The Braai Master

*If you’re not Saffa, Say what!? will be required.

I’m just going to get this out the way – a braai is a braai. Not a barbeque, BBQ, grill, Barbie, braaier or any other term you wish to call it. The only other acceptable term is braaivleis – halas. Wikipedia even got this wrong – a picture with a caption reading, “a typical braai on a small braaier”. This is such a fail. I’m cringing for these Wiki wiki people. But I’m glad we sorted this one out, you now know what a braai is my peach.

South African’s invented the braai and we’re very proud of our invention, otherwise without it, God’s green Earth would not have made it to the 21^st century. We even have a National Braai Day – love it. It is a process of cooking meat such as lamb chops, steak, chicken, boerewors, spare ribs etc (never fear vegetarians, there are veggie options for you too), on a grid that is placed over hot coals. Not gas – coals. You can make your coals literally from a bag of charcoal, Charka is your best bet here, or from lighting fire wood and letting it burn down to blistering coals, this is the good old fashioned way. Not from a gas bottle, be authentic. You need a degree in braaing to braai, so much to take in here and this is not a “how to” class. So… moving along swiftly…

We had a braai the other night and as always it was delish. The QS knows how to man a braai and cook possibly the best braaivleis I ever did have. And this is just it. There will always be a Braai Master at a braai… and his sword is his tongs. Don’t take the tongs my peach – not now, not ever, you have to be passed the tongs from the Braai Master. Just don’t go and overstep this boundary, it’ll be embarrassing if you do.

Saffa men just love braaing, and if you don’t love it then you’re blood is not green. Simple. They have this whole “man make fire” thing going on and the absolute necessity to burn something, like a meat type something. I’m surprised there’s not some form of ritual and braai dance that takes place prior to lighting their braai, because once that fire is lit, they enter the braai zone.

This is a seriaaas Braai Master. I have no words.

From the point of the fire being lit they will all stand around the fire, sometimes staring into it zoned out. All will have beer in hand. The braai master has beer and tongs in hand – and they actually all secretly stand there wishing for the tongs to be in their grubby little paws. TPH (The Perfect Human) is this guy. He loves those blerry tongs. The discussion generally centers itself around how awesome they are, how big their dicks are and that they’re golf pro’s.

Boerie braai!?

The ladies will toss a salad together and my potatoe salad if I’m feeling peachy and will then resume position at the outside table, chit chatting away whilst sipping on their favourite bottle of red, or white for that matter. In summer it’s fab to sip on a nice, ice cold spritzer, delish. In fact, it could even be papsak you use for your Spritzer. This conversation is centered on current affairs, the effects of global warming… um naaat! This is censored information. Sorry for you.

The braai master will go forth and be fabulous and cook all the meat whilst everyone is sipping on their bevvies. By the end of the eve you would’ve had a great feed, some good laughs and banter and possibly be slightly tipsy as at a braai you usually eat a WHOLE lot later than anticipated. How much later you ask!? I’d say a bottle of vino later, fantastic.

Enjoy your dop’s and chops peaches!

Miss M x

Men ARE from Mars, women are from Venus?

On Wednesday night, which in the part of the desert that I live in is a “Friday” night (it’s all a bit different out here), I was keen for a super chillaxing evening after a manic week in the place that is work. I went out for dinner and to cinema with two of my favourite guy friends that never fail for either an uber chilled night of great company, banter and laughs or an off the hook partaaaay, let’s call the one The QS and the other The Accomplice, just for arguments sake.

It all starts with The QS piping up in back of the car (late call on the shotgun my dear friend). This is how the conversation went:

The QS: So tell us about this chick with the alice thingy.

Miss M: Well you won’t believe it; she was wearing a padded alice band and a scrunchie! I couldn’t believe it! I mean, seriously, who does that right!? (I’m expecting an equally “shock, horror” response from at least one of them).

The QS  & The Accomplice: Was she hot?

Miss M: No.

The QS: Seriously, you’re just saying that. Like how old, twenty something maybe?

