But it is fitting that our lunch today warrants a new entry – because this restaurant was unusual in the Cape scene for its casual achievement.

It’s called Mon Plaisir and it’s at the bottom of the Hartenberg Road, of the Bottelary Road, Stellenbosch. Run by David and Celine, both Francophiles who previously moved around Africa and had a restaurant in Burkina Faso, they have now quietly opened this spot in the winelands.

It’s well worth a drive. From Bloemfontein. Just to see what a country restaurant could be. Clear flavours, good ingredients and a fine wine list (helped by a stellar selection of French wines). The menu is small and helped by a menu du jour: duck liver terrine, calamari salad, lamb noisette and flageolet, sirloin in a red wine reduction – this was our lunch, along with some Burgundy. The ingredients are fresh, the dishes are lovingly prepared, the place is neat and wonderfully tranquil (on a pond with a deck to enjoy) and the owners are on hand in the peaceful way of people who love food, and understand the dining experience.

You can’t buy this reality in food. You can’t train it. Get there.

021 865 2456. Wed-Sun lunch and dinner, but only lunch Sun.

For the Hungry Man, who had eaten at The Fat Duck and DOM amongst other Icari in the last year, The Tasting Room was in the same league, which is quite something for a local restaurant. To explain the caveat: No matter how much I want to believe that our good places are on par with the best in the world, I don’t think we have many tables that you could confidently tell internationals to fly over to for a meal. Sure, it is often the ludicrously beautiful setting or the ridiculously good prices that tip the scale positively in our favour, but an experience that is untainted by any whiff of condescension is rare.

So, although I have written about this evening in a previous post, the HM encouraged me to return to my thoughts, and here they are.

It was a warm evening, and the sun that still streamed into the dining room (a little overtly African for my tastes) was distracting for the first half an hour. I don’t like being baked while eating the coddled. Since I am at it, here are the other gripes: the pianist was loud, the winelist is poor. So, with that done, you can see there was not a great deal to moan about – and we were on high whinge alert. Service was smooth, personable and intelligent too.

Wood pidgeon, duck and foie gras ballotine with a peach and rooibos chutney:
The first of eight dishes that arrive as works of food art. You stop and look. You discuss and stare. You wonder how to move in on it. This first dish was full of complementary mellow flavours, all charged by the POW of the chutney.

Organic lamb tartare, blood sausage and confit rillette:
Deep earthy bass flavours, layered textures, with a cauliflower mash infused with truffle. There were these little dots of colour on many of the dishes, like on this one – these we discovered were little acid-spots of hallucinogenic flavour, often foils to the main flavours.

Monkfish, red steenbras, shellfish navarin in a burnt orange broth:
Brilliantly cooked steenbras, great monkfish but over an undercooked potato fondant and an oversalted broth made this the only dish that was not perfectly cooked in all departments.

Sumac-seared tuna, potato, olive caesar salad and tomatillo:
A wsiwyg dish, but perfectly executed, the tuna an absolute study in freshness. Colour and texture ace.

Lacquered pork belly, crayfish and oxtail risotto, potato koeksisters and cherry jus:
Intense, deep and powerful flavour on the pork; dancing with the “surf and turf” risotto that could have been its own dish. Koeksisters are a type of doughnut (not usually made from potato but flour) and here they added mainly a playful touch. (But the chef will have other ideas, no doubt).

Orange-roasted wildebeest rump, potato and lamb neck fondant, mango atchar, almonds:
More meat on meat. This dish had “old South Africa” flavours of venison with citrus and fruit and offset by the almond. The fondant was convincingly rich, something of an outlier in the concept, but again I am probably wrong.

Porcini-crusted gemsbok, mushroom and three bean salad, sweetbread and foie gras ravioli, cep jus:
The blowout, a monster of depth and calorific intensity – enlivened by a genius cep vinaigrette brush on the plate. Praise be to reduction of cep.

Double-baked asiago souffle, tomatillo and granny smith salad, spiced nuts:
A wonderful technical achievement, with the lift of the acid in the salad and the crown of crunchy nuts.

After the meal, we learnt that Margot Janse, the head chef, was not in the kitchen on this evening, would she have caught the undercooked potato?

Aside from the Hungry Man’s remonstrations that he is not, in fact, a fish snob, there was little to report on. HM is of course a fish snob, but he has the good fortune of being in with fishermen and women and eats the blighters straight off the boat, often as sashimi. The facsimile that often ends up on the restaurant table is therefore treated with suspicion.

Yesterday we ate at a new place operated by a friend of ours and run by his mom, the wonderful Judy Badenhorst (ex of River Cafe, Constantia). Lucky Store is deeply quirky, set in the building where the general dealer was in a small winelands community. It’s very local, and very South African. Novilon tiles, shiny washable walls (where the menu is written), melamine table tops. The food is plain but tasty, the kind of place that sardines on toast is a regular for breakfast (and we all know that this kind of place only exists at home).

