Lunch #18: Cheep Cheep Chicken From Inkuku

I suppose I should have shared this with you sooner: The Yummy Mummy and I have discovered the World’s Most Enjoyable Diet. Essentially it consists of eating all the cheese and cream and steak and sausages you want. With a side order of eggs fried in butter. It’s very like Atkins or Noakes, but without portion sizes, branded food bars or any sense of self-control.

Apparently the Yummy Mummy has a friend who dropped 15,000kgs* in three days eating double-cream greek yoghurt and bacon, so she resolved to try it too. When the Yummy Mummy reported back that she’d lost 2,000kgs* four days later, I decided to join her.

These are the instructions she sent me:

“No bread, potatoes, rice and pasta. But lots of oats, some crackers, veggies and salad, KFC, chicken with the skin, peanut butter, eggs scrambled in butter, cream cheese, full cream yoghurt, cheese, sausage, streaky bacon, chops with the fat…”

She forgot to put ‘entire bottles of wine’ on the Can Have list, but she did assure me that they made no difference to the diet’s effectiveness. (Note: in order to be good little dieters, we have sacrificed beer. Most of the time.)

I then read every article on this website: garytaubes.com and decided that vegetables were probably too much of a carbohydrate risk, so heroically decided to go without those too.

The real challenge, however, was to find a lunch place that would accommodate my new healthy diet within my perennially-trim lunch budget. But as I was strolling up Parliament Street wondering where I could buy deep-fried sausages with a side order of cream, I came across this:

Even if you don’t know enough Xhosa to translate Inkuku, it’s pretty obvious what this place specialises in.

I didn’t want the evil roll, chips and coleslaw, but was pleased to find I could still get half a chicken for R25. And what a delicious half of a chicken it was! Inkuku do theirs as a lemon-herb roast, with crisp yet greasy skin that’s well worth eating. The only thing missing was the mayonnaise – for flavour and a bit of extra fat. (I had to go to Spar for that.)

If you’re not on a strict diet, you can get the chicken burger meal for R30…

*Weight-loss figures may be slightly exaggerated. In case you were wondering, I myself have lost almost 1,000kgs in the last month. Or, at least, I haven’t actually gained any weight.

Lunch #17: T-bone and ten bottles of bubbly at Societi Bistro

There is something gloomy people like to say about free lunches, which I have to admit is generally true. However, I think that possibly one of the nicest things about friends is that sometimes they make it possible for a free lunch to pop into this universe for a brief visit from some parallel universe where there are such things as free lunches.

In this case, the friends in question were the Yummy Mummy and the Delectable Restaurateur. The free lunch was the launch of Societi Bistro’s Italian menu. (There was a French one a while back. It was fabuleux, as the Yummy Mummy would say.) The way Societi’s regional menus work is that each week for 10 weeks they feature a special menu from a different region of a particular country. So, for the next month or two, Societi’s chef will be working his way up the boot of Italy like a particularly amorous lover langorously licking his lady’s leatherclad leg.

Sigh. Alliteration makes me thirsty, but probably not as thirsty as I was on Saturday afternoon when I arrived at Societi and saw this:

The bottle of bubbly is not visible in the photograph. That is because it is being poured into a glass that’s about to be handed to me. You cannot fault the service at Societi.

10 regional wines were served to match the regional menu. The bubbly was Kaapse Vonkel, but since Italians drink something called Prosecco instead of manning up and learning how to do Methode Champagnoise, I think this was a good call.

At first, I was well-behaved and tried to make polite conversation in between waving my glass for more bubbly. (Only little waves. The staff are very attentive.) But then I saw this:

Stefan, Societi’s very tasty chef, busy at the braai.

No silly, not Stefan…

This. Chargrilled T-bone drizzled in olive oil and lemon juice.

About 10 bottles of bubbly later, with at least a kilo of t-bone gobbled down my gullet, the Societi Effect* had fully taken hold. Things were said and done that I blushed to remember when I woke up in the middle of the night (amazingly) safe (and alone) in my own bed. Fortunately, there is only one incriminating photograph of me (that I know of) in existence:

Photograph courtesy of Niels Colesky. We were having a photographic competition with our cellphones. I don’t think he won.

It seems somehow appropriate that my society portrait from this event is of a boot.

*The Societi Effect: A term I’ve had to coin for the phenomenon of arriving at Societi Bistro in perfect possession of one’s manners and senses and leaving many, many hours later with the firm belief that manners and senses are stupid and you never really liked having them anyway.

