Another Damned Food Blog

Happy Christmas.

Jesus H. Christ. What a fucking night of debauchery. You’re supposed to feel reborn this morning but you don’t. Disprin wasn’t one of the disciples, was he, but he should’ve been. That’s right, Christmas fucking Day. You wake up and you’re hoping Mr. Claus has been good to you. Then comes the big kahuna: more eating and drinking! Christmas lunch with the relatives. People that are the same family but from a different planet. They arrive with potato bakes, warm beer (Christ, where do they still find Lion lager!) and red napkins with Santa on them. The Cat Stevens starts to play. Your aunt shows you the 2 million photographs she’s taken this year because she thinks she’s the new Annie Leibowitz. Your uncle gives you a big slap on the back and paraphrases Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad for 15 painful minutes. Your cousins are at least cool. If you’re living in Welkom. During the 60’s. In a fallout shelter. Lunch time! Graca corks pop. The JC Le Roux flows like it were champagne. Put on your paper hat. Snap that fucking cracker. What’d you get! Yes, a little bit of deaf-in-one-ear, yay! Table full of food. Gammon so dry the water glasses move toward it in sympathy. You decide not to overdo it. You nibble on some salad while your cousin’s strange dog nibbles on the edge of your favourite chair. Everyone sucks in food like it’s the last they’ll ever see. Somehow, you end up eating three plates full. You loosen that top button. You sip more wine. Cat Stevens wasn’t lying; it’s a wide fucking world if you eat this much. But you’re done. You’re finished. You can hardly breathe, let alone think about more food. Then the mince pies come out. Fuck.

Birds Boutique Cafe.

Squawk squawk motherfuckers. That’s right, this restaurant’s for the birds. Bitches. Babes. Bengal tigers of the feminine sort. We could’ve called it Cougar Boutique Cafe. Old money yoga mamas with a baked-not-fried chip on their shoulder. Mature ladies dripping Louis V, iPods set to Kenny G, overdosed on Vitamin C. Mature hens tucking into chicken pie. The fucking irony kills me! “Scuse me while I call Mavis and check how the kids are doing. Order me the salad, doll. Caesar salad, dressing on the side. Rooibos tea with 5ml - no more! - of honey please, love. I’m in a rush, lady, I got a spraytan at four!” We don’t care. Tweet another baby picture lady. You think you can test us with your specialty orders? Have a fucking laugh bitches. We have the ultimate weapon of service destruction: the world’s slowest fucking waitress. We didn’t even hire her. She doesn’t even work here. She just walks around the room taking orders and ignoring them! Fucking amazing! Just when you thought you could outdo us, we take your patience and snap it like a rice cracker with low-fat cottage cheese spread. Haha! Who’s laughing now? Us! Not you, us. Yes, we got rid of those stupid fucking bird noises (to be honest, they were driving us batshit fucking crazy too). But we still got the milk crates and cushions cut from the old mattress in the spare room. R70 for a pie but we can’t afford furniture? Welcome to fucking Cape Town you rural donkeys you! Eat and fuck off like the best of them!

HQ.

Is that a salad? No, it’s a Fuck You. A middle finger. In your fucking nose. We don’t call it a salad. We call it hide and seek for pine nuts. A Parmesan retreat. A fucking cos lettuce artwork. A starter? Please bitch. Whet the appetite. Whatever, what the fuck do you know? You and your menus. Your underground meat cave. Your dodgy accent. Fuck menus. Forget choice. Screw alternatives. The customer is always right. Right about to get a knuckle sandwich. Do you know who we are? We own this fucking town. No choices. You want food? Steak bitches. that’s it. Steak steak steak. It’s from cows. Cows that basically live in a fucking animal spa. Only the best free range organic fair trade grass-fed French-manicured bovine are good for us. Cows so happy they fart perfume. Cows with fucking university degrees. From Harvard. Good fucking meat. Sirloin people, not fillet. Who gives a fuck if it’s tough sometimes? Who cares if the size varies? Medium rare? Medium shut your face or I’ll shut it for you. It’s coming underdone. Smothered in butter. Just eat it. Then go dance. Yeah we got a bar scene. Yeah we got a fucking white haired Julio Iglesias tapping the drums. Yeah we got players dropping cash on cocktails. Girls dripping bling. Oh shit, check your BBM bitch - Friday’s have gone all fucking Bellville. Blue chip slimeballs. Diamante cougars. We can’t help it. So long as they dropping dimes. We dropping beats. Lifting wallets. Faking smiles. Fuck you very much.

