handtomouth

Like a ship in the night, like a Marie Celeste on the seas of Bree Street, Mishcuisine floats bright lit and glowing an ethereal green. And after a number of attempts, all thwarted by very wordly disincentives (closed now for lunch, no power in the building, the credit card machine doesn’t work) we entered the realm last night.

A group of four, or number down from six even before we walked through the inconspicuous door, we sat – the only table in the restaurant, both down and upstairs. Neatly laid tables all around, all set and lit. Upstairs bold art and more welcoming tables. And no people.

The kitchen, however, springs into excited motion when we sit. Flurries of knives and the promising sound of pots. We inspect the wine list. Our puzzlement deepens. All secondary producers, little choice, and odd choices. Like picking our way through a landmine-infested field, we choose in the hope of not having a shit bottle, never mind a safe one. The chef arrives, slightly sweaty and energetic. He charmingly runs through a few items, suggesting that the steak tartare is a winner (he’s been taught by a French chef on this) and the Caesar is tossed and ingredients mushed in front of you. Somehow he suggests that this makes it a little more like home, where you have control over the salad mix and ratio, but when he later performs this in a big pestle, he is the only one dancing with it.

We look through the small menu. A waiter, the third we’ve seen, arrives to take our order. We order in sequence, starters times three, she prompts us for our mains and we order in sequence, four, and then after going round the table she asks the first person what she is having for her main… once more.

This clarified, we wait, not long, before the chef bounces up to take our order. Surprised look, it’s taken. Bounces back and the knives flash and steak is tartared, tarts baked, salads assembled. The starters arrive quickly, we have a platoon of staff. The steak is not bad, but the accompanying fries are limp and greasy shoestrings. The goat’s cheese and caramelised apple tart is a soggy pile. The Caesar salad has the tang of cheap tubs of pre-minced garlic.

We await our main in trepidation. The chef has disappeared. When he rushes back in, its with a very busty woman who shoots a surprised look our way as if we are intruding at her club. She hurries upstairs and we don’t see her again. Could this be Mish?

The fish a a loose piece of some protein. The steak is steak, an tender, the mustard in the little pot is pre-fab and sweet. The duck is soft and fatty. The lamb shank is best, with waterblommetjies steamed. There is a stainless steel plate of vegetables on the table, the kind you saw on trains a decade ago, with three compartments: the holy trinity of… creamed spinach, pumpkin, and roast potatoes.

The dream continues and the staff seem endless. Our request for a bill results in little action for what seems like a good half hour. The chef has again disappeared. We must make an electronic bank transfer, preferably tonight, so that he can pay the staff… what? He is waiting for our one bill to pay wages? Is this the same every night? How does the place stay open? Is it even alive? We need to escape. I hope we did.

Mishcuisine. Somewhere at the bottom of Bree Street, Cape Town.
(021)421-2776