Miss M: No, like in her forties maybe, late forties I reckon. (She would’ve had to have been bopping around in the 80’s, so I reckon my guesstimate was pearler).

The Accomplice: Well the question still stands then (chuckle chuckle).

Miss M: I told you okes, she wasn’t fit, you know I would tell you if she was, and she was wearing a padded alice band and a scrunchie, so definitely not a belter.

The Accomplice: How much?

Miss M: 3000 Rials, minimum (This is the hotness barometer, wrong, but a good method in rating)!?

The QS: No, probably 50 rats.

Miss M: Yusses – ok then. Sluts.

The Accomplice: Well, what’s a padded alice band anyway?

Miss M: It’s a padded alice band….(interrupted)

The QS: What’s that?

Miss M: Like the thing girls wear on their head’s, it pushes their hair back (demonstrating clearly now what an alice band is with hand gestures and everything, looking like the circus under one tent here trying to explain). Guy’s, for your reference, please see exhibit A, padded alice band – fail:

The Accomplice: So like what you’re wearing?

Miss M: (Horrified) Hell no! This is a head band, not a padded alice band, yusses! (I love alice bands, just not padded one’s)! Please see exhibit B for acceptable headbands – tick:

I gave the padded alice band 101 class and we were all on the same page.

It’s just got me thinking, are men quite possibly from Mars and women from Venus? How on earth do we co-habit this Earth (well, I guess I do know, but you know what I mean)? There I thought that it was perfectly acceptable to think that it’s horrendous that a woman was wearing a padded alice band and scrunchie in a public space but this was interpreted by the guys as, what did she look like, was she hot, how old is she and how much… oh and by the way, what’s a padded alice thingy? Love these ad’s, it explains it all.

Kudo’s to these two for reading the post, think it might’ve had something to do with the Demotivational poster.

Miss M x



1980’s phoned

So this evening I’m standing in the checkout que, or till as we like to call it in Saffa land, at the supermarket. Waiting my turn patiently, I was staring deep into the cover of Viva magazine (stunning cover Natalie Portman – we like), I was day dreaming of “so-hot shoes, dresses that dazzle”, as the cover lured me in – I was suddenly rudely interrupted as something caught my eye, something horrifying.

 A padded alice band.

O.M.G (pronounced oh – em – jee). Do they even make these anymore? You know, the one’s that stand about 5 cm’s off your head. I thought to myself, well at least she’s not wearing a scrunchie. And then, there it was… an emerald green velvet scrunchie too! On her wrist! Um… excuse me lady, 1980’s phoned and wants their padded alice band AND scrunchie back. Yusses.

My eyes drifted over to check her “married lady ring finger” because surely no self respecting man would be caught dead next to a padded alice banded, scrunching wearing freak. No ring, I was right. And just like that she was gone – thank GAWD. I never even caught her face, or what she was wearing.  There was just too much going on in my head right at this moment in time.

I quickly stopped in at the Pharmacy to stock up on Berocca for these recent late nights at work. There she was again – please make her STOP! She was biaaatching to the lovely pharmacist about the difference between 100g and 300g asprin. OH MY HAT! Take the stronger drugs lady! This went on for 15 minutes, fact. Instead of buying asprin lady, how about you buy a can of shut the fak up so we can all get a move on here. And hey lady, while you buying your can, take your padded alice band and your scrunchie home where you will no longer be an absolute eye-sore to society. Please lady! Puh-lease.

I have no more words on this devastating experience. Nothing.

Miss M x

The brunching culture

When I first moved out to the desert and I heard the word brunch being thrown around, I had visions of late (say 11ish) civilised breakfast taking place – so bacon and eggs on a Sunday morn stretching into the early arvie, with perhaps a glass or 2 of champagne and OJ. Um, I think NAAAT.

