Friday, 22 February 2008
Ah penny, brown penny
If I am because I think, and I am what I eat, where does that leave food for thought?
Thursday, 21 February 2008
The Primi Dilemma
Last night, I went to dinner with Nicola. She tentatively suggested Primi Piati at the Waterfront. Tentatively because she knows how much I despise going there. She explained that the restaurant had undergone a serious revamp, was much bigger than before, and had a great smoking section (believe it or not, us smokers don’t relish the thought of sitting in a 2m x 2m, glass cage, peering through the fug at an indiscernible helping of something on a dinner plate). So, feeling magnanimous, I put my complete contempt for the chain aside, and agreed to the new Primi Wharf experience. After all, it’s the company that makes the night… right?
The food was great! I enjoyed every mouthful of my Pancetta. The smoking balcony was refreshing. And the company was everything I new she would be (okay, we’ve be friends for about four years now, so it goes without saying). So, what’s my problem then? Well, it’s the “vibe of the thing”.
The Staff: seem to be on speed.
The Waiters: and their fast-talking, wildly gesticulating, cliché-quipping and all-knowing-winking ways leave me cold. Do they have to audition for these roles? The faster you do things, the more likely I am to think that you’re going to forget something (like a clean ashtray or Nicola’s second glass of red wine), and if you do it with a bwa-ha-ha laugh, then I’m willing to put money on it.
The Hostess: and her inane attempt to make me feel like a long-lost family member as she lead us to our table, quizzing us about how our days were.
The Manager: really needs to know that being friendly and being my friend are NOT the same thing. Yes, I like it when you smile, but at my expense –we don’t allow customers to eat their pasta with a spoon at Primi (and there’s that wink again)– not so much. It’s not cute. It’s not funny. And it makes me want to dump my bowl of steaming hot pasta in your lap.
The Agent Orange Thing: is a piece of PP history that I hope they want forgotten but I can’t seem to. Agent Orange was emblazoned on the waitrons’ bright jumpsuits. And if I have to explain what is wrong with that picture, then you shouldn’t be reading my blog.
So there we have it: good food and great company vs. a style that I find at the very least irritating… all I can offer is avoidance of the place as much as possible. The only first Primi is getting, is the top of my least liked location for dinner or drinks. Once in a blue moon you might see me there, but not if I can help it, and if you do, then know that my dining companion is well worth the discomfort.
The food was great! I enjoyed every mouthful of my Pancetta. The smoking balcony was refreshing. And the company was everything I new she would be (okay, we’ve be friends for about four years now, so it goes without saying). So, what’s my problem then? Well, it’s the “vibe of the thing”.
The Staff: seem to be on speed.
The Waiters: and their fast-talking, wildly gesticulating, cliché-quipping and all-knowing-winking ways leave me cold. Do they have to audition for these roles? The faster you do things, the more likely I am to think that you’re going to forget something (like a clean ashtray or Nicola’s second glass of red wine), and if you do it with a bwa-ha-ha laugh, then I’m willing to put money on it.
The Hostess: and her inane attempt to make me feel like a long-lost family member as she lead us to our table, quizzing us about how our days were.
The Manager: really needs to know that being friendly and being my friend are NOT the same thing. Yes, I like it when you smile, but at my expense –we don’t allow customers to eat their pasta with a spoon at Primi (and there’s that wink again)– not so much. It’s not cute. It’s not funny. And it makes me want to dump my bowl of steaming hot pasta in your lap.
The Agent Orange Thing: is a piece of PP history that I hope they want forgotten but I can’t seem to. Agent Orange was emblazoned on the waitrons’ bright jumpsuits. And if I have to explain what is wrong with that picture, then you shouldn’t be reading my blog.
So there we have it: good food and great company vs. a style that I find at the very least irritating… all I can offer is avoidance of the place as much as possible. The only first Primi is getting, is the top of my least liked location for dinner or drinks. Once in a blue moon you might see me there, but not if I can help it, and if you do, then know that my dining companion is well worth the discomfort.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Catnip or Stiff Upper Lip
Monday evening came like a godsend. If I don’t get some downtime at some point in the week I’m likely to become unlikable. I get twitchy and short-tempered, tired and basically unsociable. And, I’m prone to fantasies of reclusiveness, surrounded by books, chocolate and DVDs. Mmmmm.