Spur.

How Chief! At Spur, we’ve earned our fucking spangled banner of Michelin stars and stripes. Our crew been here long before fatty duck restaurants and pubs-that-gave-you-bad-gastro came about. Fuck you very much, but it was us that put the fine in fine fucking dining. The hot in hot cuisine. Ya’ll should know that a great meal is an emotional experience. A journey to a place you haven’t been before. Even if that may just be a bathroom you’ve never used. Whatever, it’s about discovery. You think those American Injun names are for teenage giggles? Bull-fucking-turd. They’re the first part of the journey. We pioneered this shit. Welcome to the Wild West. Except here the Indians win. Way before Heston played sea-sounds while serving shitty kelp foam, we subliminally smooched your ears with our ‘Taste for Life’ soundtrack. Before Test Kitchen served raw beef, we served raw beef. You call it tartare. We call it undercooked. Vegetable tempura? We call it deep-fried mushrooms, bitches. Before Jamie protested for healthy lunches, we had a valley of fucking salads for kids to play in. We’ve served our famous deep-fried onion linguine since ‘74. Our 1000 Island dressing actually comes from 1000 islands. Our flame-grilled ribs tingle the palate more than any 16-hour slow roast shit. You want experience? Fuck, you can come here and colour shit in while you’re eating. Fuck artjamming. Forget drawing classes. And forget dance class too, because we own that caddy. Our new country-western linedance will have you fucking spinning, weaving and clicking greasy fingers. “A lil bit of moonshine, a lil bit of meat.” So we don’t serve moonshine, but we do have the meat. Buckets of it.* Along with the chips so flavourless you could marinade them in that BBQ sauce for a week and they’d still taste like paper. We’ve also got Indian headbands (American Indian headbands, not turbans) you can use all year round, not just Christmas. There’s a lot of craptalk in this food biz, but ya’ll very well fucking know Moses was hungover and parted the seas so he could come eat a Spur burger.

* - we don’t really serve buckets, that’s KFC.

Reuben Riffel.

From: Sandy Jones (Producer)
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 3:02 PM SAST
To: Reuben Riffel

Hi Reuben,

Please see latest script for next Robertson TV ad pasted in below. 
Think this one will be a goodie and will avoid more ‘ribbing’ (LOL, get it?) from your chef mates.

Best,
Sandy.


I’ve used Robertsons herbs all most of my life. 
For chicken I usually mix the Chicken Spice and Garlic Salt with some fresh olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice. 
Rub this all over the chicken and roast slowly. 
There’s many good chickens, but none this good.
Robertsons. What’s your combination.

From: Reuben Riffel
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 4:18 PM SAST
To: Sandy Jones (Producer)

Dearest Sandy,

Thanks for the script. Have made a few subtle changes, nothing worth really commenting on but you can see below.
 Please let me know if you’re not entirely happy.
 Love Reuben.


I’ve used Robertsons herbs for a small part of my life, mainly before I became a trained chef. When I was a young kid mostly, catching frogs and stuff.
For chicken I usually sous vide the chicken for 45 minutes to poach it. Then I make my own mix of fresh herbs from the garden, with lemon zest and olive oil, mixed in a mortar and pestle and then rub over the chicken. I brown the chicken in a roasting pan over a hot flame, then place in oven for 2 hours 07 minutes at 155’C. This allows the chicken to soak in the flavours.
There’s many good chickens, but none this good.
Reubens. What’s your combination.

From: Sandy Jones (Producer)
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 4:30 PM SAST
To: Reuben Riffel

Reuben,
Thank you for the suggested changes. Not sure if this is going to work though. Intro with childhood details a bit complicated. Not sure what a sous vida is (from vida e caffe?) but no doubt inappropriate - we can’t show other brands products on a Robertsons ad, tut tut. And most viewers won’t have a mortar and pestle at home. Also, you do realise this is an ad for Robertsons spices and your recipe doesn’t use them. ??
Can you please amend accordingly, thanks.
Regards,
Sandy.