P.S. In case you’re hungry here is a video of Societi Bistro. It has lots of footage of fantastico food and wine.

Lunch #15: Tibs from Timbuktu with The Great Dane, The Yummy Mummy and The Woman With No Face

This is actually two lunches, which both took place a while ago, but I’m writing about them today because otherwise I would have to spend my entire lunchbreak following the #JessicaLeandra thread on Twitter. Her magnificent demonstration of How To End Your Career With Just One Tweet (she made it two, just to be very sure) was most edifying. In fact, I guarantee you can learn more from her than from me today. But if you’d prefer to waste your time less productively, read on.

Just before this year’s opening of Parliament, the NSYP, who I won’t bother mentioning again on this blog, asked me to meet him at the Pan African Market to help him choose a suitably smart West African shirt for the occasion. The NSYP has no more relation to West Africa than a cocktail sausage, but wearing West African shirts is his way of avoiding wearing a tie when it would otherwise be absolutely necessary. (He can’t wear Mandela shirts, since he’s in the wrong party. Shirts are very political.)

The Pan-African Market is far enough down Long Street to remind me why it’s called Long Street. My reward for walking so far was lunch at the restaurant on the balcony. It’s called Timbuktu, but serves Ethiopian food. I know it’s Ethiopian – and not Malian as the name suggests – because Ethiopian menus are very distinctive. They are a source of great delight to me and no other people in the world could imitate them. I ordered the Tibs – ‘Tender tip pieces of marinated’. I have always wanted to try marinated.

Gored Gored was also tempting

Unfortunately, I only had time to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of my tender tip pieces before running all the way back up Long Street to disarm my desk (which I have been led to believe will explode if I am not at it at precisely 2pm). So a couple of weeks later, following a sequence of events too impossibly complex to describe, The Great Dane chauffeured The Yummy Mummy, The Woman With No Face and me back to Timbuktu so that I could finish my Tibs and lecture them all on The Art Of Ethiopian Menu-Writing.

Here is why you too should go to Timbuktu:

1. The menus

If, like The Woman With No Face, you lack physiognomy, you can use the menu instead.

2. The decor

This rather amusing little fellow watches you wash your hands.

3. The food

I can recommend the Tibs (bottom right), which taste authentically Ethiopian (even if the rocket, feta and cherry tomatoes on top of them don’t). Such a pity we can’t get teff here, as I do prefer my injera to be the right shade of putty grey…

Amaseghinalehu!

(That’s ‘thank you’ in Amharic. It’s the only word I know.)

Lunch #16: Picnic with The Blind Date on The Company Gardens Lawns

It’s a funny thing, but despite my former involvement with a supposed-lover-of-the-outdoors – the erstwhile Yummy Politician (since downgraded to the NSYP – and, in case you ask, NS stands for ‘not so’). But, as I was saying until I made my own sentence too convoluted to continue, before today I had never partaken in that popular Cape Town lunch arrangement: The Picnic on The Company Garden Lawns.

In fact, it was The Blind Date who suggested this lunch. He offered to bring food if I would bring a blanket. I felt this was fair and courteously checked that he didn’t have a fear of squirrels. So at 1pm precisely today, I sashayed gaily down the stairs with my blanket to meet The Blind Date, who had driven all the way from Hout Bay with homemade Haloumi and Avo wraps and some grapes.

We proceeded in a slightly awkward Blind Datish way to The Company Gardens, where I found a place close to some shade and spread the blanket in the full sun. “Oh look, a rat,” observed The Blind Date, with admirable sangfroid, as an average-sized foot-long specimen rooted endearingly in a neighbouring flower bed.

This photograph was staged after the lunch. You can tell because there are no wraps, rats, beggars, grapes or seagulls in it.

About three minutes after we were seated and had set out the food, I decided to move the blanket into the shade. We sat down again, possibly not as neatly as before. The Blind Date produced the wraps and I unwrapped mine at the wrong end, which he pointed out politely. I sat waiting for him to start his in case there were further specialized wrap-eating procedures I needed to observe.

I think it was at this point that the first beggar arrived. He didn’t ask for money (nobody ever does these days – I think it’s passé in Cape Town mendicant circles), so we gave him the grapes. They were nice grapes, but it was also nice to share our lunch with someone, even if we hadn’t actually invited him.

