Favourite meals

Food is a gift and should be treated reverentially - romanced and ritualized and seasoned with memory.  Chris Bohjalian

2025

Cape Town

• Cherries
• Greek restaurant: Octopus
• Peanut butter smoothie at Woodside
• Red Curry for Afrikaburn
• Cattle Baron Madagascar 300g fillet x 2
• Chicken and Prawn Curry with lychees (With Rory at Millers Thumb)
• Chocolate brownies
• Mum's Gammon and mustard sauce
• Wedgwood nougat
• Chorizo and pineapple pizza at St James
• Roasted vegetables at Hussar Grill
• Brandon's roast chicken with 6 vegetables
• Mums fridge cheesecake
• Jo's amazing salads including Thai salad
• Flame grilled chicken
• Chicken Sosaties from Checkers
• Salad and veg bowl in Kalk Bay with Sam
• Jo's marmite scones
• Braai buffet at Russell's board game friend's home
• Bacha Coffee almond and chocolate croissants at Singapore airport
• Naked Bowl at Dee Why
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream

Sydney

• Octopus at Greek restaurant
• Turkish Grill in Newtown
• Roast pork in Blackheath after camping
• Lemon and rasberry magnum with white chocolate
• Pistachio donut at Chatswood
• Mushroom and avo on sourdough in Hornsby
• Croissant
• Pasta and stag chilly with cheese in Warrenbungles
• Lamb shank pie for $12.50 !!
• Fish Bowl Spicy salmon
• Michal's goulash cooked on the camp fire.
• Sausages and garlic butter when camping.
• Lebanese lamb shish
• Frozen yoghurt and nuts 

2024

• Raspberry tart @ Harrods, Doha
• Tender beef on Sylvia Earle
• Double thick peanut butter shake (Simons Town)
• Cattle Baron Fillet Madagascar (Cape Town)
• Frozen orange and mango at top of Devils's Peak (thanks Brandon!)
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream: Cherry
• Kalk Bay ice cream: Cinnamon, ginger, cherry
• Salad at Third Rail during fast
• Kolfi with dried fruit (Grace of India)
• Roast chicken meal (Dom in Carcoar)
• Black cherries
• Balmoral grilled sea food (octopus, calamari, prawns)
• Frozen yoghurt with nuts and white chocolate
• Plougman's lunch in the Blue Mountains (Thank you Michelle and Petros)
• The Little Snail in Pyrmont: Kanagaroo steak
• Fish Bowl salmon
• Thai Beef Salad at the pub after tennis near St Peters station

2023

• Chocolate pannacotta & flake
• Banana and mango smoothy
• Mushroom on toast in Orange with Tina and Dom
• Take sushi with Tina, Dom, Shushann (x2)
• Passion Fruit cheesecake (Bamboo Buddha)
• Messina Icecream (Macedamia Nut Crunch, Lychee & Coconut)
• Steak final night Buenos Airies
• Roast chicken in Airfryer with Martin's seasoning
• Almond nougat (Cape Town)
• Duck, Pork Belly, Steak tapas at Silk (Cape Town)
• Peanut butter smoothie (Nepal & Woodside)
• Lassies in Kathmandu
• Mango and yoghurt
• Bowral hot donuts
• Prawn dumplings at home

2022

• Portuguese Charcoal chicken with Srini after hike
• Messina icecream
• Jo's coffee and rum & raisin icecream
• Thick chocolate milkshake in Cape Town
• Eat Greek prawn wrap after Coastal Track walk
• Cape Town meat & fish: Cattlebaron steak, Ocean Basket, Ribs at market
• Xmas feasts: Ruth: Duck, pork belly, chicken, amazing potato bake Xmas day at Shalow: Lemon curd trifle, turkey

2021

• Lamb after Dune
• Botanica breakfast bowl
• Four Cheese Toastie at The Flying Bear
• Love.Fish with Elna to celebrate new year

2019

• Prawn soup  (The Botanica)
• Ko Pla (Thai) with Brendan and Eva
• Ginger drink   (The Botanica)
• Oven roasted vegetables with smoked almonds (my speciality)
• Hummus and Mushrooms  (Grumpy Baker)
• Monkfish with Chris, Xenia, Christina, Shushan
• Meal at Devil’s Pools
• Jo’s rum and raisin ice-cream  

