AA Gill, the Sunday Times restaurant critic – the official one, not Michael Winner (see last week’s review on http://www.planetmona.com) – shot a baboon last week. Well, not last week, but presumably some time ago when the legend said he was ‘away’, as he regularly is. In fact, he is away a lot more than I ever am and has a book to show for it, not to mention that he is probably paid ten times as much. That’s hardly fair now, is it? I read the whole thing, even though he kicked it off with a caveat and a disclaimer as to the horror of what was coming. And that did not even include the review. I was mainly interested in the fact that he was in Africa, specifically in Tanzania.
I asked a few South African workmates whether I should go to Tanzania or not. “Why can’t you Europeans stick to Paris?” one of them said, “It’s so much more civilised.” That made me laugh. “If you’re going, then make sure you don’t get sick. The hospitals ain’t perwity,” another exhorted, worried on my behalf.
Then I met another colleague from Zimbabwe, a white immigrant from years ago whose family, farmers, have probably been through some ordeal or other thanks to Robert Mugabe, who makes no difference between black and white for all the wrong reasons. “Go,” she said, “it’s gorgeous.” “Absolutely,” said another one from Kenya. “And don’t take any notice of what the South Africans say. You’re well travelled, Mona. You know you can never believe what they say in the papers.”
Absolutely agreed, and I was not even under the influence of the post-work glass of wine. I checked with Emirates: they fly to Dar Es Salaam. They fly to Johannesburg and to Cape Town too. That was it: if they fly there, it can’t be that bad. In fact, it’s probably brilliant.
The Writer and I should be off to Africa sometime in the first quarter of 2010. If you’re reading this and want to bag yourself a bargain, then go before the World Cup fever hits in May. If you’re reading this and are female, then I don’t need to convince you. In fact, I’ll come back and tell you of everything you can do while the hubby is screaming himself hoarse as his favourite team lose.
Here’s a quick resume, in advance: your time in Africa and South Africa will mainly consist of drinking as many different wines as possible until your eyeballs pop, your veins implode and your taste buds explode. Africa is brilliant for food: fresh fish, edible wildlife, flowers so pretty you could (and should) eat them, and meat with a zillion veg; all served in some of the best restaurants I have eaten in my entire life, plonked in the middle of the world’s best scenery: you will just adore it. When we went, three years ago or so, I was so overwhelmed by absolutely everything that the continent has remained firmly on my mind and in my heart. I can’t wait to go back.
I tried to feel hope as I walked around the Marsaxlokk restaurants on Sunday during lunchtime, asking staff what fresh fish they had. Instead, I felt despair. Yes – I literally walked from one restaurant to the other pleading. Not only was the choice not available, but when available, it was shockingly bad. The staff had, in most cases, no idea of what I was talking about. They did not actually say it, but the reactions were akin to “What? Fish? Fresh fish? Wazat? This is Marsaxlokk ta!”
Now Maltese waiters, in their majority, do not have any idea of what they’re serving. This was, nonetheless, so despondency-inducing I felt like giving up before I’d started. I finally settled on Mr Fitz. They had red snapper. I waited for the Art Director, the Gay Best Friend and the Corporate Lawyer to turn up, only 45 minutes late.
“Are we eating here?” they asked in unison, trying to assimilate the pavement, the cars driving past spewing Sunday-driver noxious fumes, the plastic tables, and the selection of fat ladies dripping over their stretch denim minis. I encouraged them to have faith. No, I did not have any either. I did not convince myself. Hey, I’m a food writer, not god.
Trying to explain what we wanted to eat to the staff was practically impossible. Every single thing seemed to come from a fish-farm (the sea bass), a freezer (the calamari rings) or a packet (the snickers cake). The waiters were, amazingly, open-mouthed at my ‘knowledge’. I got the feeling they thought I was an alien. I probably am and I haven’t realised it myself.
We ended up ordering the two fresh items they had, plus the imported one. King prawns and octopus in garlic to start off with. There were seven king prawns – seven, for four people – on a huge bed of (unasked for and unspecified) rice, tinned beans, bits and bobs of lettuce and tomatoes. I managed to taste two centimetres of octopus before it ran out and showed off more bits and bobs nestling underneath. “This is amazing,” we all agreed sarcastically and in shock, pushing back the tears of hunger.
When carb-shy fashionistas start to eat the accompanying bread because they’re desperate for food, you know you have a problem on your hands. But nobody here noticed a single thing. They did not notice we’d drunk all of the cheap white wine (there is no alternative) and nobody offered another bottle. “There were only seven prawns,” the Corporate Lawyer said to the waiter when he took away the plates of bits and bobs, practically full of stuff nobody wanted to eat. Nobody took any notice of him. It was as if the words had come out of a chair.
They forgot to bring us any mussels and fifteen minutes later the mains arrived. ‘Oven’ chips, more ‘salad and beans’ and two completely overcooked, Sahara-sojourning red snappers, uncleaned and without the offer to not be so, were plonked on our table. Everybody else was eating pizzas and burgers. A few Brits behind us had demolished a pile of sekondi prawns but when we had asked for them, they were unavailable, which is why we ended up with the mealier primi.
We tried, hard, to eat whatever we had ordered and which had managed to arrive. Yet at the end of the meal we’d consumed four inches of unintentionally dried fish which had died hopelessly and in vain, a couple of prawns (if we had not drawn the short prawn straw and ended up with just one) and an inch of octopus. We also had five oven chips each. We rounded it all up with a slice of bread. Each. That was generous.
Of course, the most alarming thing for me was that in this supposedly ‘fishing’ village, nobody in the 300 metre-stretch around Mr. Fitz knew about fish and nobody seems to be interested in serving it and serving it well. For the pleasure, we paid €80. They forgot to put the wine on the bill and frankly, there was no way any of us were going to remind them. After all, they’d disregarded most of our previous requests.
In every restaurant in Cape Town, ‘line-caught’ fish is plentiful and marked thus on the menu. Africans take a pride in their produce. They take a pride in their country. You will love it there. If the distance is too long, you can always go to Sicily. Anywhere but Marsaxlokk and Mr Fitz.
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I read the whole thing, even though he kicked it off with a caveat and a disclaimer as to the horror of what was coming. And that did not even include the review. I was mainly interested in the fact that he was in Africa, specifically in Tanzania.
