I’ve come to think of it as my duty to you and to this blog to have lunch at establishments that I might not otherwise patronise. Thus, last week, as The Yummy Politician and I moseyed down Long Street enjoying the winter sunshine, I dragged him to a halt in front of this particularly posh joint.
The sign said it all really. But just in case you missed it, there were several more signs.
Wait a second. Did I see that right?
I probably should have taken that as a hint (along with one or two others) that Bob isn’t big on taste. But the lure of a R25 lunch was too great. To paraphrase Top Gear – as one does – how bad could it be?
We sat on the pavement. Not actually on the pavement, but in chairs at a table on the pavement. We didn’t peruse the menu, because we’d already seen it. Bob’s is the kind of place where you can read the menu from 50 feet away. The YP chose the ‘Build-A-Burger’, I ordered the ‘Chicken Curry and Rice’ (R25).
I did not order a shooter. I’m usually pretty brave when it comes to strange food. I’ve eaten camel and dodgy boerie rolls, but I’ve discovered that I draw the line at Garlic Tequila. There you go. Everyone has a line, and now I know mine.
While we waited for our food, we thought it would be fun to play a game of pool. We had reckoned without Bob’s brother, Bob The Builder, however. Apparently Bob and Bob had decided that lunch time was just the right time for a spot of heavy drilling. It made for interesting pool. One of us would be lining up a shot, when
An earsplitting burst of drilling would shatter our nerves and send the white ball caroming off crazily. It turns out I am probably better suited to life in a war zone than the YP, as I won (just). We tottered back outside to the relative peace and quiet of the Long Street pavement carrying our plates:
At first sight, both our meals appeared perfectly okay and certainly good value for R25. But Before Bob’s (BB) I had no idea it was possible to make chicken curry entirely out of bits of bone and skin, or that rice could taste exactly like watery, puffed up water. I had therefore paid R25 for four pieces of curried boiled potato – the only edible things in my bowl.
The YP had fared slightly better. His burger was edible and his chips were only three days old. On our way back to the office we passed the Egyptian Goose family in The Company Gardens. They were scavenging around in the grass for something tasty among bits of old squirrel poo, compost and cigarrette stompies. I knew exactly how they felt.