I always love watching an unfortunate situation sneak up on an unsuspecting victim if it is going to be for my pleasure and amusement, but often it is only in retrospect that you realise just how utterly terrified the unfortunate victim was during the sequence of events leading to his comedic demise; only at the punch-line do you sometimes realise the build-up of the joke started many minutes before.
It was so last Saturday with an industry friend of mine. He is a respected social commentator and one who dabbles in a bit of the literary arts and is quite successful at it too. A man I personally hold in very high esteem and in that I often get lost in his talent, charisma and intelligence that it totally escapes my mind that there could be things, simple things, that he is totally inadequate at.
We had been through a frustrating day of toil in the figurative factory of inspired ideas, plodding along the way trying to squeeze out any last ounce of humour in our stretched minds, helping put together a production that is fast becoming the pinnacle of late night shows in this country. Of course, as we should, we would steal across the road from the studio to a “coffee shop” and quickly down a few of the amber nectar of the gods and return back to the toil newly revived.
It was a good day; we were satisfied with the work we had done and I had been sufficiently excited by the talent on display at the studio. There were beautiful people everywhere just milling around doing God knows what either than just looking absolutely fabulous. It had been a good day and now it was time to go celebrate with a bit more of the amber nectar of the gods.
“Kitchen Bar at the Design Quarter!” was my cry. Excellent choice, my companion thought, before he realised that the only reason I had picked this particular establishment was because it was a stone’s throw away from my townhouse. He protested. I insisted and began to lead the procession, which had now grown by one – an absolutely lovely dreadlocked friend of mine from KZN who is very gifted in the aesthetic department, had joined us. It is always a pleasure to admire her supreme features when one is having a few golden dews.
We were at a snail’s pace through Linden. In the lead, I was eager to get to my destination and end off my day in a barrage of my choice brews. The waiter suggested the bucket system when we arrived, (A King Doggo the Anti-Christ invention). Apparently the waiter knows me well and knew that I was not there for the wide selection of absolutely sinfully indulgent culinary delights that they offer – this man knew I was there for the lager and suggested bringing me and my companions a selection of three of each of our choice beverages in ice buckets to be positioned thoughtful around our tables so that wherever one reached, his hand would be met by an ice-cold beverage – bliss!
But my lovely and well-endowed companion, being a female, could not just let that beautifully poetic scene come to be. Being female (it must be something in the hormones that renders them unable to go to an eatery without actually eating) decided that she was “peckish”. “Peckish?” I asked, and received the answer back that she had to nibble on something for she had not eaten anything the whole day. I hadn’t eaten anything either, but I guess one could argue that the Sumo has vast reserves of lard and could self-cannibalise with bliss for a couple of weeks before it even started showing that I were famished.
So she whipped out the Sushi menu from under her empty beer bottle and began to peruse it with glee. “Makki!” she cried excitedly to the waiter “… hmm. Makki with salmon and avocado! Make it two pieces and we will share.” I noticed the beads of sweat forming around my friend’s nose, as happens when he is anxious, but I thought nothing of it as it was a rather warm day anyway.
I have never been a great fan of sushi. This is probably because the places that sell sushi usually frown upon beer drinkers and one feels out of place having a R500 platter of seafood and accompanying it with a cold beer. “So uncultured!” I was once sneered at for doing just this. But I had taken the time to learn the delicate art of eating with chopsticks – it’s a performance art, believe me!
My friend’s beer consumption increased immediately at this news and the empties kept falling by the side as the minutes tumbled towards the Makki. Believe me, my rotund-headed friend is a man of the world, has travelled significantly in the East and is intimate with the cultures, but I guess he had never taken the time to eat using the local tools – to his detriment.
The food arrived on a wooden platter, actually quite similar to the wooden platters used for char-grilled meat on traditional functions after a bovine creature has bitten the dust. The food was artistically laid out with pieces of seaweed all over the place and three sets of chopsticks were also presented – my friend’s sweat beads morphed into rivers and flowed downstream at a rapid pace. “Tuck in!” my lovely friend instructed us. “I’m on a diet”, came the retort from yours truly, wanting to not be distracted as I watched what I thought would be a hilarious display from my troubled friend.
Following the chopstick-able’d lass he slipped off the plastic cover and revealed the wooden utensils, which were stuck together at the head, then looked about him for a sign or maybe approval. Seeing that he may use the cheat (using the chopsticks without separating them) I encouraged him to snap them apart; our other compatriot used the cheat and was already dipping her first piece into the soy sauce and enjoyed it with a sensual groan as the flavours made love to her palate.
It was going to be a rough liaison for my buddy. He snapped the sticks apart and began a series of shuffles – on his right hand he place the sticks, then there was a slip and a slide and every time he came close to a piece of sushi the sticks would slip out of place, almost falling to the ground. He then devised a cunning plan and had his left hand cupped at the ready should the sticks fall. It was rough, clumsy and hilarious I was bursting at the seams under my breath.
This carried on for a while, his anxiety growing; the lady with us practically having an orgasm with every piece she put in her mouth; my friend had had exactly zero pieces. This called for a change in strategy. He would spear the pieces with the sharp end of the sticks, which he tried first with both sticks and then with just one – he almost succeed as one piece was skewered and dangled delicately at the end while he tried to balance it long enough to get it into his gaping, expectant mouth. His left hand in mid air, careful not to touch the food, and the licking of his watering lips periodically and swilling air made it quite a spectacle.
He failed repeatedly; the pieces would heed the call of gravity just as he was about to put them in his mouth. His frustrated sighs added to the dramatic effect.
I introduced a saucer of soy sauce to the equation with “You can’t have it without the soy, you are doing it an injustice …” as I pushed the saucer towards him. So a spear chug; harpooning the piece of sushi, then a splash into the soy and then another chug and harpooning (with cupped, now arthritic left hand at the ready) and the piece would degenerate into a mound of flesh, vegetation and fruit and as he persisted would reach a soupy consistency of a soy base – hilarious!
So the Sumo decided to get in on this action – now weighing in at 153kg (Christmas was dope) the Sumo is no stranger to anything culinary. He is quite adept at eating almost anything in the proper manner: sushi with chopsticks, spaghetti with a fork and a spoon and anything at iBuilli by hand (if I ever make it there). I slipped out the chopsticks, snapped them apart and put them in my right hand, correcting the grip with a tap on the platter. I took a bit of the wasabi and dipped it into the soy and stirred it in a bit. I then delicately lifted a piece of sushi and dunked it in, turning three times for effect rather than coating, and I then placed it in my mouth with a sigh of pleasure.
This was about six minutes since my buddy’s battle with the utensils began. I repeated the sequence for effect with him watching intently and practicing in the air. Again he tried and again no joy. Defeated, he put the sticks down. By this time we had the attention of most of the bourgeoisie in attendance at the restaurant around our table. My friend, a true African – a hungry one at that — put down the chopsticks and placed his pride aside and used his stubby hands to pick up the food to everyone’s shock, amazement but mostly relief. I knocked over a bucket of beer in my animated breaking down in laughter, mourned the dearly departed and carried on laughing.
We could have been eNkandla in his head, there was red meat in front of him, on a wooden platter with the soy as his salt and he was feasting with his ancestors.
Eish, these amaZulu embarrass us all …
I rest,
The Sumo
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