And so, I “cooked” dinner, a stop-start approach to a baked potato due to a missing microwave cookery book. (I fear that I accidentally threw it out with newspapers. Argh.) With cold tuna-mayo and ready-made cous cous salad from Checkers. I ate while watching “my soaps” which should be translated as “my defragging time” and enjoyed being at home at a reasonable hour. In fact, enjoyed being at home, full stop.
Oscar was being particularly cute – he has flashes of Mr. Cat mixed with crazy kitten. Yes, I have become one of those people that insist on imparting, in minutia, everything their “child” has done. I scare myself… but you should SEE him! So I decided to indulge him in his favourite game – sometimes-fetch the green ball.
He tears after the green ball, arms flailing, ears down, and so we go, swapping positions like cricketers. Sometimes, for my own amusement, I find the blue ball and throw them together. The results are hilarious! At some point he looked tired or bored, maybe I wasn’t doing it right, so I picked him up and started dancing around the lounge - bouncing and rocking my cat, who saw it as a fantastic opportunity to dig his teeth into my hands and claws into my arms.
It’s all fun and games until somebody loses a lip.
Kittens don’t always seem to be in control of their head movement. So their little heads loll from side-to-side, making them look slightly spastic! I love it, especially when there’s nothing on TV. I was holding him above my head, looking up at him, and as I brought him closer for a kiss (something you would think I would have learned NOT to do after countless scratches on my nose) his head bolted down. The end result was a little but chef’s knife sharp fang plunging into my top lip.
Ack. I was shocked, put him down and bounded over to the mirror to assess the damage. It was small but deep. I gingerly pulled out my top lip to check the inside, afraid that his tooth has gone all the way through. I was slightly disappointed that it hadn’t. But amazed at how profusely it bled. And then did what all 30-something, single girls do… jumped on the phone and called my mom. She would know if I needed a Tetanus shot. She said what most mothers would in that kind of situation, call your doctor. So, holding a tissue to my lip, I attempted a clear conversation with my GP, who said to come in the next morning and to wash it out with antiseptic stuff in the mean time.
I could hardly blame my little lion, who didn’t really know what was going on, and was patiently waiting to resume the Green Ball game. But the mood was gone. And my Monday night had lost its calm indulgence. All that was left to do was flop on to my couch, chocolate in hand and make sure that I didn’t get any of the Germaline that was covering my top lip on anything edible or unwashable. And I realized, just as my kitty needs to learn - I too need to learn... because, the first two times it was my nose, now my lip... next time it could be my eye. Even though he's the apple of it!
And so, I “cooked” dinner, a stop-start approach to a baked potato due to a missing microwave cookery book. (I fear that I accidentally threw it out with newspapers. Argh.) With cold tuna-mayo and ready-made cous cous salad from Checkers. I ate while watching “my soaps” which should be translated as “my defragging time” and enjoyed being at home at a reasonable hour. In fact, enjoyed being at home, full stop.
Oscar was being particularly cute – he has flashes of Mr. Cat mixed with crazy kitten. Yes, I have become one of those people that insist on imparting, in minutia, everything their “child” has done. I scare myself… but you should SEE him! So I decided to indulge him in his favourite game – sometimes-fetch the green ball.
He tears after the green ball, arms flailing, ears down, and so we go, swapping positions like cricketers. Sometimes, for my own amusement, I find the blue ball and throw them together. The results are hilarious! At some point he looked tired or bored, maybe I wasn’t doing it right, so I picked him up and started dancing around the lounge - bouncing and rocking my cat, who saw it as a fantastic opportunity to dig his teeth into my hands and claws into my arms.
It’s all fun and games until somebody loses a lip.
