My answer, aside from a chronic predilection to counterculture, mostly has to do with food.

Italian food, Mexican food, Spanish food, Chinese food, Indian food—there are myriad cultures I could name before we ran out of stock visual imagery or taste memories. But what appears in your mind when I bring up African food? Most people, myself included prior to this trip, would draw a blank. I can't speak for everyone, but I didn't like leaving an entire continent unaccounted for in my quest to eat the world. So I began this journey, not really sure what to expect outside the general categories of meat and starch. How did tribal southern Africans make use of their resources to satisfy cravings? What kind of evolutions had colonialism forced upon these methods?

In the U.S., it's standard to have low-end, no-name versions of a particular cuisine in addition to the nicer establishments. You can count on finding a non-descript Mexican joint on shady street corners, and there's certainly no shortage of cheap hot dog hole-in-the-walls. So I expected Africa to have some of these, serving up whatever the locals eat. I've been here five months now, and I've yet to see anything that satisfies this description.

The times I've been served anything with the tag of African food, it has come in a touristy package, usually served buffet-style at a high-end locale marketed for its entertainment value as a dining experience, rather than a simple connection to the culture's food. I've felt more in touch with the soul of South African palates at the under-staffed and under-frequented Cape Malay joints, the stores with halaal plastered on the door where the man behind the counter is studying a recipe book for new ideas.

My trip to Moyo may have fallen under the glamorized, slightly impersonal category, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. In my ranking of these types of establishments, next in line is the Africa Cafe. More expensive than Moyo and located in the heart of downtown Cape Town, this yellow stucco building is bubbling over with kitsch and folk art, chandeliers made of empty bottles and beads clanking overhead as you climb the stairs to any of the country-themed dining rooms. I am not sure which country I was seated in, but the Winter 2008 menu was painted on the side of a ceramic pitcher and the colors threatened to overwhelm. Luckily, I have come to positively associate this over-saturation of hues with this charming continent and it did not bother me. I could see how some might find it jarring, though.

The costumed waitresses started us off with Xhosa pot bread, steamed and both crunchy and moist. We also received some things to dip our bread into, such as Moroccan zeilook made with eggplants, coriander seeds, and garlic and Ethiopian iab, a white curd cheese with herbs that was like a soupy cottage blend. Next came various finger food, which I imagine would be served at Super Bowl gatherings if this culture was somehow married with my own. Zambian bean pies were fried and had a little too much pastry and not enough bean; Malawi mbatata cheese and sweet potato balls rolled in sesame seeds were less than memorable, but the Xhosa imifino spinach patties and Egyptian ta amiya white bean patties with coriander and parsley were kind of addictive, especially when dipped in the zeilook and iab.

Other sides included Congolese spinach and Egyptian koshery, made with noodles, rice, lentils, and tomato gravy. But the meat-crazed locals joining me for this experience were passing on these dishes, anxious for the meat courses still to come. Finally, our table received a lamb stew called mwanawa nkhosa, which, like much of the meat I have been served here, was more bone and fat than anything else. The Ghanaian groundnut chicken was delicious, though, even if it did taste like something on a Thai menu, and the Cape Malay coconut mussel curry may have changed my mind about those slimy little creatures. I hate mussels, so that speaks volumes about Africa Cafe's simple marinade.

Dessert was a confusing and disappointing brownie sundae, and I was left with mixed feelings about this place. The wait staff, despite their charming getup, seemed too crazed by the clock to make any impression on the environment. The decorations are representative of the region to

an extent, but a little over the top. While the food did lead me to excited exclamations at certain times, it was simply mediocre at others. In terms of African dining experiences, I'd say it is worth the drive to Stellenbosch to choose Moyo instead.

Linni Eats South Africa: Lalibela Game Reserve

I know this site is not meant for hotel reviews, but my recent lodging at Lalibela Game Reserve was as much of a culinary safari as it was a wildlife experience, and it deserves that kind of attention.

