Vino in Venice?

 As I arrive in Italy, the land of Ciaos, Bella and Tutti,where the well dressed men sip their espressos at coffee bars and the ladies elegantly strut their designer shades and handbags. Before leaving the airport you become aware of the beauty, style and wonderful culture of this little Versace Boot shaped country.

The cold crisp air of Venice slaps you on your cheek just to say "Ciao Bella!" "Allora" I greet back, ecstatic to see this amazing place.

Venice, the floating city, the city of love, one of the most visited cities in the world with over 50,000 visitors daily, has become the ultimate location for falling in love, being in love and celebrating new love. The rich history of Crusades and battles,Spice and Silk Trades and the birthplace of the great Antonio Vivaldi adds to the romance and perfect architecture surrounded by the Venetian Lagoon and Adriatic Sea.


Exploring the city is a walk in the clouds as every shop, building, cafe and even tourist looks so perfect you would think they are part of the show.

We start our exploring with an early dinner at a little restaurant called Pedrocchi, invited in by a charming waiter dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie. Italian vino to accompany real Italian food in real Italy- a dream come true!


My Siciliana pizza arrived, elegantly decorated with plump black olives, which I imagine are from Tuscany, on the thinnest crispest  base that crackles with each bite. The lasagne is a no-fuss, perfect square of rich beef ragu and lasagne sheets. Now I realise how South Africans, Americans and all fast food "Pizza Pasta" joints have completely missed the plot on Italian food... We put every possible topping on a thick bready base, kill it with cheap mozzzarella and sometimes even cheddar. Lasagnes are over-cheesed, swimming in oil and bechamel and usually house some lost looking peas and diced carrots. Pasta is overcooked and the sauce sometimes drowns the pasta. An Italian would weep at the site! Especially when you dare cut your spagetti with a knife!!! Where is the Italian style in that?




After my taste of Italy in this charming bistro, apparently established in 1882, we head towards the infamous Rialto Bridge. On the way, the pretty Italian men sell fresh and polished fruits and vegetables, and Chestnuts roasting in big black pots. I have never eaten a chestnut before and the only thing I know about them is the Christmas carol "chestnuts roasting on the fire... Now humming the song, I decide to buy some and give it a try. For 2 euro I buy half a brown bag of warm rich chestnuts. My Spanish friend teaches me to peel them and eat them and think I was born in a cave. The buttery, fat nut warms and satisfies and reminds me of butter brioche just out of the oven (without the cholesterol).

Window displays are decorated with freshly baked artisan breads and Italian pastries, sweets and chocolates. Lemoncillo and grappa, hand made pasta and Venetian masks.

Standing on Rialto Bridge, you fall in love. The beauty and perfection of this wonderful place, the energy and lights, the music and the gondolas floating in the channels, and the magical thought that some of the best artists and performers have walked these streets...


To cool my nostalgia I head for a good gelato shop. Not hard to find here as the dispalys of the hundreds of gelaterias are so mouth watering. I choose the biggest cone and fill it with a scoop of Tiramisu, a scoop of Staciatella,  one Chocolate Cookie and a scoop of Mocha flavoured gelato. The creamiest, most delicately flavoured  ice cream with the smoothness of Valentino's silk scarves makes other ice creams bow their head in shame. There is no comparison between a gelato and an ice cream. It is like comparing French fries to French wine..not the same thing! 


In San Marco Square the great open square is filled with lovers strolling, children running with balloons, musicians performing classical pieces and Italian policemen looking very handsome in their tight and military uniform. Enclosed by buildings from the Renaissance and stories from the middle ages, San Marco Square is a magical place and I wish I never had to leave. Unfortunately my gelato is now finished and left us freezing on this beautiful autumn evening.

No better thing to warm you up in Italy than a perfect Italian espresso accompanied by a glass of good Grappa! Sitting outside a tiny street cafe on the cobble stoned walkway with tourists wandering past, locals going about their normal life and the Venice Canal glowing in the moonlight, I cannot decide whether it is the espresso, the grappa or this magical city that leaves me with this warm tingling feeling.