2016

• Ape Crepe & Malaysian Toast
• Botanica Quiche
• Pizza in Wilderness: Fig, blue cheese, ham

2015

• The Edge of the Bay. Seafood chowder, scollop liguine, choc mousse.
• Lamb salad with Liza (Jagos on Miller)
• Bondi Pizza (Parramatta lamb pizza and prawn and chorizo)
• Liz meal. Cheese, salami, tomato and onion pastry, goulash, sticky date pud
• Roast chicken, pumpkin, potato (made by Matt and Shamista)
• MaryAnn meal (pap starter, feshwado, granadilla mousse.)
• Cattle Baron (sirloin with bacon, avo, camembert), chocolate mousse
• Woodside with mum (steak n chips, calamari)
• Stormsriver ribs & Malva Pudding
• Big braai at Geoergian House
• Vetkoek
• Hogsback pizza
• Mutton pie and muffins (waiting for bus). Pancakes at Sani. 
• Amphithetre:  Butternut soup, pork belly, apple crumble and custard. 
• Best braai ever with Chrisel's family?  Ribs, steak, potato bake, carrot cake.  
• Lamb potjie (Amphitheatre, Utopia)
• Camps Bay Retreat:  Mushroom risotto, Kudu loin, chocolate mousse (with cereal?)
• I cooked lamb in slow cooker with red wine for family.
• Steak and chips at Brendan and Eva
• Veal at Casa Ristorante
• Indian food (Shamista)
• Thai restaurant with Srini (Duck curry)
• Chicken soup (I make for Chris, Jilly, Craig).
• Chicken soup. Jagos lamb salad with Liza
• Kirribili meals with Srini (lamb shanks, ribs)
• Botanica with Yogi - Almighty, lamb skewers, ginger drink.
• Botanica lamb skeers, All Mighty
• Eggs and toast

2013

Meals

• Salad at Brendan's
• Mexican at Eva and Brendan (lamb)
• Turkey Roast with Sue
• Thai duck at Waverton
• Dani's Belgian pancakes
• Turkey dinners with Sue
• My slow cooker meals (ossu buco , apricot chicken etc.)

Restaurants

• Fancy restaurant for scollops
• Mexican restaurant after Two Creeks
• Nepalese restaurant
• Spanish Tapas
• Thai (Neutral Bay)
• Radio Cairo
• French restaurant (anniversary)
• Nandos
• Bavarian Beer caffee (Pork belly with Andreas)

2012

• Mocha
• Pad See Ew 
• Dani's tiramisu
• Belgian waffles

Restaurant

• Thai Waverton
• Blue Mountains (Italian, Chinese)
• Mexican (after hike)

2006

• Bull's testicles
• Guineapig
• Offal hotpot (Brazil)
• Doug and Claudia's pepper-corn steak
• Buffet by weight (Rio)
• Torres del Paine fry up
• Seafood with Doug & Claudia
• Buenos Airies steak
• Lamb chops (El Calafate)
• Isla Grande self service icecream

2004 - 2005 

Food

• Iced coffee and vanilla frappocino at Liverpool Street
• Meal at web council
• lamb rack in Gothenberg - best lamb ever
• Volvo Thursday roasts
• Steve Fuhrter's strawberry juice
• Brooklands court sunday picnics in the lounge
• Glue Vine (and Swedish Glug)
• Meals at La Taska (Gothenberg)
• Volvo caffeteria
• Cambridge crepes
• pork ribs @ John Barleycorn
• North Carolina onion rings
• Wilga and Normon's garden picnics

Restaurant

• Codfather
• John Barleycorn ribs
• Smaka
• Eating at Nandos (Cambridge)

2000 - 2003

London

• Putney gourmet burgers
• North Acton lamb and mint burgers
• Biltong from The South African shop, London
• Tescos Crème Caramel (London)
• Roast beef & yorkshire pudding (touch rugby)

Travels

• Thick shake & Blue Moon Pancake (Dahab)
• Food after 2 weeks of dahl baht in Nepal
• Yak steak (Nepal)
• Camel steaks (Damascus)
• Pistachio Icecream (Damascus)

Restaurant

• The Grove rib-eye steak 
• Scollops in Knightsbridge, London
• Dessert wine at The Oxo Towers, London
• Pocara steak (Nepal)