I psyched myself up for a gluttonous vacation our first day, when the lodge hostess explained our gastronomical schedule—continental breakfast at 6:30, coffee and snacks after the sun rose, brunch around 11, lunch if we wanted it, high tea at 3:30, snacks and drinks at sundown, a pre-dinner glass of sherry, dinner and dessert at 7:30, then more drinks if we desired. I am exhausted just typing that, and my stomach recoils in fear at the memory.

Ok, maybe fear isn't the best word. Me and my lower half certainly enjoyed ourselves. But where to even begin explaining the diversity of dishes put before me on this trip?

We arrived midday and were almost immediately seated in a dining room lined with at least 30 djembes and lighting fixtures made of kudu horns and ostrich eggs. The buffet lunch featured a hearty and complex bobotie in a charming little iron pot—in case I haven't explained yet, bobotie is made by mixing ground beef with raisins and sweet spices, then topped with an egg custard and served over yellow rice. It quickly became one of my favorite South African dishes. Lalibela opened me up to a new world of bobotie, though, by serving it with condiments like banana slices, coconut shavings, cucumber yogurt salsa, and chutney. A fruit salad, parblended vegetable soup, and vegetable salad bar were also available, but I was especially blown away by the dessert options—camembert, brie, and bleu cheese on a wood block with preserved figs and walnuts, in addition to miniature lemon pies and mint-Amarula phyllo tarts.

I doubt even two hours had passed before they were calling us for high tea, which included meat pies, strawberries, kiwis, and coconut, chocolate, and biscuit truffles. On the night game drive, we stopped the car to have drinks, trail mix, and chutney-flavored crisps in a field of zebras. The post-drive, pre-dinner sherry was phenomenal, though I don't know how high my sherry standards are. Dinner was enormously packed with springbok stew, cheesy cauliflower, steamed veggies, rice with gravy, multiple salad platters, potato wedges, and a meringues drenched in some gourmet cherry pie filling. No, thank you, I will not be needing an after-dinner aperitif. I might pass out at this table, actually.

Their "light" breakfast had yogurt, fruit, toast, cereals, muesli, and cookies, and our coffee break on the game drive brought rusks into the equation as well. These are like biscotti—too crunchy to eat unless dipped in some beverage. The next big feast was already smelling good when we returned from our drive--we were met with eggs cooked three different ways next to fried mushrooms, roasted tomatoes, sausage, and bacon. Further down the line, I spread a crumpet with cream, doused it in sherry nut syrup, and topped it all off with more fruit salad.

Unfortunately, due to lions roaming wild, we were not allowed to hike or walk so the time between meals was spent digesting by the pool. My body hadn't done much to work up an appetite before they called high tea again. Lalibela's definition of high tea might not be up to British snuff, but you're not likely to hear complaints when chocolate raspberry and chocolate ganache cupcakes or pizza are on offer. I'd learned my lesson the previous day, though, and only nibbled, saving room in my dreams and my stomach for what dinner would bring.

Along with more company from new guests at the communal dining table, this evening's bounty came in the form of lamb with mint sauce, springbok schnitzel with bleu cheese sauce, mealie pap, green beans, and two cold side salads I had seconds and thirds of. One was a curried vegetable slaw and the other a simple mix of beans that must have been spiced by a magician because I could not get enough. And needless to say, I was more than full when dessert came round. I glanced at the brown lump in front of me and briefly considered foregoing sweets altogether that night.

But as they brought more and more of the decorative plates to the table, each swing of the kitchen door wafted more of the spellbinding aroma my way and my spoon had dug into the dish before I even had time to consider the capitulation.

And thank god for that decision, since this Cape Brandy pudding was possibly the best dessert I've had in South Africa thus far. It was a simple cake with pecan chunks throughout, but the brandy syrup drizzled on top had caramelized in the oven and the top layer was ever-so-slightly crunchy, chewy, a little like an under-fired creme brulee. I ate the whole thing and was going to town on my mom's leftovers before I realized I still had another day at Lalibela. Pace yourself, Linni.

