14th anniversary dinner at Homespun

14 June 2022

 

Homespun by Matt

The Andros Hotel, 5 Phyllis Road, Claremont, Cape Town

 

It was a dark and stormy night, no, wait, that’s the intro to my entry for a short story competition. Let me reconceptualise.

 

It was a cold, wet, Tuesday night and the wife and I stared down the grimness of the season and drove out to Claremont to celebrate our 14^th wedding anniversary at a restaurant that’s been on the bucket list for ages. Well, it was either that or forfeit the deposit already paid.

 

The restaurant is a well-appointed, simply furnished and styled long room with banquette seating against the one wall, separated by a fireplace, and many tables dotted around, with mostly couples, except that tonight there was a party of perhaps 20 people assembled around two large tables  and another group of 6. The latter, perhaps because of their relatively small number or perhaps due to their demurer natures, were unobtrusive. The former, not so much.  The acoustics of the space could be better.

 

 

Seeing as how we were celebrating and were basking in the exhilaration of braving the elements, we flung caution to the winds and chose the 7-course menu (R595), plus the additional “boerewors roll” (R75) and “electric daisy” (R55),  washed down with sparkling water (the wife), one glass of Brut Rosé for her and two for me, and a closing espresso for me.

 

The boerewors roll was, natch, almost unrecognisably deconstructed, with only the bread element, small artisanal rolls (shaped like teeny-weeny baguettes), playing itself. The relish elements of the dish were served in a hollowed out red onion and the sausage element, the flavour, actually, in the form of a heated emulsion poured onto a plate.  If one combined all the elements with the bread, the taste and flavours of a boerewors roll said “hi”. The characteristic taste of sausage lingered on the palate if the emulsion were tasted last. A very accomplished sleight of mind. 

 

The amuse bouche was ostrich tartare in a nutty half shell crust, very prettily served on top of beans in bowls perched on a bit of tree trunk.  

I guess the starter morsels and the petit fours at the end of the meal are the most dramatically and theatrically plated courses because the items themselves are a tad mundane in appearance and require spectacle, and, natch, it’s a splendid way of bookending the experience. The other dishes are plainly plated because the food must be, so to speak, heard without the distraction of visual spectacle.

 

Both of us had the pork belly pancake as first starter. It’s pretty much a taco, with a small, soft pancake in a mini skillet with a good chunk of succulent, juicy pork and sauce elements (miso, salsa Verde and car siu) that elevated the dish to another level altogether.  The crackling was light, airy and, surprise, surprise, crackled. 

 

It was the first wholly successful pork belly dish I’ve had in a restaurant in yonks, and both of us felt we would’ve liked it as a main course.

 

For the second starter, the wife chose the prawn dumplings, with dashi, togarashi and katsuobushi, and my choice was the jackfruit dumpling with umami broth, corn and togarashi. Both dishes were splendid. I particularly liked the lovely little kick of the broth with my dumplings that went well with the sweetness of the corn. I was told that jackfruit tastes like chicken, and it may have some cnickeny texture but seems flavourless and would be an epic fail without the delicious broth.

 

The palate cleanser had a tart lime element.

 

On to the main course.

 

The wife, ever the carnivore, opted for the “Matt special,” of fillet, wasabi, ponzu and walnut and, as she is wont to do, teared up with the joy of perfectly cooked medium rare beef  and flavourful side elements. The contrast of crunchy walnut with the smooth mash was wonderful.

 

 The line fish of the day was, dare one say, the humble hake, also perfectly cooked, with the crispest of skin, resting on creamy leek, and with squid, dukkha and yuzu. I’ve had a good run with fish dishes lately and this dish confounded any recollections of overcooked hake parcels from the fish ‘n chip shops of my callow youth. Loved the combination of Japanese and Middle Eastern elements as a bit of fun.

 

In retrospect, the electric daisy, for all its entertainment value, was a dish too far. Sure, the Madagascar flower tingles and the foamy wash of bubbly with it is lovely, but it wasn’t a worthwhile tingle. All I can say for it is that it sure cleansed my palate but not necessarily in a way I would’ve liked.

 

The wife had the Cry Baby dessert. I opted for the Not Banana, only because it seemed to be best of a bad bunch for me. Okay, the options weren’t really bad, but none of them spoke to me.  I’m a pudding kind of guy, and if I can’t have that, give me a panacotta or a tiramisu.

 

Both desserts were showbiz to the max. The Cry Baby looks like a mini ice cream cone that’s fallen onto the slate it’s presented on and splattered a little. The wife liked the cone and its contents but by the time she reached the ball, a cream coated dense chocolate sphere,  she’d had enough. I ate the chocolate, mitigated by almost not being sweet at all, but the density was a tad challenging.

 

My dessert resembled a slice of banana, with ice cream  and  peanuts but, in actual, true  fact,  the “banana” was frozen passion fruit posset shaped like a banana and brushed with white chocolate to enhance the effect. The ice cream had the banana flavour. Passion fruit is not my favourite fruit flavour but here the tartness tingled pleasantly and combined well with the smooth ice cream, and the peanut crunch provided the texture. Once I’d eaten the whole  thing, and reflected on it, I decided that I did thoroughly enjoy it and that its light acidity and sharpness was the perfect end to the meal.v

 

The presentation of the petit fours was the last bit of theatre, in that there was more dry ice than a classic rock band would use, and it covered the presentation like 19^th century London fog rolling over the plains, to mix similes.  

 

There were a chocolate and orange twig, a chocolate truffle and a chocolate macaroon. All of them were delicious, sweet bites and this dramedy was a fitting end to a splendid dinner. I washed down the sweetness with an espresso.

 

Some people complain that fine dining meals aren’t filling but I’ve never found that, over the course of the evening, and cumulatively, the belly does become sated yet never feels stuffed, and there’s no way I’d seek out a McDonalds drive thru on the way home.

 

The restaurant was well patronised. The slight downside (shades of La Colombe a couple of years ago) was that noisy party of 20 at the other end of the room. It was nice for them that they were so vibrantly jolly, with plenty raucous laughter, but not so entertaining for the rest of us. It was often difficult to have a conversation and a challenge to understand and communicate with our waiter, as the waves of noise wafted over us.  The only lull occurred when their waiter had to have their attention to explain the menu to them and the  sudden silence was kind of shocking, until the waiter raised his voice to reach all of them. 

 

So much for an intimate, celebratory date night.

 

Homespun had been on the list ever since the younger goddaughter and her guy ate there a couple of years ago, on one of their anniversaries, and for a wet Tuesday in Cape Town, it turned out as satisfying as the recommendation had promised. Lovely venue and really wonderful, friendly and efficient service from Daniel, who was quite happy to deal with us in Afrikaans, seeing as how he grew up in Wellington, not a prerequisite for us, as we speak English good, but I suppose it’s always heart-warming to hear your mother tongue, except, of course, when the waiter must explain the menu, learnt by heart  in only one language.

 

The total bill came to R2026,08 with a 12% gratuity already included. We’d paid a R400,00 deposit when booking and paid R1626,08 on the night.

 

Four years ago, we ate our 10^th anniversary dinner on the battlements of the walls of Dubrovnik Old City, at the Michelin starred restaurant 360, and, if that setting is unparalleled, I don’t recall much of the food. The dining room of Homespun is more prosaic but I think the food memories of the boerewors roll, the pork belly pancake and, in my case, the Not Banana, will resonate for a long time.