The next morning has an icy wind and the sky is the bluest blue. We stroll through this sleeping city as it lazily awakes for a Sunday morning and the church bells call it's millionth call. The homes look too perfect to be real and we wonder whether they are for show, or if real people really live there. The washing lines flaunting freshly washed underwear, pretty flowers on balconies and chimneys sticking out as if to invite Santa Claus just look too picturesque to be functional. But as the inhabitants slowly awake, they are visible with their dogs, scarves and bicycles on the cobble streets going about ordinary Venetian life.

A last lunch before we need to say good bye and of course we opt for the Italian food at the prettiest street restaurant. I order a Canneloni- a classic Italian where pasta tubes are filled with a rich ragu. My friend orders a pizza with every cured meat available in Italy on top of it. My Canneloni is stylish, of course without the white buttery bechamel sauce the rest of the world kills it with, nor does it have a touch of mozzarella. Instead it is accompanied by freshly grated mature Parmegano cheese. Simplicity. The ultimate elegance. They must have invented the "less is more phrase".

My al fresco pasta lunch in the sun in this beautiful town is ended off with a good espresso and then we silently and sadly leave this wonderland, bidding Ciao and wishing to return soon to fall in love all over again.

Sweet Indian Memories

My grandmother, Cecilia Petronella Cronje, is definitely a reincarnation of some extravagant Indian lady that, in her previous life, didn't do enough dancing, socializing and always wanted to have red hair. My grandmother does not believe in reincarnation but the Indian lady that lives in her body now, has the rest of us believing.

Cecilia, a short and slim vivacious lady with turquoise blue eyes, milky white skin and freckles on her pink blushing face, has never seen the outside of South Africa or even seen India on the Travel Channel, but is more Indian than some Raj's and Singh's out there!

As a child, our house was always smelling of some Indian spice, Chilly bites, Naan or Samoosas. Cupboards always had some Ramadan, Eid or Divali cookies in them, and her choice of house colour- Indian bright pinks, greens and blues- had the family wondering. Her jewellery is over the top and she left the house looking like a Hindu bride every morning, draped in diamonds, gold and bright pink lipstick. Saree's and gold bracelets, chillies and cardamon, intense fragrances and shocking green bathrooms...not your typical Afrikaans lady!

Growing up with the Indian culture and food, my mother and I developed a tradition and an equal love for India. On rainy days, hard days, cold days or sad days, or sometimes just any days, we used to take a trip to the Oriental Plaza, Johannesburg's little Culcatta. We would, without fail, order 2 spinach samoosas, 2 meat samoosas, 2 corn and cheese samoosas, naan bread, 2 papr, 2 masala tea and 2 sweet coconut samoosas to finish off with. We would sit in the bustling informal cafe, ill decorated, noisy, completely lacking ambiance and proudly hosting a life sized poster of Mecca on the wall. We'd talk, eat and talk, and then talk some more. When we eventually tired of sitting, we would drive to a little shop called Mantsoura, hidden away in the back alleys of Braamfontein, and buy Indian Sweet Meats- traditional sweets usually made for festivals and weddings and like nothing you have ever seen in the west. In Mantsoura, we would buy Jelebi, Chana Magaj and Burfee, while being stared at strangely by the bakers in the shop. We are sure, until this day, that we are the only white people that know about this place! And no day would be complete without our sugar rush from these delectable sweets, eaten in the car out of the white cardboard take-away boxes as we sat through afternoon traffic in the city.

To this day, whenever it rains, or whenever either one of us is sad, or whenever we miss each other, either one would expect a call from the other saying, "Today is a Plaza day!" We would reminisce and feel all better after, remembering our days in that uncomfortable restaurant where Samoosas healed hearts, masala tea fought the blues and the sweets made life...sweeter.