From: Reuben Riffel
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 4:42 PM SAST
To: Sandy Jones (Producer)

Dear Sandy,
LOL, a sous vide is not from VIDA! But I guess not everyone has one at home, though most should have a mortar and pestle. Okay, I’ve adjusted the recipe again. Hopefully this time works perfectly. Am sure you’ll be happy.
Regards,
Reuben.

Hi, I’m Reuben from the One & Only Hotel in Cape Town, you should check it out if you haven’t been.
I’ve used Robertsons herbs once or twice. Who hasn’t?
For chicken I usually poach the chicken for 45 minutes in hot water. Then I make my own mix of fresh herbs from the garden, with lemon zest and olive oil, mixed by my bear-like hands and then I rub it over the chicken. I brown the chicken in a roasting pan over a hot flame, then place in oven for 2 hours-ish  on low heat. This allows the chicken to soak in the flavours. Once done, I sprinkle some Robertsons Dried Parsley around the plate for decoration.
There’s many good chickens, but none this good.
Robertsons. What’s your combination.

From: Sandy Jones (Producer)
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 4:50 PM SAST
To: Reuben Riffel

Dear Reuben,
Think we’re two ships drifting in different directions here. You CANNOT refer to the One & Only! You definitely need to simplify the recipe. And you MUST use the herbs in the recipe. Remember, this is for TV. People don’t actually follow it like it’s from one of your silly books. Please follow the brief.
Best,
Sandy.

From: Reuben Riffel
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 5:01 PM SAST
To: Sandy Jones (Producer)

Dear Sandy,
FFS! Fine. I’ve made changes as requested. Let’s not become flies in each others’ soups here. I haven’t made it out the Franschhoek ghetto into national culinary superstardom by being a pushover. I’ve got powerful friends. Even some black friends in Joburg. Don’t mess with me. Anyways, I’m sure it’s now where you need it to be, have a look.
Regards,
Reuben.
ps - my books aren’t silly and have won awards and shit, fyi

I’ve used Robertsons herbs all most part a bit of my life.
For chicken I usually mix the Chicken Spice and Garlic Salt with some fresh olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice. Rub this all over the chicken and roast slowly, like we do at Reuben’s Restaurant, Main Road, Franschhoek.
There’s many good chickens in the sea.
Robertsons. What’s your combination.

From: Sandy Jones (Producer)
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 5:10 PM SAST
To: Reuben Riffel

Reuben,
This is getting ridiculous now. This is NOT Masterchef. Let’s go with the original script as sent. Unless there’s something drastically you don’t agree with, no changes then.
I’m forwarding on with your approval, then we can get to work on the script for the lamb advert.
Best,
Sandy.

From: Reuben Riffel
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 5:21 PM SAST
To: Sandy Jones (Producer)

Lamb? WTF?? Is there really another Robertsons ad I have to do? And Jesus Christ! How many times did I say that I don’t like cooking fucking chicken, but no no no, I still help you out.
This shit is flying outta control, Sandy, like a fucking pot in Marco Pierre White’s kitchen. Fuck. I want to be like Gordon Ramsay, not Ainsley Fucking Harriot. These fucking ads have made me the butt of jokes in kitchens all over. Fuck it. I’m not the wooden spoon in your hand here. I’m not the parsley garnish on your roast salmon. I’m fucking Reuben ‘The Big Dog’ Riffel.
This is the last one. This is it. I’ve adjusted the script a final time. I’m sure you’ll find is perfect now. If no other changes then we’re done.
See you on set.
R.

I’ve used Robertsons herbs all or most of my life.
For chicken I usually mix the Chicken Spice and Garlic Salt with some fresh olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice.
Rub this all over the chicken and roast slowly.
There’s many good chickens, but this one & only recipe is the best.
Reuben of Reubens for Robertsons. What’s your combination.

From: Sandy Jones (Producer)
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 5:33 PM SAST
To: Reuben Riffel

Reuben.
Still sticking to the original as below.
Thanks for all your input.
Sandy.

I’ve used Robertsons herbs all most of my life. 
For chicken I usually mix the Chicken Spice and Garlic Salt with some fresh olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice. 
Rub this all over the chicken and roast slowly. 
There’s many good chickens, but none this good.
 Robertsons. What’s your combination.