It turned out that although The Blind Date has no fear of squirrels, he does abhor pigeons and seagulls, which are even more plentiful in The Company Gardens. Shortly after The Blind Date had thrown his wrap wrapper at a seagull (don’t worry, he picked it up again afterwards – the wrapper, not the seagull), the second beggar arrived. But we had given the grapes away and eaten the wraps. We explained this. The beggar nodded understandingly and left.

Minutes later, we had another visitor. Keenly, we perceived he wasn’t a beggar (possibly because of his barcoded truncheon, black-and-white uniform and fluorescent vest with the official city acronym emblazoned on it).

Apparently The Blind Date had attempted to relax a little too much in my company. He was leaning on his elbows on the blanket, legs stretched out in the sun. Truncheon Man brandished his weapon in what he probably hoped was an official manner, but only succeeded in looking uncomfortable.

“You can’t lie down here,” he said, automaton-like.

“Sorry, what?” we both said.

“You,” he said to The Blind Date. “You can’t lie down like that. You must sit up. It’s the rules.”

It’s true. After several gobsmacked moments, we established that no person may lie down on the Company Gardens Lawns, or even sit in a vaguely reclining manner at any time of day. We could not establish why this might be. Truncheon Man just said it was so.

So, dear readers, once more I find myself in a position to give you invaluable culinary advice: If you lie down on a picnic in The Company Gardens today, you’re in for a bit of a surprise.

Observant readers of this blog will notice that, once again, I’ve skipped a lunch. I really, really promise to write up Lunch #15 “Tibs with The Woman With No Face, The Great Dane and The Glamother” at least before, well… June.

Lunch #14: Singularly Unsatisfactory Sushi from The Eastern Palace Sushi Thaifood Noodle Bar

Yesterday I was in a Not Very Good Mood. I woke up in a Not Very Good Mood, which wasn’t improved when I couldn’t figure out what to wear even though I needed to put some clothes on in a hurry if I wasn’t going to be late for work or ride through the streets of Cape Town in my underwear. To top it all, it was Monday and nothing interesting was happening.

So when lunchtime rolled around, I picked up my Not Very Good Mood and took it for a walk. I hoped that if I fed and walked my mood, it might unNot itself and all would be well. It was a perfect day. Sunny, but not hot. Breezy, but not gusting. The roses were in full bloom. The children were feeding squirrels. The tourists were taking photos. I plodded past them like Eeyore on ineffective antidepressants.

As I trudged down Long Street, something caught my eye on the opposite side of the road.

Typical. Just as I try to photograph something a car drives past and covers it up.

Here it is again:

There. See it now? A 50% off sushi special and a R39 lunch box deal.

With slightly lifted spirits, I scurried across the road, through the revolving doors, into the wrong restaurant, back out again, up the stairs and into the Eastern Palace Sushi Thaifood Noodle Bar. Whereupon my spirits sat back down, crossed their arms and pouted.

A scene from Dante’s Third Circle of Hell: Melancholic Sushi-Eaters Stuck In An Eternal Lunch Hour

It was too late to retreat as a waitress had already spotted me and ushered me into a seat at the sushi bar. On examination of the flyer, the R39 lunch box was about as exciting as something they’d serve in a school cafeteria in Blackpool, and the seared tuna option wasn’t available. Without daring to examine the rotating sushi too closely, I opted for that instead.

Usually I am an economical sushi eater for the simple reason that sushi makes me feel full. One eight-piece roll and I’m done. However, it took three plates of four pieces each before I gave up yesterday. Not that I was replete. Rather, I realised that eating a small bowl of Tastic sprinkled with wasabi, ginger and soy sauce would have been tastier and more satisfying. It would almost certainly have been cheaper too.

Sad Stack: At R45, my three plates of sushi weren’t even worth the half-price price.

The moral of the story: If you’re in a Not Very Good Mood, don’t try to get out of it with half-price sushi.

On the bright side, at least this wasn’t my car.

Lunch #13: Quiche, Salad and White Chocolate Tart from Bread, Milk and Honey

I’m pretty sure I haven’t mentioned it, because it’s a bit embarrassing, but after the Yummy Politician and I spent a week at Bulungula over New Year’s and ate enormous quantities of Xhosa bread for breakfast, lunch and dinner while doing Not Very Much in between, I’ve been on a Strict Diet. A Strict Diet (for me) involves drinking fewer than five  units of alcohol a day, not eating Xhosa bread (much easier since we left Bulungula) and not having pudding with every meal except breakfast (and, at a push, not having pudding for breakfast).

