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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