From: Reuben Riffel
Subject: New Robertsons TV ad
Date: 10 October 2011 5:44 PM SAST
To: Sandy Jones (Producer)

Sandy,
Fuck it. Forget about the TV ad.
Launching my own spice range called Reubensons with the tagline “Tell me what’s your flavour.” Thinking about a jingle already. Suck on that. With some of my spices, naturally. Ha!
Goodbye,
Reuben

Reubens Franschhoek.
One & Only .
Reubensons Spices.

El Burro.

Eee-fucking-haw hombres! Who’s laughing now, bitches. Fuck Shrek’s sidekick. We’re the real donkeys. It’s our fucking name. El Burro is Spanish for “the red donkey that goes fucking missing often.” We’re auténtico. Arriba! Pass the Pacifica! Genuine Mexican food. South of the border shit. More guacamole than Guatemala. More tacos than Texas. More empanadas than Ecuador. You think we fucking spent three days in the back of a van crossing borders and seas to give you that cheddar cheese Chico the clown shit. This ain’t no fucking Fat Cactus, bitches. This ain’t no Nacho Libre movie, motherfucker. Don’t bring your Tex-Mex all up in our face ya’ll. Step in here and it’s like you’re in Mexico City. You might even get kidnapped, gonzalez. You might lose a fucking shoe. But you’ll have a great time. We got more tequila than BP got oil. More chilies than Fruit & Veg. We sauce you up like a 16-year old on spring break in Cancún. Fuck, some of our food sucked when we opened. But now we got a 67-year old mama from Jalisco in the kitchen. She can speak Mexinglish. She sweats agave juice. She can roll flour tacos out of corn. She’s like Paolo Coelho on heat. With a moustache. And a groin itch. You think that shit is cheap? Actually, it is. Very. Don’t tell anyone. We fucking busy here, gringo. Don’t cry donkey tears about the service. You’ll get your fucking chili popper once we’ve cooked it. After the soccer is over. Have another margarita. You’ll be happy like a fat guy with $20 in a Tijuana whorehouse here. Even our waitresses look Mexican. So bring your luchadore friend. And your piñata. And your best accent. Come nibble on our elotes. Just don’t fucking steal the donkey again. Gracias bitches.

JP Rossouw.

Rossouw’s Restaurants bitches. Like it says on the fucking book I’m holding. No that’s not Luke Wilson. That’s me. My book. That’s right. Real paper and shit. Mine ya’ll. You kids on the digiweb with your free blogs can go ALT+ CTRL+ DELETE your asses. Go wordpress your head against the fucking wall. Sure I got me some web skills. I’m savvy. But I don’t blog. I journal. I can control your Facebook timeline with my fucking mind. I’m the new old guard. I told it like it was before telling it like it is was what’s what. Before all you needed to be a critic was a fucking mouth and an internet connection. I was around when peeps still read the newspaper. When online was a fishing term. When iAfrica was a spelling mistake. I know my stuff ya’ll. That’s why I got a guide and ya’ll got shitty free Blogger templates. I’m the fucking SA Michelin guide. Black mark for you. for me motherfuckers. I’m serious. Principled. Lean. No, really. I’m not fat like them fucking turks. I’m a surfer. Point break dude. My favourite word is ‘ambience.’ My favourite colour is foie gras gray. My favourite flavour is success. 8-course tasting menu FTW. I’m straight ya’ll. If your fucking fish is bland I’ll say, “Why serve cardboard?” “Did you catch this at fucking Nampak?” “Is this a boxfish?” Ask me anything. Except where to eat well in Joburg. Fucking Chuck Norris doesn’t even know that. But I know other shit. Elementary. Another of my favourite words. JPR. That’s my stamp. BYO. Bring Your O-game. You may not agree with everything I say. But you’ll agree with everything I fucking write. Fine, and with everything I say. Whatever ya’ll. I got knowledge. Don’t mess on your napkin and expect me to laundry your tie. Independent bitches. Honest since 2004. Keeping it fresh.

vida e caffe.

