Chic organic farms, cowsheds serving fresh-picked herbs and tables made from old electric cable spools. Move over, Brooklyn: the South African city’s artisanal charms are enough to make any New Yorker fall in love.
“Surely not?” That’s a phrase I’ve used often in the year I’ve been dating a New Yorker. When I first saw the size of her apartment in Chelsea, for example — somewhat smaller than my horse stable in South Africa’s Western Cape. When she told me her idea of a “reasonable” price for a sweater. When she kept a straight face as a waiter in Brooklyn droned on about seasonal ramp pesto over wood-fire-roasted sustainably raised heirloom spotted hen. (In my country we call it “chicken.”) But despite our cultural differences, I’m fond of the girl, and I was keen to spend time with her on my turf. I needed to hatch a plan.
When I think of my favorite things about home, what comes to mind is tinkering with my ancient Land Rover, surfing in the cold waters at the tip of the continent before the sun comes up and riding my spirited African farm horses. But would these activities be enough to win my Ariel over to what is, after all, a decidedly less refined approach to leisure and living? Upon reflection, I realized that there was an aspect of life in the Cape Town area that could be presented to her as “artisanal” — a word New Yorkers are quite addicted to and which, as far as I can tell, means something expensive that’s been fussed over by hand and has a patina of history and practicality.
Our first stop was Babylonstoren, a dazzling farm resort in the Winelands dating to 1692, surrounded by orchards of plum trees and fields of grapevines. Guests stay in Cape Dutch cottages that once housed the farm’s workers and have since been stylishly renovated with claw-footed bathtubs and sleek glass kitchens. We toured the eight-acre organic garden, which boasts some 300 botanical species, all of them edible or medicinal, laid out in colorful rows and punctuated by a series of fanciful outdoor “rooms”: a bamboo-bordered space for birdwatching, complete with what looked like human-size nesting baskets; a mulberry meditation garden enclosed by softly whitewashed stone walls; a small, fragrant field of chamomile to lay in on hot summer days. I was pleased to see my companion get that giddy, glazed look on her face that she reserves for circumstances she finds sufficiently precious.
Despite all the funky touches, the garden at Babylonstoren is arranged in a formal Dutch grid — closely modeled on the original plan for the Dutch East India Company Gardens in the center of Cape Town. The gardens were established soon after Jan van Riebeeck arrived at the Cape from the Netherlands in 1652, tasked with starting a farming community to provide fresh produce for the trading ships plying the spice trade between Europe and Asia. Meals at Babylonstoren are served in a renovated cowshed with views of the purple Simonsberg mountain in the distance and of the garden itself, which provides all the produce to feed the staff and guests.
Lunch was an orgy of artisanality. A snack of tangerine pieces lightly grilled with thyme in house-made olive oil arrived before the rosé — crisp and peachy and made on the premises. The menu is largely organized by color, and we selected the “green,” a cheery stack of vegetable slices with a Granny Smith apple, and the “red,” little rolls of local smoked trout with ginger crème fraîche ensconced in thin slices of ruby beets and garnished with radishes and pomegranate seeds. “Oh wow,” Ariel said, “this food is Brooklyn quality.” She was a little baffled when our waitress brought a large vase of freshly picked flowers and herbs at the end of the meal. But when a kettle of hot water and teacups arrived, we were charmed to realize our bouquet was to be our beverage.
Everything else beautiful at Babylonstoren turned out to have a purpose, too. In the garden, alternating emerald tatsoi and purple cabbage, Florence bulb fennel and Tuscan kale, form a mosaic of color and texture, but the layout is as strategic as it is stunning: Onions are planted next to carrots because the plants repel each other’s pests; a patch of lovely lupine and linseed under the lemon trees is hard at work breaking up the soil with aggressive roots. The farm’s ducks are led into the orchards daily (by a deaf duck-whisperer, no less) to eat snails that would otherwise menace the plants.
Flushed with the success of lunch, I started making bold plans for dinner in nearby Franschhoek (Dutch for “French corner”). Huguenots fleeing persecution in France began arriving in the area in the late 17th century and were delighted to find themselves in a fertile valley, where they quickly recognized that conditions were ideal for wine-making: sandy, well-drained soil, a Mediterranean climate with wet, mild winters and hot, dry summers that ensure grapes with thick skins, high in tannins. Many of the oldest families in the region carry French names — Du Toit, Du Plessis. Nevertheless, my girlfriend was immediately suspicious of the “fake Parisian” décor at the French Connection Bistro that evening: regrettable coach lamps on the walls, wooden bistro chairs and a massive, lurid painting depicting a bare-breasted woman storming the Bastille. “We’re in Frog Disneyland,” Ariel declared. I feared the jig was up.
We were surprised, and I was relieved, when our meal was both sublime and authentic — totally particular to the region. The chef achieved a perfect pepper crust that would have impressed the most exacting Frenchman, and it was on a lean loin of springbok, which my paramour promptly named “one of the great meats of the world,” complemented by golden gooseberries and au jus laced with vygie, a plant from the local Fynbos biome.