As a result, I’ve been avoiding one of my favourite lunch places of late. Perhaps I should apologise for not writing about this place sooner, but I get the feeling that everyone who’s ever been in Cape Town for more than 30 seconds knew about Bread, Milk and Honey before I did. Certainly every Member of Parliament, parliamentary lawyer and environmental lobbyist does. So did the Colleague Who Likes Vintagey Things And Doesn’t Tell People About Nice Food Markets. So, you probably know Bread, Milk and Honey too, but I’m going to write about it anyway. So there.

Bread, Milk and Honey is on Spin Street, which I think is possibly the best name for a street I’ve ever come across. There is a hydro-power installation somewhere in South Africa called The Collywobbles, which is the best name for anything in the world ever. We drove past the sign for it on the way back from Bulungula. I didn’t get a photo because we were going a bit fast.

On the face of it, Bread, Milk and Honey, which serves lots of tasty, healthy salads, would seem to be the ideal place for a Person On A Strict Diet to go. There are two crosses against it, however.

Cross #1: There’s a buffet. A very good buffet.

Crap photo. Excellent buffet.

I’ve written about my problem with diets and good buffets before. Fortunately, the problem is only severe when the buffet is free. The BMH buffet costs about R5/gram (so less than the Melissa’s buffet, but still on the high side for my spartan lunch budget). Over time I’ve worked out that if I get a quiche and a couple of spoons of salad, I can feel both virtuous and economical. I’m a pro by now, so my portion yesterday cost R30,80.

Cross #2: The Puddings

See how good they are? Some of them are finished already. The plates with none left or only one left add a sense of urgency to pudding purchases.

This is much more tricky to deal with. Yesterday I breathed a big sigh of relief because my Nemesis, The Dark Chocolate Tart, was not there. However, if you look to the left of the photograph, you’ll notice danger lurking.

Yup, they had a NEW kind of chocolate tart: a White Chocolate Tart With Berries. There was only one left…

The guy behind the counter told me it was ‘very good’. Which is more than I can say for myself.

Lunch #12: The Eleven-Egg Omelette at The Company Gardens with Seven Fashionable Women

Recently, someone I work with got older. (It was, in fact, the colleague who utterly failed to inform me about the Earth Fair Food Market.) This colleague is fond of Vintage things, so we decided to celebrate by eating lunch somewhere with a Vintage Vibe. Since the restaurant at The Company Gardens hasn’t updated its menu since the 80s, it was the obvious choice. As an added bonus, it is also possibly the only restaurant in the world with a tornado in the middle of its seating area.

OMG! A tornado! In the middle of the tea garden! Flee!

Okay, it’s actually a tree. But I think it does a jolly good impression and deserves some encouragement.

The day the Colleague Who Likes Vintage Things chose to age on was also the day Cape Town chose to start having a heat wave. ‘Heat wave’ is actually a stupid phrase. Waves are cool things that rush past leaving you refreshed, if somewhat sandy in out-of-the-way places. This heat wave (which is still going strong, by the way, which is why I’m spending lunch at my computer blogging, instead of roaming around looking for cheap crap to buy)… sorry, this heat wave is more like being caught in a lava flow – long, slow and extremely uncomfortable.

Anyway, I and seven very fashionably-dressed women exited the coolth of our air-conditioned office, walked several hundred metres in the blistering sun and sat in the shade pretending to be comfortable.

One table ordered toasted sandwiches and chips. The other table ordered omelettes and salad. I happened to be at the omelette table. I had planned to order a toasted sandwich and chips, but realised my mistake just in time and ordered the cheese and tomato omelette.

One of the charms of The Company Gardens restaurant is that they use Vintage Cheese. This is the kind of cheese they made before people realised that cheese wasn’t naturally bright orange and that we’d probably be better off with fewer colourants in our food. The Company Gardens restaurant was also obviously suffering from a Surfeit Of Eggs.

This is a painful condition for any restaurant. When you have an egg surfeit, it’s very important to find a simple, strategic way to get rid of them, fast. Eggs are not only tricky to store, being fragile, but they give off a terrible pong when time runs out. And so, restaurateurs of the world, I present to you The Grand Solution To A Surfeit of Eggs (courtesy of The Company Gardens): The Eleven-Egg Omelette!

This picture doesn’t do the Eleven-Egg Omelette justice, since seven of the eleven eggs have already been eaten. Sorry about that.

Not-A-Lunch #1: How To Transport A Trifle

Merry Christmas everybody!