1990 - 2000

Food

• Kendal Mint Cake (Granchester, Lake District)
• Pint of prawns (Plett)
• Rosemarie's chocolate gateau and risotto
• Melissa's French Nougat
• Ally's apple pie with ginger
• Ally's lemon merengue pie
• Mexican wrap and berry smoothy from Kuali
• Woolies picnics
• Crepes and thick-shakes at Dulces
• Allies Jamie Oliver's sweet and sour chicken
• South African Don Pedro
• Ally's lamb & pavlova
• The food in Istanbul
• Hagendaaz Icecream (Kensington)
• Sea food hot pot (Ko Bulan, Thailand)
• Cream tea in Devon
• Yoghurt and honey (Olympos, Turkey)
• Squirrel
• meals at George's Place (Butterfly Valley, Turkey)

Restaurants

• Le Petite Fermet lunches
• Lamb in pastry at The Wild Fig
• Barrister's Madagascan Fillet
• Nandos chicken, chips with perinase and olives
• Desserts at The Village restaurant
• Boschedahl buffet
• Kushiri (Cairo)

1980 - 1988 

Food

• Spring rolls from Dean Street Chineese
• Frozen Yogurt Blizzard
• Roast beef & veggies & kiersch (Gran)
• South African braais with sizzling boerewors
• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

Restaurant

• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

1970 - 1980

Food

• Granny Station's roast chicken & junket
• mum's chocolate mousse, banana pudding & crème caramel
• Leche sorbet at San Marcos (Sea Point)
• Mum's chicken soup
• Mum's Xmas cake
• Jam donuts and custard slice at Silwood bakery
• Mum's Xmas dinners, particularly xmas pudding and brandy butter
• Granadilla lollies, St James
• Caramel crisp icecreams as a kid
• Mum's Sunday Roasts
• Coffee and Top Deck wtching TV on Saturday nights
• Mum's rice pudding
• Welsh Rarebit
• Appletizer on the beach with grandpa as a kid
• Granny's chicken lunch

Restaurants

• Mount Nelson lunches with the family as a kid
• Birkenhead dinners with granny and grandpa as a kid
• Spur Hot Rock & Pecan Nut Sunday
• Pancake place

Related food posts

• Eating out
• Cooking
• Dinner parties
• Ice cream
• Dessert
• High tea
• More favourite food

Restaurants and cafes

• Frenchy's
• Flying Bear
• The Alchemist
• The Botanica
• Sappho Book cafe
• The Oaks
• Sydney Fish Market
• Cattle Baron
• Spur
• Wine farm meals

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The Willow Road front row

During our year sharing the Willow Road house, Russell, Ally, and I formed a tight-knit, happy trio. Ally was already a wonderful cook, but she possessed that restless drive to get even better. She eventually signed up for a professional cooking course held over eight successive weeks.

The arrangement was "glory of glories" for Russell and me. Ally would go to her class, they would cook up a storm, and then she would bring the evening's creations home for us to "test." To say the food was delicious would be an understatement; it was an absolute delight.

As the weeks went by, Russell and I developed a ritual of our own. Ten minutes before Ally was due to arrive, we would spring into action. We’d drag the couch across the living room and position it directly facing the front door. We would sit there side-by-side, plates balanced on our laps and cutlery clutched in our hands, literally salivating in anticipation.

Every week, when Ally finally let herself in, she was met with the same ridiculous sight: two adoring, starving men staring at her with the hopeful intensity of puppies waiting for a treat.

Ally would always burst into laughter at the spectacle, and then we would all tuck in. It remains one of my favorite memories of our time together—a perfect slice of domestic happiness where the only thing better than the food was the theater of waiting for it.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Memorable moments: The almond heist

When I was young, I was quite the pilferer. Looking back, I'm genuinely surprised it didn't lead to a full-blown life of crime. My operations were divided into two distinct categories: the sophisticated, high-stakes heist and the reckless, sugary smash-and-grab.

The flaked almonds were my "Ocean’s Eleven" moment. I would wait until the kitchen was empty, then strike. First, I’d liberate a razor blade from my father’s bathroom cupboard. With the precision of a diamond cutter, I’d slice a microscopic slit into the side of my mother's almond packet, edging out the nuts one by one. I’d then seal the wound with a sliver of cellotape so perfectly that the packet looked untouched. It was a literal heist, and Mum never cottoned on.

