Most of us are guilty.
We’ll drive to Johannesburg or Parys for a meal and happily empty our wallets for the experience, but ask us to do this in our own town and we baulk. We prefer talking – and eating – ‘forrin’.
Mostly with good reason.
It’s a source of constant amusement to foodies when the call goes out on local social media for recommendations for a fine-dining experience in town. Not because of the question but because of the responses. Not since the days of Theo’s and Number 54 (was that the name of the wonderful restaurant upstairs on the Bult?), has there been a restaurant that would fall under the definition of fine dining, on home soil; yet Potchefstroomers will toss around recommendations from fast food to vrek-van-die-vet eateries that offer nothing beyond what a competent cook could conjure up in a home kitchen, while watching Sewende Laan.
So those who know their Wagu from their voerkraal will happily leave town in order to satisfy their epicurean senses.
As Father’s Day approaches, menus are popping up all over the place, encouraging families to ‘spoil’ dad with a ‘special’ meal. The hook isn’t generally the food: that’s pretty standard Bisto-drowned protein (in bulk), accompanied by at least two starches and veggies either camouflaged by processed cheese sauce or asphyxiated in sugar and cooked until all signs of sprightliness or hints of al dente reach the point of erectile dysfunction. Rys, vleis, and aartappels isn’t food – it’s fodder.
The infallible hook, in Potch, is the price.
Not wanting to lose their arms and legs, many will go for the cheap options which focus on quantity over quality or innovation. Others – because it’s a special occasion – will double the budget to support what’s on offer at ‘Jo’burg prices’. Both eat the same meal in the end.
But if it makes dads feel special, who can argue?
Here’s to you fathers and substitute fathers and stepfathers and father figures: next week may you feel appreciated and loved and may your antacids be worth each cent.