There is some residual unease… the whities pull into a previously disadvantaged community and turn the general dealer into a “shabby chic” eatery, one which the locals never go to. In this case, they apparently do, so I look forward to seeing that.

We had the only starter, a beetroot and goat’s cheese salad. It came after our main course, a venison pie with stewed sweet potato, but all was hastily devoured, followed by a superb carot cake. Beware wine snobs: take your own wine and expect to drink it from tumblers.

Lucky Store. Idas Valley (at the circle). 072 9082155

PS The subject of e-marketing was given a whole speaker and an hour, but very poorly interpreted, maybe more later. It was both not a good intro to blogs, flicker, etc; nor in depth analysis. Pity. Most people were simply confused.

Well, it’s not absolutely the case, we did eat a little, but then sent everything back. And the point is that the owner came out to make a personal apology and to offer the (non)meal, wine and coffee on the house, which is something that quite a few restaurateurs would never find in their hearts or bottom lines to do. (They probably have a bottom line where their heart should be – but to be less flippant, it’s amazing how few restaurateurs understand the psychology of selling food, that you aren’t selling a piece of fish, but an experience, a personal connection). The comped wine we drank is made by a viticulturist, Aidan Morton, called Morton Shiraz 2004 and it’s a modern baby, plush with ripe fruit and generous wooding, but all pretty well done, if not very memorable. Wine, too, is less about what is in the bottle than what the story is, and this wine has none really. At least none that is being told. When I returned to Beads a fed days later with Ariane (to reciprocate the owner’s gesture) we drank another wine that tells no story, though Capetonians assume there is one by the name (which turns out to be misleading).

Tamboerskloof Shiraz 2003 is not made in the suburb of Cape Town and neither do the grapes come from there, from some suburban vineyard delightfully still extant. It’s made in Stellenbosch at Kleinood, and the producer has not left a shred of story on the label to hint at the reason for the name. I tried the Lamb Wellington again and it was now delicious, with some well cooked polenta instead of the wet tile it was before. Prededed this with an open ravioli of mushroom and courgette, delightful. Ariane ate a delicately cooked piece of sole, and then our time ran out. The place is flagrantly vaudeville in puce and glass trinkets and draping fabric, but the house its in is sombre and old enough to carry the affair off. Of The Hungry Man I have little to add this time round. He is well, and his health is good. Very preoccupied with work though.

Another group of two sat and tasted through the range of Guardian Peak wines, coming across the SMG, before known as Shiraz, Mourvedre, Grenache but now renamed as “Sub Machine Gun”. We also tasted this, along with pretty much all the other wines. We were enthralled by the scenery, as I mentioned, and such thralls are impossible to rush.

The concept here is that the kitchen has designed a dish to suit each of the wines. The plates are modern classics like loin of lamb with ratatouille and mushroom ravioli and the quality is reasonable, even though our selection veered between heavily seasoned for the mushroom ravioli to barely seasoned for the prawn and calamari with tomato, chermoula and cous cous. This last dish had succulent seafoods but that’s where its charms ended. Before I forget, the coffees were cold.

Service, however, was warm, and Ryan was happy to serve us wines by the glass that did not form a part of our expensive wine-and-plate combos. The wines by the glass were equally dear, but then again, there was Ernie Els memorabilia to be bought alongside the tasting counter and a glossy lifestyle-of-Ernie magazine for free.

The wines were good, soft and generous but with some distinct class, especially when it came to the Frontier 2004, a cab-shiraz-merlot blend – CSM: Controlled Stealth Missile? The bomb (if I may be clumsy) was the Merlot 2004 with ugly wooding and jangly fruit.

The Hungry Man has a SAA ticket to fly anywhere in the world, the result of being inconvenienced on a previous trip. We discussed going somewhere together on a wine and food exploration, but I made the mistake of asking if we could share the windfall of one free ticket.

Perhaps I will get a ride in his new car one day.

It’s not that this place in the small heart of Pringle Bay is unknown, in fact it has a staunch following of locals and “in-the-know” Capetonians who like to think of it as their little secret. Since the place only accommodates 24-odd people, it’s easy to pretend exclusivity. While the Hungry Man was there this particular day, he was a pale shadow of his usual ebullient self, restrained by the very loud presence of another friend. So let this chronicle of our eating adventures simply serve as a marker, and be entered for the sake of completeness.

Stephan is the owner’s name here, a burly ex-diamond diver with curiously quivering lips that pucker and flutter as he concentrates over the hearth. He is assisted by his wife, and between the two of them, they take care of all the business. Now diamond divers have a reputation for hard drinking, hard living and other random extreme physical exertions. Not many actually take enough diamonds out of the sea to get out of the game, so they are forced to remain trapped in the icy waters of the west coast for the rest of their able lives. It is romantic stuff.