Our final day's brunch had mushroom stroganoff and mince this time, and high tea featured lemon cream tarts and sandwiches. Our goodbye dinner had mixed meat curry, vegetable rice, cinnamon butternut slices, spinach salad,

carved chicken, steamed vegetables, and a ham and tomato couscous that looked and sounded simple yet outshined all the other dishes. Dessert was an apple raisin cobbler, served beside an adorable sprinkling of cocoa powder over a bushman stencil and almost as hard to stop eating as the previous night's masterpiece.

But it wasn't time for a detox diet yet—next stop, the Victoria Falls Hotel.

Linni Eats Stellenbosch: Moyo

For the perfect marriage of sophisticated tastes and childhood thrills, look no further than a treetop table at Moyo, an African buffet paradise on the Spier Wine Estate in Stellenbosch. Not only do you eat in a glorified tree house, but costumed African women come round to paint your face in between courses!

While these course breaks are self-imposed, they provide much-needed downtime when you’re tackling a 180+ dish spread, spanning the entire continent of Africa from salads to desserts and everything in between. If dancers, singers, and other forms of entertainment weren’t around for distraction, food coma might settle in before you get to the Amarula cream sauce or rum spiced bananas, and that would just be a crying shame.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here—the adventure begins with bread. Sounds normal enough, but this is far from your average bowl of rolls. The plate’s edge is decorated with lumps of brie, coconut, and onion bread with coriander seeds, sweet potato and pumpkin bread with pumpkin seeds, Egyptian rose petal semit bread with sesame seeds, and fried Tunisian flat bread. In the center, tiny dishes of dukkah, harissa, and the most uniquely delicious hummus I’ve ever tasted await plunking. I took delicate bites and tried desperately not to fill up, but for what it’s worth, the Tunisians won the bread battle.

A moment of silent hesitation then came over our table as we shot questioning looks at each other. We had our drinks and now nothing was standing between us and the buffet, save for our climb down from the tree. Time to dive in.

The next hour or so of my life was a whirlwind of flavors. Many metaphors come to mind--a rollercoaster, or perhaps a carnival; it’s actually a wonder no stomachache came from such a multiethnic party in my tummy. I began with balsamic-marinated crunchy spinach leaves tossed with a spicy caramelized nut mix. The cold salad bar also featured a green bean and sun-dried tomato salad, a chickpea mint medley, and beets blended with caraway seeds, honey, and garlic. The meats were served with a saffron mayo and date chutney, and while the matured oryx fillet was satisfying, it was the condiments I couldn’t get enough of.

Over at the fish station, dorado was plated with mango relish and butter fish steaks were skewered and fried while you watched, along with grilled strips of calamari steak, marinated in molasses and peanuts.

There was more sea fare over in the potjiekos, a station overflowing with cast-iron pots filled with stews, potjies, and breyanies. The fish breyani was stunningly spiced but the eggplant potjie stole this show. It had a smokey, mushroomy thickness far more intoxicating than any meat—my entire table got seconds. I inquired about the recipe, but got a convoluted reply in a thick accent. I suppose I can’t blame the guy for not wanting to share the secrets to a dish so breathtaking.

There were also springbok shortribs and a lamb tagine roasting in stew pots, with an orange herb sauce on the side. This finalized my opinion that, despite their impressive efforts in every other category, Moyo’s specialty was sauces. My favorite part of the meal might have been using the leftover bread to soak up the date chutney and orange herb saffron soup collecting in the center of my plate.

The usual South African stars shone at dessert—a thick Amarula cream coated soft-serve ice cream, milktart, and especially syrupy koeksisters. I was a little surprised to see zucchini bread and brownies on an African dessert buffet, but neither disappointed. I’m not usually a fan of meringues, either, but these were the perfect texture complimented by dried apricots, crushed pistachios, and a chocolate drizzle. And the final surprise, pears spiced with thyme and rosemary and poached in a red wine that no doubt came from the nearby vineyard. They were reminiscent of Thanksgiving, not an altogether inappropriate sentiment given the amount of food we ate that day.

