bread and circuses

Sunday was a glorious day. The sun was shining, although it wasn’t all that warm, but it made a difference. Roger (my boet) and I went for our first surf in months at Muizenberg. (Please bear in mind that I use the term “surf” loosely!) And as is our habit, we went for coffee and something to eat when we had got out of the water, dressed and packed the car.

It’s been so long since I’ve been there and I was amazed to see how much the beachfront drag has changed. They’ve spent months renovating the old buildings that line Surfer’s Corner and have turned them into what I imagine to be fairly swanky apartments. We all knew (Rog, Alv, Lin, Dodge) that it would change Muizenberg’s personality but I was more concerned with still being able to find parking when going to surf.

Surfer’s Corner used to be home to (you’ve guessed it) surfers, a few taking-my-mutt-for-a-walk-on-the-beach types and the occasional couple out for a Sunday drive. It was mellow, relaxed, comfortable, easy - good. It didn’t matter who were, why you were there or what you looked like since Muizenberg itself was a little dilapidated and comfortable, like an old pair of slippers that have lost their fluff but you can’t bear to part with. Along with the stripped paint of the Art Deco buildings, that gentle vibe has been put out with the trash.

Knead is a new bakery and restaurant that I’d heard about that has set up shop. Roger and I stalked the outside tables so that we could smoke. We pretended to watch the beach while casting eagle-eyed glances at tables that looked as though they could be leaving. It was an assault of the trendy, brunching with their kids dressed in designer gear, and dogs straining on leashes in a vein attempt to get closer to the dogs tied to the next table. They were loud, obnoxious, pretentious. Everything Muizenberg wasn’t up until a few months ago.

The table that left:
A man (late 30s, early 40s with his little girl) glared at us as we edged closer but it didn’t stop there, “I’m leaving, now” was hurled at us through clenched teeth. Okay buddy. He oozed arrogance. His good looks meant he didn’t have to be nice to anyone. We’ll call him Dick. He turned to offer the table to a friend he was chatting to – the friend was holding a takeaway coffee and clearly hadn’t planned to linger. I gasped. Out loud. The friend, taking in my shocked look politely declined. Dick looked furious. Eventually, he left and we sat down and moved his dirty plates away. Suddenly he was back, with a little brown box to take away the half pie his daughter hadn’t eaten. Oh well, how were we to know? He picked up a Grapetizer bottle that only had about 5mls left and growled, “Is this mine?” at me. “Yes” I flung back at him, wishing I’d dropped my cigarette into the bottle.

The manager that swung past:
“Are you a new table?” he rushed.
“Yes, can you please bring us some menus” I sang
He looked put out.
“Is there a problem?” I raised my eyebrows, “Is there a waiting list?”
“We don’t like tables to seat themselves” his lips smiled, his eyes frosted over. “It’s difficult to see who is new or not.”
Say what??? In MY day (yes, I’m channeling my mother) – it was part of my job as a waitress to make sure I new what was going on in my station at all times. The customer was always right. And I was always pleasant and accommodating. Strike 2.

The waitress:
I asked for my bread to be toasted.
“We don’t toast the bread” she deadpanned.
I ran my finger down the menu to where it gives you the toasted option, in print.
“But it says here that I can have it toasted.”
“We don’t do it when we’re busy.”
I was speechless. Strike 3.

I’m shocked by the attitude that seemed to surround the place: that I should damn well count myself lucky that I had the chance to seat my ass on one of their chairs. I was really disappointed. The bread was good. The packaging of the place is cool. But there’s no warmth. No pleasure. And after the zen of surfing has kicked in, the last thing I need is that freak show...