Kittens don’t always seem to be in control of their head movement. So their little heads loll from side-to-side, making them look slightly spastic! I love it, especially when there’s nothing on TV. I was holding him above my head, looking up at him, and as I brought him closer for a kiss (something you would think I would have learned NOT to do after countless scratches on my nose) his head bolted down. The end result was a little but chef’s knife sharp fang plunging into my top lip.
Ack. I was shocked, put him down and bounded over to the mirror to assess the damage. It was small but deep. I gingerly pulled out my top lip to check the inside, afraid that his tooth has gone all the way through. I was slightly disappointed that it hadn’t. But amazed at how profusely it bled. And then did what all 30-something, single girls do… jumped on the phone and called my mom. She would know if I needed a Tetanus shot. She said what most mothers would in that kind of situation, call your doctor. So, holding a tissue to my lip, I attempted a clear conversation with my GP, who said to come in the next morning and to wash it out with antiseptic stuff in the mean time.
I could hardly blame my little lion, who didn’t really know what was going on, and was patiently waiting to resume the Green Ball game. But the mood was gone. And my Monday night had lost its calm indulgence. All that was left to do was flop on to my couch, chocolate in hand and make sure that I didn’t get any of the Germaline that was covering my top lip on anything edible or unwashable. And I realized, just as my kitty needs to learn - I too need to learn... because, the first two times it was my nose, now my lip... next time it could be my eye. Even though he's the apple of it!
Monday, 18 February 2008
The storm before the calm
This was taken from the balcony of my flat in Cape Town. The building in the foreground is the Mount Nelson Hotel.
Virgin Airways
As we landed at OR Tambo airport, I craned my head to see out of my little porthole window. Blinds to be open during landing. The taxi from the runway to the building seemed to take forever. But for me, the thrill of being at an airport/on a plane/at an air show gives me a rush that I'm not able to put into words.
We passed the outlying hangers and buildings that us mere citizens never get to explore. Actually, come to think of it, there is a lot at the airport that we'll never experience. That's okay, my cup runneth over as a simple yet excitable traveler. Anyway, there they were Virgin planes. And I'm NOT talking about Richard Branson and co. I'm talking about sparkling white giants, waiting in eager anticipation for their branding, interiors and to eventually fluff out their tail feathers.
I couldn't tell who they belonged to or what they were to become. And, I was reminded of something my grandfather said: A plane taking off reminded him of a homesick angel going back to heaven. A bit saccharine perhaps, but with angels and virgins, we've got a theme going chaps!
As twee as the picture my grandfather painted may be, there is something magical, awe-inspiring and thrilling about planes. The speed, the way you're thrust back into your seat as they accelerate and rise. And I dare all of you to admit that you don't hold your breath, just a little bit. And as for those ne'er-sayers who so predictably state that something of that size shouldn't be in the sky, I say that you're missing the point Jack.
Feel the pressure and don't forget to take a look outside your window and notice those virgin planes, like all virgins, they deserve your respect.
We passed the outlying hangers and buildings that us mere citizens never get to explore. Actually, come to think of it, there is a lot at the airport that we'll never experience. That's okay, my cup runneth over as a simple yet excitable traveler. Anyway, there they were Virgin planes. And I'm NOT talking about Richard Branson and co. I'm talking about sparkling white giants, waiting in eager anticipation for their branding, interiors and to eventually fluff out their tail feathers.
I couldn't tell who they belonged to or what they were to become. And, I was reminded of something my grandfather said: A plane taking off reminded him of a homesick angel going back to heaven. A bit saccharine perhaps, but with angels and virgins, we've got a theme going chaps!
As twee as the picture my grandfather painted may be, there is something magical, awe-inspiring and thrilling about planes. The speed, the way you're thrust back into your seat as they accelerate and rise. And I dare all of you to admit that you don't hold your breath, just a little bit. And as for those ne'er-sayers who so predictably state that something of that size shouldn't be in the sky, I say that you're missing the point Jack.
Feel the pressure and don't forget to take a look outside your window and notice those virgin planes, like all virgins, they deserve your respect.
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