Stephan got out, whether by windfall or good sense I don’t know. He became a fisherman with a shop that sold his harvest, and a few years ago “expanded” this into a small restaurant where he cooks whatever’s fresh in iron skillets on the coals. This place is as basic as they come. Brick walls where graffitti is encouraged, wooden bench tables, toilets odourously crammed between the dining area and the crayfish tank. His hearth is in the middle of the space, and he moves in and out from it while telling all guests in his booming baritone what it is they can expect to eat.

A choice of two starters usually includes one fish soup, usually a chowder. Then the main affair, served from the coals to the table on the iron skillet. Basmati rice indecently slathered with butter is your only foil to the fish, about five kinds of the freshest fish, cooked beautifully. Expect some that you are not in the habit of seeing often, for his sources are legion and specialised, but he pretty much always has tuna in season.

This is communal eating. Thay have a few wines to choose from, but you’re welcome to BYO, happy that the chef may exact his tax, a taster. But he only likes monster reds and whites that have splinters to impale your palate. Later he comes round with his blowtorch to offer you his creme brulee or his chocolate pot, the only desserts.

And just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water… he does not cook fish on Wednesday and Sunday nights, when its a steak fest. And all lunches (except Sunday) are simple fish and chips, not the extravaganza.

Book ahead. The Hungry Man does approve of it, even if hasn’t had much to say here. He did say “it was a result”.

028 273 8688

Shortly before his departure to the northern kitchens, I sent him to eat at Manna Epicure on Kloof Street for a business lunch, and he was not impressed. “It’s a wank” could have been his words, though he is not usually one to employ such gutter language. I’ve just had breakfast there today, and I must say it is rather whimsical/feminine/frosted/pretentious – you take your pick. Basically, not for everyone, but definitely for groups of city femmes on coffee-party-with-gifts detail, and gay men. The breakfast was good, though the toasted coconut bread was too sweet for the eggs. The coffee was poor.

Which is a good link to Zanddrift. At the end of a three hour lunch, you ask for espresso at a country venue with some trepidation. If they have it, it’s probably the stove-top variety and hard and acidic. Ours arrived beautifully balanced, with a bouffant crema. So we ordered another to be sure. Then another. Then a double. By now we were standing at the counter of the used-to-be hotel where Edwina, the eccentric proprietor, has her till, telephone and various drinks, including buchu brandy and schnapps. It was the latter that suggested the double.

The Hungry Man had already visited Zanddrift on my recommendation and liked it due to Edwina’s relaxed acceptance of his two dogs. They moved over to the garden and looked around while the humans lunched. This garden also featured towards the end of our lunch, for Edwina took us on a short walk-about, looking for a suitable few roses that Hungry Man could present to his girlfriend. It’s that kind of place, set in a quaint hamlet off the roaring N2 highway. Stormsvlei is the name of the settlement, and it’s seen more reason for its existence in times gone by, when it had a Laird (who was gunned down, and other interesting stories). The restaurant is set in a hotel that was built in the early 20th century, and the other buildings include the old police station, goal, and manor house (still inhabited by the land-lord).

The hotel is now divided into three businesses. First a dried and fresh flower shop, then a small wine shop specialising in local bottles, then Edwina’s diner. The whole is very old school South African, those brown veneer, egg-shell wall and dark floor interiors that belong to old post offices, schools and government offices.

I say diner because Edwina’s menu is unchanging: It simply says “take it or leave it”. She cooks what’s fresh and what’s available, though I must say that I consistently get to eat kassler chops here, as well as a great liver pâté. And when porcinis are in season, this is the place for them. She loves this shroom, in a creamy sauce over beef. So, aside from a very Germanic salad (green leaves and vinaigrette) you get: bread and pâté, then a platter of meaty delights including a stew of some sort, all with sliced, fried potatoes. You can opt for a soup du jour. You can later also opt for the cheese cake (a very good option).

The food is home-cooking at its finest. Nothing flash, nothing nouvelle, all tasty. The ambience, helped in no small measure by Edwina’s erratic visits to drop a phrase or two in her smoker’s drawl (like “a dirty child is a happy child”), makes you want to linger on and on, which is what people do. This is one of those less-known country gems, the essence of a good restaurant, hospitality, not replaced by graspings at fancy food or pretentious service.

And you take your own wine, which saw us make the most of a Beaumont Hope Marguerite Chenin Blanc 2004 and a pre-release Boekenhoutskloof Syrah 2004, both superb wines.

But I haven’t said much about us. We were smug, I recall, having the day to lunch so expansively. There was a power cut for the day on the farm where I live (the Beaumont wine farm), so there was no computer screen to pay homage to. The Hungry Man was still decompressing from the rigours of his recent work, so felt he owed himself this time. In the course of a four hour lunch, you cover considerable ground of course. But espressos can only recover so much of the finer detail that liberal glasses of wine softens and reshapes as monolithic memories of an immensely satisfying day.

Edwina’s place is open from nine to five every day except Saturdays.
Tel (028) 261-1167.