My other ventures were significantly less subtle. I had a habit of raiding the freezer for Mum's chocolate, an addiction that once got her so irritated she sent me off on my bike to the local café to buy her a replacement with my own money.

But my undoing was the condensed milk. I would steal the tins, retreat to my room, and indulge in the thick, sugary loot. I was eventually busted when Mum discovered a mountain of discarded, empty tins hidden in the back of my own cupboard. To this day, I can’t remember why I didn’t think to discard the evidence.

In hindsight, my criminal career had a very clear pattern: brilliant entry, catastrophic exit.

The almond job was all finesse—silent, precise, almost artistic. The chocolate raids were impulsive but survivable. But the condensed milk… that was less “heist” and more “crime scene preservation.”

It turns out I wasn’t caught because I lacked intelligence. I was caught because, at some point, it simply stopped occurring to me that crimes should include an escape plan—or, at the very least, a rubbish bin.

Memorable moments: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The safety of testicles

In 2006, Ally, Russell, and I were in Rio de Janeiro, soaking up the vibrant energy of the city. One evening, we found ourselves at an authentic Brazilian restaurant. Russell and I, feeling particularly bold, decided on a strategic approach to the menu: we would share two meals—one "super adventurous" dish for the story, and one "normal" dish to actually fill our stomachs.

For the adventure, we ordered bull's testicles. For the "safe" backup, we chose a hearty pot of beef stew.

The food arrived, and we tackled the testicles first. To our surprise, they weren't too bad. They were fried in a light batter with a consistency remarkably similar to calamari. While they weren't exactly bursting with flavor, they were perfectly edible. We polished off a fair portion, thinking to ourselves, Adventure over. Now for the real meal.

I turned to the beef stew, expecting rich, tender comfort food. I took a large bite of the meat and was immediately hit by a taste so horrendous, so foul, that my survival instincts kicked in.

I pulled a chunk of "meat" out of the dark gravy to investigate the specimen. My heart sank. You could clearly see the intricate network of bronchioles; it was lung. I fished out the next piece: a distinct ventricle. It was heart. As I dug deeper, I found unmistakable sections of brain. The "hearty beef stew" was actually a literal anatomy lesson in a pot. It was like being back in my Zoology class doing a dissection.

It didn't just look terrifying; it tasted like a biological graveyard.

Russell and I shared a look of pure defeat. We slowly pushed the stew aside and turned our attention back to the remaining plate of bull's testicles. In the hierarchy of offal, the testicles had suddenly become the gourmet "safe" option—the only thing standing between us and a very hungry night.

Ally, who had wisely ordered a conventional, succulent steak with a side of chips, sat across from us, watched our struggle, and laughed until she cried.

Memorable moments: The lassies of Kathmandu

In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.

They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.

After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.

My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.

"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.

"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.

Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"

It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.

Memorable moments: The kick of a mule

In 2023, while working for Volvo in Cambridge, I spent my nights in Duxford and my weekends in London. One particular evening, I was invited to my boss's house for a dinner party with my colleagues—a wonderful, mostly Swedish group.

In an effort to be helpful, I volunteered for kitchen duty. My task seemed simple enough: make the tzatziki by mixing five "cloves" of garlic into the yogurt. Being a culinary novice (and, let’s be honest, a bit of an idiot from time to time), I operated under the assumption that a "clove" was the entire, multi-segmented bulb.

I proceeded to mince five entire heads of garlic into a single bowl of yogurt.

The resulting dip didn't just have a "kick"—it had the concussive force of a mule. Surprisingly, the Swedes—who are famously reserved until the schnapps starts flowing—didn't seem to mind. In fact, as the evening devolved into a raucous affair of toasts and table-dancing to ABBA, I felt compelled to enter the spirit of things. I ate a heroic amount of my own toxic creation.

By the time I stumbled onto the train for the ten-minute ride back to my B&B in Duxford, I was well and truly "tiddly." I closed my eyes for a second and woke up ninety minutes later at Liverpool Street Station in London.

Resigned to my fate, I took the tube to our apartment in Hammersmith and crept into bed, trying not to wake Ally. She didn't stir at first, but as the cloud of five fermented garlic bulbs finally reached her side of the mattress, she recoiled in her sleep.

"Oh my God," she gagged, rolling as far away as the bedframe would allow. "You stink!"

