Shimmy Beach Club


21 August 2019

SHIMMY BEACH CLUB
Some godforsaken part of the Cape Town Harbour

At around 21h30, roughly two hours after we’d sat down at our table, I was halfway through my second beer, gazing unfocused around the fast-emptying restaurant and pondering existential questions like the meaning of LIFO; why craft beer; the care and feeding of molluscs and whether Stephen Hawking’s theory on time is the norm we should live by, given that I had not yet had my supper. Was this what purgatory could be like? This ephemeral limbo of crushed expectation?

For some context:  the wife and I, plus those fortunate goddaughters and their equally blessed significant others, came to Shimmy Beach Club to celebrate the one significant’s very recent birthday and because the restaurant has a Wednesday night winter special of half price off your total bill, including your drinks. For those of you still keen on reaping the benefits of this amazing deal after reading the rest of my piece, the last opportunity will be Wednesday 28 August 2019.

So. Yes. When your waiter tells you that it’s not a good idea to order cocktails (which we all wanted) because the bar staff are overworked, underpaid (he didn’t really tell us this; I made it up for effect) and far behind on orders,  then tells you not to order dim sum (which some of us wanted) because the kitchen situation is no better than the bar situation, and then some server swoops on the table to swipe the salt and pepper containers without so much as a “by your leave”, and the non-cocktail drinks (a bottle of wine, a vodka drink and two beers) also take a while to get to your table, a grim reminder of the spirit of Dunkirk settles in and you realise, metaphorically originally, that it’s going to be a long evening. But, wait, there’s more. It becomes a real, substantive, long evening because you have to wait for ages for your food while you get progressively gloomier, if not downright depressive, and tipsier while your belly demands to know, right now: what the hell is going on out there and why you’re being so unusually cruel to it?

This picture is perhaps a tad exaggerated but the basic factual framework is accurate.

The quite large restaurant reminded everyone of a mess hall, school cafeteria or work canteen in set up and lack of ambience. The hall was crowded and there seemed to be a lot of groups in our immediate vicinity, including one birthday party (what better plan for a low budgie group celebration? Uh, wait a minute, isn’t that us too?) who were happy and noisy in a space with no noise abatement. I felt, conceptually, as if I were at a large wedding reception.

I can understand that the bar and kitchen might be under pressure on nights like this (our waiter assured us that things aren’t nearly as bad on other days), but one would think that management would plan for the massive influx of patrons to ensure that food is served within a reasonable time after being ordered.

Five out of six ordered sushi and even (daringly) dim sum. I was the odd one out and wanted only the Asian pork belly with noodles. The wife also ordered a starter of braised beef short ribs as well as onion rings and fries; the younger goddaughter ordered the roasted butternut and mushroom risotto and the smoky baby back ribs with fries, (to share with her hungry birthday-celebrating SO); the birthday guy ordered Springbok shank; and the elder goddaughter and significant other ordered a pizza. Virtually everything, barring the pizza, was ordered at the same time and we asked the waiter to bring whatever food was done as it became available.

The sushi arrived after about an hour. It was plentiful, looked good and everybody who ate of it (not me) said it was good.

Next up, surprisingly, in light of the earlier warning, were the dim sum and pot stickers, which, though in generous proportions, were far less satisfactory, some undercooked and some cooked in what tasted like old oil.

Five out of six bellies were partly filled by then; I’ve had no food by this time. More wine and beer were ordered. We waited and chatted amongst ourselves. There was a steady exodus of patrons with the satisfied, smug look of those with stomachs lined with food and drink. I imagine they must have come in very early to avoid the throng and the delivery issues we were faced with. The reduced number of patrons seemed to have no effect there.

The wife’s short ribs, onion rings and fries were served. The fries were supposed to be truffle fries but weren’t and tasted slightly stale. Seeing the desolate desperation in my hungry eyes, the wife fed me two forkfuls of luscious short rib and invited me to help myself to the delicious, plump, crisp onion rings. I ate half of them.

Then it was time for the shank and the risotto to shine. It was a dim light. The shank lacked seasoning and flavour and the risotto was severely overcooked mush. With risotto, taste alone doesn’t save the day.

We were past the two hour mark since arrival and I had not seen, heard or smelt my main course yet. My lager was my only solace.

On two hours and fifteen minutes my bowl of pork belly and noodles was finally served but my hunger had dissipated considerably, and if it hadn’t been for the others, I would have buggered off into the night long before. Anyhow, the al dente noodles had an amusing little kick of chilli heat (sweaty head vibes) and the glazed, sticky belly was well cooked, though a tad stringy in spots, and pedestrian.  The long stick of crackling was only half edible. Most of it was so tough that the “stick” reference was quite apt. I would’ve needed a hammer and chisel to make headway with it and abandoned the inedible part.

Not an unsurpassed winner, then.

But wait, again, there was still that pizza, ordered perhaps an hour and a half before, out there somewhere. By this time, it was past 22h00 and we were fed up. The restaurant was almost empty, except for the other birthday party who seemed to be served their hot meals well after we’d had ours.

The wife asked for the bill, which also took ages to get to us and when I questioned our waiter on this delay, he disarmed my glower by presenting me with a large plate with chocolate fondant cake, ice cream and heart-warming happy birthday wishes written in chocolate. Pity it wasn’t my birthday. I was obliged to pass it on to the correct recipient.

It was an excellent, proper fondant. 

I’d gone to the loo, passed by the pizza oven on the way back and noticed a forlorn pizza cowering on the pass, hoping for acknowledgement and validation, and guessed it was the one our table was waiting for. And so it was. By this time the elder goddaughter had already told the waiter simply to box the pizza directly; it could be her Thursday lunch. For some reason the kitchen only had take away boxes that were smaller than the pizza, which was then halved and presented in two boxes.

The total bill came to R1559,50 before tip, which translates into a per head spend of R260,00. On the face of it, it’s not a bad price at all, for a quite expensive restaurant (R385 for a chicken and prawn curry, anyone? R250 for the 4 x 4 sushi combo!) that doesn’t justify the high prices in ambience or quality of food. Only the sushi was an unqualified success. This means that the half price deal wasn’t exactly worthwhile. Waiting for two hours and longer for mediocre food, regardless of the price, is not the stuff of happiness.  If the same quality is served on full price nights, when the kitchen presumably sends out food tout suite, eating at Shimmy Beach Club is no value for money at all. 

Even though I’d eaten some short rib, a few onion rings and the pork belly dish, I felt oddly dissatisfied when I got home. I probably wasn’t truly hungry, but I felt short-changed by this experience.

Will Shimmy see me again; that’s a hell no! And so say all of us.

But then, if you’ve read this piece, does this surprise you?  



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