I hope you are all gorging yourselves on various delectable dishes at lunch locations wherever you may be.

Today, in the Festive Spirit of Sharing, I would like to share with you my newfound expertise in Trifle Transportation.

Last night, the Bodacious Blonde Zombie Lover (an extremely attractive friend of mine) invited a cluster of other zombiephiles to her house for Christmas Eve festivities. Some were to make Eggnog, some prepared Gammon and the BBZL even planned to construct a Genuine Gingerbread House. My mission, since I chose to propose it, was to Bring A Trifle.

Making a trifle is very easy (as long as you’re the kind of person who can follow the instructions on a packet of jelly) so I won’t cover that here. One thing I will quickly note, however, is that sponge cake can soak up a great deal of rum. So if you were planning to drink any of the rum, do that before you start making the trifle.

How To Transport A Trifle In 10 Rather Tricky Steps

  1. Obtain large, shallow, precariously-balanced glass bowl.
  2. Fill almost to the brim with trifle, making sure that jelly is not set and that custard is very runny.

    Note the carefully stencilled pattern on top. Nope, it didn’t work at all.

  3. Pick up bowl and observe how trifle sloshes. It should resemble a cream tsunami.
  4. Pour large glass of wine. (For nerve-calming purposes.)

    If you didn’t use all the rum in the trifle, you could substitute rum for wine.

  5. Buy XBox Kinect combo set. Take out XBox and Kinect unit (you can throw them away or use them as doorstops) but keep box. This is your Trifle Transportation Unit (TTU).

    The TTU can be stored in the garage. Small amounts of dust and worm-damage do not diminish its effectiveness.

  6. Wrap cling film around top of  bowl and place bowl in TTU.

    The TTU comes with encouraging, if somewhat confusing, instructions.

  7. Place old towel on floor of car. Place TTU on old towel.

    Thanks to the TTU, this need not be the last time you ever have a Trifle-Free Car.

  8. Wedge TTU in with more old towels and car seat.

    A large supply of old towels is essential. As is a very small car.

  9. Drive very very very very very smoothly, avoiding acceleration, braking, turning and all hills.
  10. Arrive at destination and scream helplessly until someone opens door for you.

I fear that it’s probably too late to be of use to you this year, and that many of you may already be suffering from Cream On The Car Carpets and Custard In The Lap. But I feel proud to know that next year, when you again face the Terror of Trifle Transportation, you may just escape unscathed thanks to this handy little guide.

No thanks are necessary. Think of this as my Christmas gift to you.

Ho ho ho.

Lunch #11: Pizza, Salad and Zombies at The Pasta Factory

First I have to confess that the lunch I’m describing now took place a week ago. If it had happened today, I would not have been able to blog about it.

This is owing to new and rather strict blogging controls at my place of work. People have been hauled from the building (sometimes without even being allowed to reach the ground floor first) for blogging during work hours. Okay, they haven’t really, but stern words have been spoken, some of them to me.

So right up front, I wish to make it very clear: this post was definitely not written during official working hours.

If that is clear to everyone, I will now get on with the lunch.

As usual, I broke my own rule of sticking to lunch spots in Long Street. The Pasta Factory is in Park Road, which is just off Kloof Street which, as everyone knows, is really just Upper Long Street. So I think that’s close enough. Besides, ‘One Woman’s Quest For Lunch within Walking Distance of an Office in Gardens’ doesn’t have a very catchy ring to it.

When you arrive at The Pasta Factory, they give you a plastic credit card that they swipe every time you order something. Unfortunately, just like a credit card, you do have to pay it off in the end.

As usual, I went with the YP. The YP was in an Odd Mood, possibly because he’d arranged to have people over for dinner that evening and he can’t actually cook anything besides stir-fry. I insisted, maybe a bit tactlessly, that I wasn’t in the mood for stir-fry.

Then, when it came to ordering, we both wanted the pizza. The Pasta Factory is (was?) running a special where there are three items on the menu each day for only R30 each. Last Friday, there was a pizza, a salad and some other thing that I can’t remember now because it was last Friday. I insisted that we share a pizza and a salad, even though the YP just wanted pizza and didn’t want salad. The YP tried to get the waitress on his side, but she was as neutral as Sweden (although not as chilly).