I spent the next three days reeking like a medieval plague ward. I set out to impress my Swedish colleagues with my kitchen skills; I ended up proving that while ABBA is timeless, the scent of fifty garlic cloves is practically eternal.

Memorable moments: The lasagna lie

During university, I was desperate to impress a girl I really liked. I decided the best way to her heart was through her stomach, despite the minor detail that I didn't actually know how to cook.

I briefly considered passing off a flame-grilled chicken from Coimbra as my own, but settled instead on a "foolproof" plan: a Woolworth’s ready-made chicken lasagna. I figured if I kept it in the oven long enough to look authentic, she’d never know.

The evening began perfectly. Soft music was playing, candles were flickering, and I pulled the lasagna out with a flourish, making sure she heard the "hard work" I’d put in all day. We sat down, looked into each other's eyes, and tucked in simultaneously.

Horror of horrors. As my knife hit the center, there was a distinct, metallic crackle. The lasagna wasn't just undercooked; the middle was a solid block of ice. I was officially busted. As I sheepishly retreated to the microwave to perform a high-voltage resurrection on our dinner, I tried to pivot to damage control.

"Champagne?" I offered, grabbing a bottle to lighten the mood.

I popped the cork. In a display of physics that would have baffled a scientist, the cork ricocheted off the wall, banked off the ceiling, and flew back with pinpoint accuracy to strike my date directly in the back of the head.

I went in trying to be a romantic lead; I left as a man who had nearly frozen his date’s digestive system and then physically assaulted her with a grape-based projectile.

Memorable moments: The thirty-person portion

I have never been much of a cook. In my house, when people smell something coming from the kitchen, they don’t ask, "What’s cooking?"—they ask, "What’s thawing?"

So, when I landed a job in 2002 as a tour leader for an overland expedition from Istanbul to Cairo, I was focused on the logistics: getting thirty people and a massive truck across the Middle East. It wasn't until I arrived in Istanbul that I received the terrifying fine print: I was also the head chef.

In a moment of pure, survival-driven genius, I held a briefing for the passengers. "This is not a tour," I told them solemnly. "This is a participatory adventure." I drew up rosters, declared that everyone would help shop and cook, and successfully outsourced my own incompetence.

However, I did have to pitch in. Over five months, I became a specialist in one specific area: Spaghetti Bolognese for thirty. It required an enormous pot, a literal shovel’s worth of mince, and the upper-body strength of a weightlifter to stir.

When I finally returned to London, I boasted to my wife about my newfound culinary prowess. Delighted, she stepped aside and let me take over the kitchen. I set to work, channeling the spirit of the Anatolian plateau. The meal was a triumph—rich, savory, and perfectly seasoned.

The only problem was the scale. My hands simply didn't know how to stop at "two servings." I had prepared enough pasta to fuel a small village's migration.

It was a delicious meal, but by week three of "Bolognese Breakfasts," my wife started asking if we could go back to the "What's Thawing?" era of our marriage.

Memorable moments: The double-decker betrayal

One evening, leaving my office at Old Mutual, I was hit by a wave of ravenous, prehistoric hunger. The kind of hunger that bypasses logic and heads straight for the nearest Spur restaurant. I pulled over and ordered the largest thing on the menu: a "Double Decker" giant burger, flanked by a mountain of chips and enough onion rings to build a small tower.

I inhaled it. By the time I wiped the last bit of sauce from my face, I wasn't just sated; I was physically compromised. I felt like a snake that had swallowed a particularly large goat.

I waddled through my front door, only to be greeted by my girlfriend’s radiant, expectant smile.

"Just in time!" Ally chirped. "I’ve been cooking that fancy meal I promised you all afternoon."

My blood ran cold. I’d completely forgotten. She lived to cook, and more importantly, she lived to watch me eat. She settled into her chair and watched me like a hawk, waiting for that signature look of "Myburgh-pleasure" to cross my face.

I performed like an Oscar-winner. I chewed, I hummed, and I forced every forkful of that "fancy" dinner into a stomach that was already at maximum capacity. Against all odds, I cleared the plate. I had done it. I was safe.

Then, she stood up with a triumphant glint in her eye.

"And now," she announced, "for dessert!"

She marched back into the kitchen and returned with a massive, steaming helping of sticky date pudding, buried under a literal mound of thick, yellow custard.

