Few things are more ritualistic than a South African braai. The nuances are as subtle as finding the right charcoal (you know, the one that lights without having to pour 20 litres of petrol over the coals) to the contents of wors which may vary from cat’s eyes to goat skin.
Yet the appeal of standing around a braai and watching slabs of meat sizzle and spit is too overwhelming for most – especially over the summer.
A recent visitor, Brian, from the UK recently had a taste of a braaivleis – Noord Natal style. For him it was a breakaway from pie and chips. Brian had to learn all about a New Year braai – do not start the fire too early or everyone will eat, drink and sleep long before the midnight chimes.
Once the fire is going, the clouds normally gather, the thunder rolls and it rains. Now, this is a bit of dampener – so carry the entire braai gedoente to a new spot.
Once you have found a shelter, you to rig up a light via an extension cord. Re-light the fire (fun this, hey?). Once you have just about smoked yourself out under the carport, the skies clear and the rain stops.
Haul everything out again. One fellow trips over the extension cord, drops the plate of raw chops and bravely holds on to his brandy and Coke.
OK, here we go and again. Fortunately, this time we do not have to re-light the fire. Brian founds this all terribly amusing.
A lemon is produced and the grid is cleaned and the flames burn off the grime and grease of the last braai. Hygiene is high on our agenda, Brian. Now comes the main event. The placing of the meat on the grid.
Everyone has their own style. There are the surgeons who line up their chops, steaks and wors as if it was a parade ground. The wors expertly curled by the lightest touch of the tongs.
Then there are the ‘bone collectors’ who slap and dash their meat around the grid and tend to intrude on other braaiers territory. This is frowned upon in professional braai circles.
One of the unwritten rules of braaing is that the women do the salads (spending most of their time in the kitchen, of course) while the manne fidget around the braai stand, shoving potatoes wrapped in silver foil deep into the embers.
The bone collector guy uses his forefinger and his ‘biltong’ knife as a swivel stick to mix his brandy and Coke. Often, the forefinger is bigger than the wors he is attempting to braai.
Then there is the whole thing of sprinkling mysterious spices over the meat. While Aeromat is cancer inducing and can remove rust from an old tractor, it is considered rude not to offer your braai partner a sprinkle should the bottle be in your hand.
The conversation revolves around local politics, the fact that the Municipality never picked up the refuse on the 27th – what’s wrong with them -, Graeme Smith’s batting performance and the Lotto.
Then the self-appointed braai meester, after careful opening up a section of the meat on the braai for inspection, announces that everything is done.
The meat is taken off, everyone troupes inside where the ladies have coveniently laid out the salad and that awful Mayonnaise stuff that South Africans love to dribble over everything including their cornflakes.
A rapid volley of explosions has Brian diving for the floor but we just sit around watching the fountain of fireworks rise into the New Year sky above Sibongile. “Hey this is just like the West Bank,” says Brian fondly. And as the last piece of wors is devoured it was a case of – lets do this next year.