Obri-fucking-gado bitches! That’s ‘thank you bitches’ in Portuguese. And boy do we want to thank you. You’ve fucking made us. Back a few years ago we were a mom ‘n pop shop trying to scratch a living on humble Kloof. Now look at us. 4 million franchised outlets. Nationwide. And international, motherfucker. You can sip from our red cash cup anywhere. We’re fucking huge. Change our white for yellow and we’re a fucking coffee McDonalds. A fucking empire. We own the bean. We can sweat ya’ll for anything. R72 for a latte. R400 for a microwaved egg. R90 for a pasteis de chanel. Not that you’d know anyways since there’s no prices on our menu board. Just get in line bitches. It’s all good. Okay, so our coffee goes through dips. Shit happens. But damn our stores look fine. Our service is sharp. And fast. Our Sandton shop once churned out 60,000 coffees in a morning. During a power cut. With no water. Our staff are always friendly. And very loud. Like our fucking music. Cranking repetitive jazz so loud you’ll need ear surgery. We double fucking dare ya’ll to try make a phone call in here. Let alone think about what you want to order. Shock and awe bitches. We’ll Rumsfeld your ass. Today. Tomorrow. Every day of the fucking week. Visit us for a free Lindt. And some coffee. We promise you won’t see red.

restaurants.co.za 

Excuse me while I close my eyes. Not even I can look at it. And it’s my own fucking website. Yes, we’re a car crash. A fucking wreck of a website. That’s what we are. Like some programmer in Bangalore projectile vomited HTML code and uploaded it. Like we fell down the ugly design tree. Twice. It’s a relic. The first vintage website. Straight out the Old Fucking Online Testament. But you know what? Who fucking cares. When you have our domain you don’t. That URL is money. Money bitches. Restaurants.co.za. Say it. Rolls off the tongue like a shit sandwich. Hell, we were here first. We registered that URL before fax machines came out. We’re like the online V&A. We don’t have to offer johnny shit. So we don’t. Foot traffic. We get over 65,000 visitors a month. Them peeps just keep on coming. Tripping on Netscape. Or what’s the new one? Goggle. And we fuck em. Yup. One by one. Firstly, forget pictures. We’ll just spew text at you. And fuck updated listings. Who needs to know the restaurants that have opened in the last decade. Doesn’t everyone just eat at Primi Piatti anyway? So what if we’re fucking incompetent. “Select Region - Cape Town.” Select Area in Cape Town - Cape Town.” Huh? Hey, I just work here. Average Cost Per Head, you can choose R25. Um. Maybe this was created by a fucking mongoloid. In 1978. Using a fucking Spectrum computer. So what. “Ambience - Authentic Culture.” Really? Fine. So we don’t actually eat out ourselves. And we’ve never used Goggle. And we wouldn’t know Authentic Culture if it wore a leopard loin cloth and beat us with a stick shouting “We are authentic culture motherfuckers!” Who cares? We’re restaurants.co.za bitches. People actually pay to be on our site. Isn’t it great. That’s fucking right. We’re hot. Steaming hot. Like a giant web turd.

The Foodie.

Fuck yeah that’s a knife in my mouth. I’ll eat the fucking thing. Blade and all. Just you dare me. I’m crazy like that ya’ll. Loco coco. I’m the Mad Max of the food world. Fuck, Murdoch, I’m the crazy one. All them other bloggers. Them yawny whiny wine writers. They can go eat a bag of dicks. With some bacon sprinkles. You heard me. Bacon bitches. Bacon and booze. I’m drunk right now. I’m Earnest fucking Hemingway. Is there gin on my breath? Like I give a fuck. #drunktweet. I’m crazy. Drink beer from the bottle crazy. Pitch at Test Kitchen with no reservation crazy. Eat meat on Mondays crazy. Crazy crazy, ya’ll. Yeah, I’m hip. I’m so cool it’s fucking painful. Even my fucking tablecloth is plaid. My moustache is self-manicuring. My iPhone takes hipstamatic prints without the app. Other peoples jeans go skinny when I walk past. Did I mention how much I fucking like bacon? I’ll set you straight. Takes a pig to know a pig. And I know fucking pigs. Jesus, even my sweat smells like bacon frying. Let’s have a beer. Fuck, let’s drink some #alphabetical. Let’s get smashed. After all, wine cures everything. Bacon is God. And I’m a fucking disciple.