I went in looking for a quick burger; I left realizing that the only thing heavier than a Spur Double Decker is the weight of a lie topped with extra custard.

Memorable moments: The five-day fast

In 2015, I planned a five-day trek along the Tsitsikamma coast. My friend Chrisel—a woman with a legendary appetite and a deep, spiritual devotion to dinner—flew into Cape Town the night before we set off.

Being responsible for the food on our hike, I handed her a small survival pack of trail snacks: a few nut bars, some chocolates, and a packet of crackers and cheese. It was the standard "emergency sugar" kit for a long day in the mountains. 

We drove to the start, hiked the first day, and eventually rolled into the overnight hut. Because this was a "luxury" hike, our actual provisions were being dropped off by vehicle each evening. On that first night, a feast fit for a king appeared: piles of fresh meat for a braai, salads, and all the trimmings.

Chrisel let out a sigh of relief that was louder than the crashing surf outside.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she gasped, eyeing the steak. "I thought that little packet you gave me last night was my food for the entire hike!"

I suppose I should have clarified the menu; for eight hours, she’d been hiking through one of the world's most beautiful landscapes, mentally calculating how to make one nut bar last until Thursday.

Memorable moments: The gem squash gambit

At school, some teachers—especially the formidable Miss Mallet—were legendary for their "clean plate" policy. This was no issue for "human garbage cans" like me, but for my classmate Sean Peche, Friday lunch was a weekly brush with death. Sean harbored a primal, soul-deep hatred for fish, and he spent every Friday gagging his way through a greasy fillet under the unblinking gaze of Miss Mallet.

One Friday, Sean arrived with a plan. He meticulously ate the flesh of his gem squash, leaving the hollowed-out green skin behind. Then, with the precision of a structural engineer, he began packing his fried fish into the shell. He compressed it so tightly it achieved the density of a black hole, before flipping the squash upside down to make it look like a harmless, untouched vegetable.

It was a masterpiece of camouflage. Unfortunately, Miss Mallet was a veteran of the "fish ruse" wars.

She marched over, flipped the squash, and exposed the compressed contraband. In a move of true pedagogical cruelty, she announced that nobody—not one of us—could leave for playtime until Sean had consumed every single, high-density mouthful.

We sat there in agonizing solidarity, watching Sean’s heroic, pale-faced struggle against the laws of biology. How he didn't decorate the dining hall floor I’ll never know.

Sean may have lost the battle against the gem squash, but he won the respect of every hungry boy who just wanted to go outside and kick a ball.

Memorable moments: Dessert heaven

While living in London, my wife, Ally, invited me to a social work function, and while the networking was fine, the dessert spread was magnificent. I found myself drawn back to the buffet table like a moth to a very sugary flame.

Eventually, Ally caught up with me, looking more than a little irritated.

"Don't you feel embarrassed?" she whispered, eyeing my latest haul. "That’s the fifth plate of dessert you’ve gone up for!"

I didn't miss a beat. I gave her my most charming, sugar-dusted grin.

"Not at all," I replied. "Every time I go up, I just tell them it’s for you."

Marketing gone too far

While driving home with Ally when we lived in Cambridge, she held out a bottle and said with genuine enthusiasm, "Mmmm. Try this!"

I was focused on the road, thirsty, and caught the words "Sugar Vanilla Nectarine" in my peripheral vision. Naturally, I took a greedy, unsuspecting gulp.

"No! No!" Ally shrieked. "I meant smell it!"

"Too late," I replied, though the words were somewhat muffled by the thick, Mediterranean-scented bath bubbles beginning to foam from my mouth.

It was not a pleasant culinary experience. My breath has never been more "calming," but I am seriously considering suing Boots for deceptive packaging.

I didn't get the refreshing snack I was promised, but on the bright side, every time I hiccuped for the next three hours, I blew a perfectly formed, vanilla-scented bubble.

Fish Bowl Spicy Salmon

My favourite meal at the moment. So healthy and delicious! 

Delicious gammon lunch

Mum made a delicious lunch of gammon with mustard sauce and banana ice cream.  We had it at Jo and Ant's place.

Heaven in a packet

 One the things I love about South Africa is its nougat. Australian nougat pales in comparison.  If I were to set up an import business into Australia, South African nougat would be my choice!

Lunch with B

B had a fall recently so has been working from home to recover.  We met up for a lovely healthy lunch in Crow's Nest.