Big Luck Gravy Soakers

I pretend to know a lot about wine. Winemakers. Estates. Fine vintages. You could say I have an educated palate. My medical condition not withstanding. I know my Cape from my South of France to the New World. I keep successive editions of the Platters and salivate over the uber connoisseur Yegas Naidoo. But that's just snobbery. I have been deceived by Odd Bins and Château de Box, even the kraaitjie papsak.  Not so with potatoes. Being a native of my beloved Chatsworth I consider myself the Britannica of the humble tuber. I know my Cape Douglas from my UTD. I know my Big Lucks, my Gravy Soakers and my Melting Moments. No mutton, live fowl or cornish curry is complete without just the right potatoes. It must be soft and soaked right through. Hard potatoes or water potatoes will perish a cook's reputation forever. Forget the harm to reputation. The fella that sold the potatoes in Bangladesh or the early morning market in town will be in for a really good hiding. It's not unlikely that the cook will carry the rest of the offending pocket back to the market and throw it right back at him. That's no mean feat carrying the pocket back to the market. Once the pockets were 15kg in a tough brown paper bag. If you were shy on wrapping paper for school books you could use the unprinted inner layer. The Chatsworth dagga merchants still use the inner for wrapping their kaitjies.  Nowadays the pockets have slinked down to 10kg and more commonly 7kg. Even so, marketing the potatoes is aggressive business with vendors shouting prices and purported qualities at the top of their voices. Interest in a pocket will likely have the vendor snappily tip the pocket into a huge plastic dish.  In a glance the buyer could gauge the quality right through and confirm that no rotten potatoes lie hidden in the bag. A "taste and buy" principle applies to most items in the market.  Not uncommon to walk past a display of grapes at a stall and pop a few in the mouth. Vendors often peel a naartjie and offer segments or slice pieces of ripe mango. Admittedly it is more difficult with raw potatoes. My friend of forty odd years Neville does his mother's weekly shopping at Bangladesh. I will have to find out the latest on potato buying techniques. One thing for sure though - like Ken's Mercedes buying habits you don't change brands midway. If it's Cape Douglas it's Cape Douglas all the way. Even a blind man can tell one cook's curry from another through the texture of the potatoes and the taste of the gravy. I have become quite partial to Sam's cornish.  I have resisted a glass of wine to go with the cornish. On account on my medical condition, you understand.

The baked beans chow

It's Ken's birthday. August 23. He shares it with my niece Cherne who turns 21. More about her later. Ken is a towering personality. Since the early eighties he has been our  undisputed leader.  Our being the drainrats styled as the Glenover Class of 85.  Quite how he succeeded in that feat I cannot quite fathom. Suffice to use Veena's eloquent Unit 3 adage, "Park dom, live long."  Ken has always played dom. Parked in the shadows. Concealed under that veneer is a Minora sharp wit. Minora being the blade we had our first shaves with in our native Chatsworth. In Budgie's case half a shave because he was interrupted. I'll have to tell that story another time.  On the phone to Maggie in Bangkok last night Ken was uppermost in our conversation. We marvelled at just how clever he was.  In both Ken and my books, Maggie is something of an aristocrat. Her opinion matters, on every subject. We agree that she is the most most accomplished woman we know yet as simple as a garden twig. Maggie set up a WhatsApp group for our little club. The exchanges are raucous. No one is spared. I don't want to give too much away. Ken might yet craft that into a bestseller. I am his publicist so be assured it will fly off the shelves. The last five days were dedicated to a countdown to Ken's birthday.  The loop was Hong Kong, Melbourne, Kyoto, Bangkok, Durban and Jozi. I kid you not. Once Chatsworth was our universe. Now the whole world is our oyster. Veena will get that one. She's a clever girl too. Reduces the complexities of the world to song lyrics. Ken even made a video a few minutes to midnight bowing to his friends. That video went viral. Well Ken is a migrant. He moved from Glenover High School  7D to 8A. That would be 1983. 8A was the premier league.  Ken came with Theron.  Theron was one of the three kulumanses. Since Sam is a social science professor and a Scrabble master she can unpack that in a Chatsworth dictionary. From that moment Ken became our leader. He introduced us into the bowels of Bangladesh. It's drugs, it's gangs,  it's women, the generosity of its heart and spirit. He watched over us steering us away from the roughest stuff and letting everyone know that we enjoyed his personal protection. Our base was Ken's flat. Block 31 Bangladesh.  Well the flat actually belonged to his aunt Loretta and her husband Rogers.  While they were out at work or away we had the run of the place. Drinking, fornicating and cooking. It's the cooking that is my best memory. Ken cooked the best baked beans chow in the world. Our daily routine was hustling a few bobs wherever we could for the chow. Elaine was a frequent contributor to the fund and whenever we were short we could tap Pam.  Ken had a way with his fundraising. He could charm the panties off a nun. We bought the can of baked beans  from Narsais,  Ismails or Shaiks in the unit 3 shopping centre. Along with half a loaf of bread we had all the ingredients for a good chow. If the funds were more we made it two cans and a whole  loaf. If the hungry (hongeras) were greater in number than the funds then Ken just added more of Loretta 's  tomatoes to the brew.  If we managed to tap Thavan then we got him to buy baked beans with Viennas. Coupled with Loretta's curry powder,  the baked beans bunny was Michelin star  stuff. Good enough to scoop off the floor. Ken will remember that. Better still if we had a dop and hilarious when we could get Babyface Clive drunk. We never succeeded in teaching Neville to drink. Now Ken is a good cook. Not as good as Manogaree but he is sharp. He can rustle a solid chow in minutes.  In every other matter he is deliberate and slow.  The handsome Moodley twins Mutt and Jeff, Trevor and Ravi christened him Speedy alternatively known as Sputnik .  The twins are not to be confused with the handsomest of the crew Seelan who was going to be the designated driver of the fast Datsun, Ken bought to take us to the matric dance. That car never made it out of the pit stop. Nowadays Ken owns  a Mercedes Benz E  class!  He might be sharp but he is still slow. Which brings me back to my niece Cherne.  In  few weeks she will leave to train with the Russian Air  Force as a commissioned officer of the South African Air Force . Extraordinary at 21! Brings tears to my eyes as we are Chatsworth people scaling the the tallest frontiers.   No doubt she will be flying from one of the bases that launched Sputnik and flying some of the world fastest fighter jets.. Happy birthday to them both.