Unpronouncable but Pleasant

“Look out for The Wagon or something,” Mom announced from the front seat.
“The Wagon?” we all ask just about in sync with each other.
“Wagon, Wagen, Wedding, something like that!”
We drove down Dorp street in Stellenbosch, squinting at the signs that we passed trying to spot any street starting with a W.
“Maybe we're going the wrong way.”
“You want me to turn around again?” Dad is getting really frustrated by now. I'm just looking at the clock and thanking heavens that Mom put aside 45 minutes for a half hour drive.
“What's the place called again?”
“De Volkskombuis.”
“Die what?”
"There!”
“Where?”
“There!!”
A squealing of brakes, a holding-up of traffic, a complicated u-turn and a right turn later and we were driving into the parking lot of the sought after restaurant. Dave stands outside, shaking his head in awe and confusion having been voice-conferenced in to the whole conversation. After a quick hug in greeting, we shuffle along to the indoor seating area to find Tandy seated at our table for six.

Hugs, how-are-yous and compliments are exchanged as we settle in and the menus that the waiter handed us are forgotten in our hands as we catch up on news and chit-chat. Each time I almost open mine, something is said to catch my attention, and my intention is lost in the midst of questions and comments. The atmosphere is certainly conducive to conversation – the room is filled with the conversations of all its occupants with a hint of something classical playing beneath. I can see it all from the wide mirror behind our table – all of the couples holding hands, all of the friends chatting away just like us. I remove my eyes from the mirror and concentrate more on whats going on at our table – two conversations, one about food the other about racing, diverging into one as people pick up stompies and run with them. The waiter returns to fill our glasses of wine and we realise that none of us has bothered looking at the menus yet. We all open ours up and glance at the treasures hidden within.

What will it be for starters? Some snoek samosas? Maybe an African salad (made African by the addition of biltong). Perhaps some ostrich carpaccio or a quail terrine. No, no. Tonight I am living large and going for the potato gnocchi with a blue cheese sauce and a sprinkling of biltong. But knowing that the meal is likely to be huge, I choose to share it with Michael rather than keep it all to myself. And it's a good thing that I do as, though the starter was rather smaller than I had imagined (only seven pieces of gnocchi between two of us), when my choice of Oxtail arrives, my eyes bulge with the size it – a small potjie to myself along with mashed potatoes topped with caramelised onions and a selection of veggies for the table on the side.
I can almost hear the saying that Dad used to use when I was a little kid: “Where are you going to put all that? Under the table?”
“No, silly,” I used to retort. “In my stomach of course.”
This time I was almost tempted to look under the table and see if there was room for it. But, from the first bite of the melt-in-your-mouth meat and the creamy, smooth mash with a hint of sweetness from the onions, I know that there would be no hiding this anywhere. It is going straight to my stomach, whether I regret it later or not.

Maagies vol, oogies toe (Stomachs full, eyes closed). We're one bottle of wine down and I can hardly imagine eating another bite until the waiter returns to offer us dessert and some coffee. I don't know how I manage it, but no matter how full I get, the idea of dessert never fails to excite me. I look at the menu and decide on a trifle, nothing too fancy, just a simple, easy dessert that I may not even finish. And then it arrives in its glass, the layer upon layer of cream, jelly, spongecake and custard, and I take my first bite. Once again I am left wondering what on earth I am going to do with myself. I cannot stop now, it's just too good, but oh am I going to regret this tomorrow when I step on the scale!

We finish our desserts and our coffees, chatting away without any lapse in the conversation until it's finally decided that it's getting a bit late and we should probably go. The chatting doesn't stop, however, and we are standing in the parking lot discussing blogs, recipes and experiences until Dad and Dave honk their respective horns and it's time for us to part ways. I practically fall asleep in the car on the ride home, but the food and the company was certainly worth it.