Between the stir-fry and the pizza, the YP was starting to look a little sulky. This was probably not the right time to mention that I expected him to join me in dressing up as a zombie  and doing the Zombie Walk the next (this) weekend. The Zombie Walk involves lots of people dressed as zombies walking – although preferably staggering – from The Company Gardens to the V&A Waterfront, attempting to scare people along the way and then drinking beer afterwards. (Little known zombie fact: When there’s a shortage of brains, beer will do.) Zombie walks are popular all over the world and it’s about time Cape Town had one. If you’re keen on coming, you can find out about it on Facebook.

The YP was not keen. I demonstrated my best zombie walk for him. He remained unconvinced. I pulled several of my very impressive zombie faces. The YP just stared at a pizza that had been delivered to a nearby table. “It doesn’t look very big,” he said. As I dished out a heap of cos lettuce, I offered to show the YP an excellent video on how to turn yourself into a zombie. He looked down at his lettuce leaves glumly.

The large piles of lettuce and the almost adequate pizza. This was the last photo I could take, as in true BlackBerry style, my phone then froze and I had to take the battery out and wait three years for it to reboot.

As it turned out, the pizza was big enough for two (just). I have since worked out that the probable cause of the YP’s antipathy to zombies is that he himself is actually a werewolf. (If you are wondering whether you might also be a werewolf, take this highly scientific werewolf test.) Cunningly, I have suggested that he dresses up as a vampire for Halloween. That, I reckon, should throw the werewolf hunters off the scent.

Happy Halloween everyone!

P.S. There is also a reliable zombie test, for all my fellow walking dead. (I aced it.)

Lunch #10: Salami, Avo and Brie Roll with Travelly-Type People at Yours Truly

I’ve been rather peeved today. Firstly, because it’s Monday, and the weather is better than it was on either Saturday or Sunday. Secondly, because I keep getting updates from the YP about the amazing time he is having in Switzerland. Things like, “I am on top of Europe and it is magnificent.” So far I’ve managed not to reply, “I am doing my laundry and it is deadly dull.”

Just before lunch today I got an SMS telling me about watching a glorious sunrise over the lakes at Interlaken while on a train heading to Locarno. I love Interlaken and Locarno. I love trains and lakes and sunrises. I miss the YP. The question was: Could a Long Street Lunch save me from dejection?

I decided I needed bread and cheese, because that’s what I would be eating if I were in Switzerland. I remembered a cute little sandwich shop I’d bought a roll from once before and headed there. On the way I noticed two things:

1. After their vicious pruning a couple of months ago, the roses are blooming again in the Company Gardens.

I know the things at the front aren’t roses. But the picture would have been a bit brown without them. Note how I’ve included the yellow of the cigarette stompie for additional colour. These are the things you learn to capture as a top travel photojournalist.

2. Bob’s (The Home of the R10 Shooter) is now offering R29 pizzas.

Was I tempted? Not particularly.

When I got to Yours Truly (I didn’t know it was called Yours Truly before, but now I do. I pay attention to these things especially for you) one lucky thing happened and one unlucky thing happened. The lucky thing was that two nice Travelly-Type people I know were already there and had just ordered their rolls. I invited myself to sit at their table.

The unlucky thing was that, just as I bit into my roll, I remembered that Yours Truly doesn’t take credit cards. I knew this because I’d tried to buy a roll there once before using my credit card. At least that time I hadn’t yet taken a bite of it (the roll, not the credit card).

It was awkward. The Travelly-Type Person I knew well enough to borrow money from had already borrowed money from the other Travelly-Type Person, who I didn’t know well enough to borrow money from, having only met once before. I was thus forced to eat my roll with the matter of its payment undecided.

While we ate, we discussed the following:

  • Other amazing places to eat lunch at and blog about.
  • A mutual friend who works at CityMob
  • The amazing half-price deal CityMob has on for Table Mountain Cable Car memberships. (If you’re interested, it’s on until Wednesday. I bought two.)
  • Whether there’s any chance of Table Mountain being successful in the ‘New 7 wonders’ campaign, or if the whole thing is a money-making scheme and is rigged.

I am sure you are dying to know how I solved the problem of the cash for the roll. Did I wash dishes? Did I busk on the pavement by singing my Potato Song? Did I call a bomb scare?

Well, I will put you out of your misery. Leaving my handbag as a hostage with the Travelly-Types, I went to the cafe next door and drew cash from the ATM there. Which is what I recommend you do too, if you ever find yourself in the same situation as yours truly at Yours Truly.

There is usually an unchained bicycle parked outside Yours Truly, but I don’t think it would be suitable to use as an escape vehicle should you not have the means to pay your bill.