Back in Cape Town after our stint in the Winelands, I should have known not to hope to impress a New Yorker with the regal tea room at the Belmond Mount Nelson Hotel (“it’s not the Carlyle,” she sniffed) or the hipster industrial chic of Woodstock — a neighborhood Ariel immediately and accurately identified as “the Williamsburg of Cape Town” when I took her strolling through the gritty galleries and vintage shops along Albert Road. I couldn’t resist dinner at the Pot Luck Club, though, a restaurant on the top floor of an old biscuit mill, with views of the waterfront and a Korean fried chicken with pineapple slaw that even my Manhattanite gushed about for a day. But I knew it wasn’t enough. I had to show her something unique: the Bo-Kaap.
Nowhere else in the world can you find the distinct amalgam of ethnicity, culture and religion that comprise this vibrant Cape Malay community settled on the slopes of Signal Hill in candy-colored houses. Bo-Kaap means “above the Cape” in Afrikaans, the language the Cape Malay have adopted and improved with their particular musical lilt. (Afrikaans is a South African language with strong roots in High Dutch — coarse, harsh, guttural and often likened to the bray of a donkey.) The festive colors of the homes echo the bright costumes worn during the raucous parade held on the second of January, the “Tweede Nuwe Jaar” or “Second New Year.” Traditionally this was the only day of the year that slaves might have a few hours off, and they celebrated by singing and dancing in the streets of Cape Town. The parade remains a colorful but poignant reminder of the painful past.
The Bo-Kaap has retained a profound sense of rootedness and history, and its inhabitants are eager to share their heritage with tourists: There is a wonderful museum on Wale Street, one of the most picturesque blocks in the neighborhood, where we spent hours before walking to the open market held on the first Saturday of every month at the local community center. My girlfriend immediately started chatting to a regal woman swathed in a black abaya who sold her pungent pastes of cilantro, mint and garlic and directed her to put them on everything she ate.
Cape Malay cuisine owes a lot to the “Spice Islands” of Southeast Asia and relies on a careful blend of intense fragrances, heavy with turmeric. I was keen to book a table at one of the best restaurants in the area, the Bo-Kaap “Kombuis” or “Kitchen,” but the first night I tried, the entire venue had been reserved for a birthday party. Twenty-four hours later we walked up an impossibly steep hill — past bushes of Cape honeysuckle and fragrant star jasmine growing from cracks in the stone walls — into the newer part of the Bo-Kaap, where a younger generation of Cape Malay residents have started building modern homes on slopes that would have been hell to climb in the days before cars. A waiter squeezed us through the noisy crowd to a small table with views of the firefly lights of the city. It was difficult not to feel slightly out of place (and underdressed) amongst the elegant women with heads covered in colorful scarves and dignified men with fezzes and carefully groomed beards, but we couldn’t have been made to feel more welcome, with gentle advice on all aspects of the buffet and frequent encouragements to “try everything, eat it all.” We did our best, but succumbed early to a savory lamb curry and an excellent bobotie — a national dish of South Africa that combines curried mincemeat and fruit, baked with a crispy golden egg topping.
At about 3 in the morning, I heard my name being spoken, and then shouted, with increasing urgency. I looked next to me, but my girlfriend was gone and in her place was Marge Simpson. As the sleep cleared from my eyes, I realized that it was indeed Ariel — her lips swollen to thrice their normal size, her skin mottled, her hair standing straight up — having a dramatic allergic reaction to who-knows-what ingredient in the previous night’s smorgasbord. Fortunately, the lovely Cape Heritage Hotel where we were staying is located almost directly across the street from an emergency room. As the antihistamine they administered took effect, I was stunned to hear Ariel say that she would eat there again. “Next time,” she said, “let’s just bring a Benadryl.” I had underestimated her — forgotten that New Yorkers are not just famously sophisticated but also famously resilient.
The time had come to leave the decorated and reclaimed behind, and visit the unpolished and utterly unreconstructed fishing village of Kassiesbaai, where we stayed in a small, simple house near the beach. Kassiesbaai is situated a stone’s throw from Cape Agulhas, the southern tip of Africa. The local fishermen have been launching their brave little boats — painted red and yellow and given names like Mouse and Nicolene — into these treacherous waters for centuries, hunting the shoals that feed in the meeting of the oceans at the broad Agulhas banks. Their thatched and rough-hewn stone cottages, limewashed white with doors and windowpanes painted in blue and purple, sit unchanged on a hill overlooking the Indian Ocean. Sandy roads glint with broken seashells, turquoise water laps at the rocky outcroppings and you can walk for miles on the white-sand beaches, the only other couples being black oystercatchers with shocking red legs and a tendency to mate for life. Caves full of bats scar the cliffs; in one we found a tiny shard of sea-worn blue Delft, a relic from a shipwreck.
Hungry from walking and swimming, Ariel looking tanned and relaxed, we headed for Willeen’s, a small stone cottage on a cliff by the beach, doubling as a restaurant. Sitting outside at sun-bleached tables that were spools for electrical cable in their previous lives, we ate piles of golden fish cakes. We had them again for breakfast (with eggs), for lunch (with chips) and for dinner (with wine).
By the time I put her on the plane I was confident that my New World woman would be back — a convert to the simple charms of Southern Africa. Early in the mornings, out riding my horse, I imagined her dreaming of turquoise water and the taste of springbok. But to my horror, I’ve since found myself fussing over things I never even knew existed before I met her: “thread count” comes to mind, and exorbitant organic sage shampoo. It occurs to me that we have broadened each other’s worlds and started shaping each other’s preferences. I suppose that would be love.