Years since our last Plaza date, I am blessed enough to visit in India, and I land in a city called Calicut, or Kozhikode. It smells of sun and spice and hard labour and is so colourful, vibrant and busy. I discovered a place called Sweet Meat Street Market and took the first Tuk Tuk I could find, in search of real Indian Sweet Meats!

Strolling through the sizzling streets and being the only non-Indian, which definitely attracted some attention, I discovered a tiny shop off the dusty street called Shankara Bakery. I spotted something that resembled the Mantsoura sweets I know and without hesitation rushed in. The worried looking little Indian man behind the counter could not speak a word of English, but luckily signalling 2, and saying Jelebi, Chana Magaj and Burfee, had him quickly weighing, packing and wrapping my little Indian delicacies in a confused haste.

As I sat in my hotel room, tasting the real deal, in real India, I really missed my mom, and really really wished she was eating these sweets with me! They were great, authentic and everything I had hoped for, but they were missing something- sharing them with my mom!

Wish you ate here with me!

Tasting the Middle East

Moroccan mint Tea in a traditional teapot

So I find myself in a city called Doha, in the state of Qatar.

Where the hell is that, you're asking right? Don't worry I didn't know either until I accepted a job here.

If you wanna know, it's the thumb off the ass of Saudi Arabia. Yip, it really looks like a thumb, and pretty much on the ass of Saudi. And I bet you all know Saudi for its glamorous reputation of its distorted view on human rights yeah? Where women get lashes for driving and hands get chopped off for stealing and culture permits no fun or happiness or drunken parties.

Fattoush salad

Doha is nothing like this. Surely they have laws and rules that are tighter than those in the west, and cultural standards, taboos and tolerances that are more strict than most of our parents, but this makes for a 0% crime rate, ridiculous wealth and a superb standard of living. And pretty sober citizens too.

Yes, it's in a desert, and yes, it is dusty. It's hell hot and humid and the growth of the city has exceeded that of the trees and plants making it rather yellowish all over. It is a peninsula surrounded by 800 km of ocean on the one side, and a never ending desert on the other. You're thinking camels right? Think again! Bright lights, modern skyscrapers, Hummers and Bentleys are more like it!

Haloumi and Fig rolls and Moussaka

Doha is about wealth and opulence and luxury. The malls are shiny and filled with designer shops and international brands. Hotels are glamorous and very L.A. Restaurants are modern and cafe's are uber chic.  There is no rubble on the streets, no beggars or homeless and never will the thought of poverty, suffering or an economic crises cross your mind as you rub shoulders with mysterious Abaya-wearing ladies carrying their Chanel bags and purchasing Louis Vuittons while you sip your Starbucks Frappechino in a marble floored mall.

Beautifully presented Humus!

There is a taste to suit any palate and a cuisine for every meal of the week. The mass amount of eastern and western expats flocking here to get their hands on some of the rich wealth pie, has made Doha a hub of culture and cuisine. The high incomes and relaxed lifestyle has created a market for excuisite restaurants, where fabulously bored expat housewives have high tea, Qatari ladies indulge in Belgian pastries over lunch and white robed Arabic men share chocolate fondues at Swiss chocolatiers. Lebanese restaurants with Sheesha, Egyptian places with singers and Persian

Pita and Lebanese mezze

cushions, French bistros, American diners, European Patisseries, Swiss Chocolatiers and Michelin-starred fusion restaurants are just some of the places we dress up for and spend our leisurely time in. Then there are the Turkish Schwarma kiosks, dirty little Indian eateries and tiny Thai street cafes that are unpretentious, cheap and never close and the little eastern workers never sleep or seize to smile. And the food is just perfect for a post-party bite before you hit the bed in your designer dress after a glamorous party!

Arabic sweets at Souq Waqif

Being warned about the infamous Doha Stone that fancies newcomers' waists, I'll resume the culinary treasure hunting at a slower pace. But I cannot wait to eat the east and tell you all about it!

Sahtain!