Those who prefer to recline after a big meal will find plenty of comfortable options at ground level, where futons are laid down beneath Moroccan-style tents and blankets are draped on the backs of chairs. For the ambulatory folk who get antsy after dinner, the restaurant stretches back into many enclaves, one a thickly forested garden path and another filled with colorful leather chairs, carved iron lanterns, mirror mosaic angels and brightly painted wine barrels. I don’t think we saw the entire space, but enough to decide this would be the perfect location for a wedding.

Unfortunately, due to shifting menus, we missed out on the potato and banana curry, gingered sweet potato lentils, butternut cheesecake, and sherry hazelnut cake, all of which sound like they could have tipped the delicate balance I found between hunger and uncomfortable fullness. How I arrived at that balance with so much food, I’m not too sure. My advice? Take one bite of everything. It may sound modest, but one bite each of 180 courses? You do the math.

But for extreme cases like the eggplant potjie, I’ll concede a bit—if it’s really good, take two bites.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Maharaja

Call me ignorant, but I didn't know what halaal meant before coming to South Africa. Apparently it's like kosher, but for Muslims. Given the enormous Muslim population in Cape Town, it's a buzz word you can find stamped on anything from potato chips in the grocery store to a classy beach-front restaurant.

When I first walked into Maharaja, a University of Cape Town campus secret, I was a little put off. One dining companion had groceries in tow, and was almost sent home with her turkey lunchmeat. It wasn't because she wasn't buying anything from Maharaja's purveyor, but because he cannot allow meat in the store.

But luckily we weren't dismayed by this jolly Muslim man's religious restrictions. Call us immoral, but we pleaded and wore him down eventually-with his sunny disposition, it didn't take long. Say what you will about Europeans, but folks on the African continent have been nothing but friendly to us, even after hearing the first tones of a Yank accent. In fact, sometimes that brightens their mood even more.

This proved to be the first of literally countless trips to the Maharaj, who follow stricter halaal standards than most of the joints in Cape Town. The word literally means "permissible" in Arabic, and whether or not it connotes vegetarianism is debatable. This debate is a moot point at Maharaja, where the "chicken" curry uses TVP (Textured Vegetable Protein) in ways I never thought possible. An absence of meat was the last thing on my mind.

What I really came here for, though, was the bunny chow. This is a South African staple, made by filling a loaf of bread with a curry of your choosing. It started during Apartheid, when lower-class citizens were not allowed to sit down at restaurants and therefore needed portable dishes, issued through restaurant back doors. The chow came out to us portable as ever, wrapped in foil that gave way to heaping steam when peeled back. The thing was big enough to feed at least two and too hot to touch-I could hardly imagine carrying it an alley, but maybe the serving methods have changed.

Spilling over with butter beans and curry gravy, the bread was still light and downy, the kind you can squeeze into a ball then watch bounce back. I've ordered this many times since, though it's always a tough decision. There's the mushroom breyani, a highly-spiced, risotto-esque blend of creamy yellow rice and a marinated trio of mushrooms. Then there's the usual staples like palak paneer and tikka masala. But what it usually boils down to, at least for me, is bunny chow or rootie.

Ah, rootie. For you Midwesterners out there, this is like the roti prata served at Flat Top Grill when you put a blue stick in your stir fry concoction-only worlds better. Imagine the eggiest, doughiest, and greasiest pancake imaginable, then flatten it out, heat it in a little more butter for good measure, top it with a stew of butternut squash and chickpeas, then top it all off with some cucumber yogurt sauce. Sound heavenly? Well, it isn't my staple lunch here for nothing. Every Wednesday, before my African drumming class, the jolly Muslim man greeted me, never failing to offer a samosa even though I never ordered one. No, his smile and simple experiments with carbs and curry were enough for me. That, and the occasional banana coconut pineapple lassi.

Meat? Who needs meat?