I attended my 1st brunch, and this is where I first met my entourage of fabulous girlfriends. Here’s the DL on what brunch really is about. Now listen carefully and write this down if necessary. Firstly, it doesn’t involve bacon and eggs, so don’t look like a muppet wanting to order breakfast. No pork allowed. It’s not even about the food really, although at all brunches there is an array of delicious food at the buffet (pronounced buff-it). It happens at various fabulous hotels, starts at midday on either or Thursday or Friday (not Sunday, this is the desert people) and is about the champagne, or shampoo as I like to call it. Those attending a brunch on a weekend get all dolled up and head to a great brunch of choice for the afternoon (note to self: don’t wear such killer heels to the next brunch).

This weekend saw 15 or so twenty somethings  (and some 30-odd, bless their souls) heading to the Radisson Blu brunch for one of my lovely girlfriends birthdays – happy happy my darling friend!

Now to really get the most out of your brunch, become friends with your waiter. Simple. This is easily accomplished by asking their name, smiling, possibly a bit of batting of eyelids – and you’re in. Your glass will always be half full. Fantastic. Brunch always starts off cool, calm and collected but by the end of it, the restaurant staff looked washed out and are begging patrons to leave. (Ok ok, we’re leaving – to the next party that is).

Brunch is generally followed by heading out for a bit of disco to squeak some takkie (or heel), or lazying around a friends villa. The day after brunch is usually spent in bed, nursing a killer hangover with Panadol’s, water and Sex and the City series.

There are so many brunches to choose from (in Dubai) – some of my fav spots are The Warehouse at the Le Meridian hotel close to the airport. This doesn’t have a buff-it, it’s served right to your table so you need not separate yourself from you favourite glass of bubbles, or mojito in this case. There’s also a happy hour that kicks in at 4pm with some cheesy disco beats being belted out from the DJ box. Great vibe. Time out Dubai rates it as “One of the best value deals in town with some of the best food on offer and all you can drink mojitos”. Fabulous. Check out: http://www.diningatmeridiendubai.com/

Another excellent venue is the  Grand Grill at the Habtoor Grand Resort and Spa. Being a Saffa chica, this is an excellet South African steakhouse, that has everything from South African waiters to Amarula (delish as an Amarula Pedro – to die for)! During the winter, when the temp is only about 28 degrees, it is great to sit outside and sip on your shampoo whilst spending an arvie with fabulous company overlooking the beautiful sea view. This particular brunch was for my awesome Scottish friends birthday, which saw me and my accomplice booking flights spontaneously at midnight that night up to Dubai for the Friday, the had FOMO kicked in and we suprised her (but this is another story all together, next time). Check out: http://grandjumeirah.habtoorhotels.com/

Last, but certainly not least is Mina Salam at the Madinat. This brunch is fairly relaxed in relation to the other 2. It’s set on the canals that surround the hotel and is really quite chilled. What you don’t want to miss at this restaurant is the food. Now I know I said that brunch is not about the food but at Mina Salam it is. The food it truly excellent and innovative and is absolutely worth having a nibble. Check out: http://www.jumeirah.com/

Right, I’m off to continue nursing my hangover.

There will be plenty of brunches which I will be at this year, so will have much to report back on.

Happy brunchings peaches!

Miss M x

It’s rain day, PAIN day!

Living in the middle of the desert, it is not very often that we experience a glorious day of rain. A day when it is nice a chilly and you can cuddle up on the sofa with some Milo and biscuits and watch a DVD with the pitter patter of the rain outside. To be specific, we possibly have one day of rain a year, which I like to refer to as PAIN DAY.

Being a Capetonian I love a rainy day. But no, not quite so in the Middle East. It is the most God awful day of the year and I dread it. Today is rain day, bless our souls. The country literally shuts down. You are not able to get from A to B on the roads and employees on your team use that petty excuse that they need to go home because it’s raining. I mean REALLY, say WHAT!?!? How would they ever survive living in the UK or even Saffa land for that matter? I am not entirely sure why the rain is so feared, you could swear it was acid falling from the heavens above.

Be it as it may, we are done with our one bit of rain for the next year, depending on whether we have a cyclone, but that’s another story altogether – brace yourself for that one Sheila.

Miss M x