Tale guide

A pukka Boere braai

A pukka Boere Braai is an authentic Afrikaner barbeque, for those unfamiliar with the language.

The use of the word ‘Boere’ (farmer) in the vernacular to reference an Afrikaner in this context can be traced back to the early years when almost all of the Afrikaner of Southern Africa took to farming for their livelihood.

The Afrikaner people are descendants from the early years of discovery when families of predominantly Dutch, French and German origins packed up their ox wagons and left the fairest Cape for the unknown hinterland to escape the British and find their fortunes elsewhere. Tough, deeply religious and salt of the earth people with great pride and a unique, infectious sense of humour.

The Boere braai on an ordinary level, differs fundamentally from a New Zealand Barbi with bangers and an American or English barbeque with hamburgers and salads.

As Southern Africa produces an abundance of high-quality beef and lamb at a reasonable cost, the Boere Braai is synonymous with steaks, chops, boerewors and putu pap. The latter is a stiff maize meal porridge that was introduced by the incoming African tribes from the north. The Boerewors is a sausage made with a mix of minced beef and pork and a generous helping of available herbs and spices.

Foreign barbeques and indeed many South African braais are fired by gas or charcoal, but it is at this critical point that the pukka Boere braai distances itself from the rest by virtue of the use of high quality, bushveld wood as well as a traditional ritual only carried out by a handful of dyed-in-the-wool connoisseurs.

It was not that long ago when Jacobus van Biljoen extended a nervous invitation to Joan and Peter English to join him and his vroutjie (wife) Marietjie, known to her friends as ‘Marie’, for lunch.

Kobus, as he was better known, was such a connoisseur not only of the Boere braai but of everything Afrikaner from the bush and all that lived in it, all the way to his dominant ‘head of the family’ role in life. But the invitation was extended with some apprehension as he found himself a little out of his depth in respect of entertaining an Engelsman and his partner for the very first time in his long and successful life.

“What time would you like us to be there,” asked a polite Peter English.

“Ag,” replied Kobus, “make it around twelve Saturday for lunch. That will be great.”

Joan went into the city and bought herself a bright cotton summer dress for the occasion and she and Peter, a recently proud owner of an out-the-box, 4 x 4, headed to Pretoria, the former heartland of Afrikanerdom where the van Biljoens had owned a tidy three bed home for most of their lives. They arrived on the dot at 1200 hours.

The shipshape, face-brick home was set back from a quiet lane, hidden behind a tall hedge that encircled a large lawned yard bordered by a maze of brightly coloured flowers that had obviously been tended to with great love and care. At the one end of the dark green lawn stood a thatched gazebo, built on a concrete floor and that housed an attractive outside pub and a braai pit. Stacked inside a perfectly circular depression in the pit stood a tent-like triangle of logs in preparation of a raging fire, a prelude to a pukka Boere braai.

It was 12h15 by the time the car was parked, and the greetings were concluded when Kobus asked Joan in his good English, “What would you like to drink?”

Kobus and Marie had invited another couple to join them probably as additional support with the first in a lifetime experiment with the ‘Englese’. They too were offered a drink followed by Peter.

Kobus took up his favourite place behind the bar and poured the drinks. White wine for the ladies, red wine for Peter and a double scotch for himself and his friend.

Joan and Peter had deliberately avoided having breakfast in anticipation of a stupendous spread for which pukka Boere braais were renown, so by the time the clock passed one o’clock they were pretty hungry and looking forward to lunch with anticipation.

There was however one small problem, at least according to Peter, insofar as the fire had, by that time, not been lit.

The second round of drinks were readily dispensed by 12h45 and Peter couldn’t help but notice that the log fire remained unlit. The conversation became increasingly uninhibited and excited with rugby at the top of the agenda, followed by fishing and eventually politics.

As the afternoon passed the drinks flowed and the logs remained cold and dry. By the time the sun was on the wane, both Joan and Peter had downed a bottle of wine each and were famished and a tad on the wane as well.

They flattened the peanuts and peri peri biltong of which there had been a considerable supply and Peter had lost count of the number of double whiskies his host and his friend had downed, and the logs remained cold and dry.

Eventually, as early evening dusk crept across the yard, Kobus swaggered over to his logs and set the fire going. Peter looked at his watch. He knew hardwood would take at least an hour and a half to burn to coals and unless there was other technique in the wings, the heat would take another half hour to reach a decent cooking temperature.

It was going to be a long night!

The second bottles of wine were dispensed with just before the huge succulent steaks, boerewors and chops were laid on the expanded steel grill and the sweet smell of meat cooking on an open fire drifted heavenwards and to the neighbours downwind.

Marietjie had obediently remained almost tea total throughout the afternoon, and at Kobus’ command, disappeared into the kitchen to re-emerge shortly afterwards with a selection of freshly prepared salads, garlic bread and a large, three-legged, black pot of steaming putu pap together with another pot of bubbling tomato and onion sauce.

It was then close on 20h00 and by this time Peter and Joan were ready to devour a scabby horse; but the alcohol had successfully lifted their spirits and stamina and what appeared to them to be double the amount of tantalizingly delicious food took every inch of their self-control not to dive in without so much as a ‘I beg your pardon’.

The braai was amazing! Never had they eaten such tender and tasty meat, cured on the smokey heat from carefully selected African hard woods.

Once the meal had settled, so too did the diners, their tummies full, their alcohol levels way over full. But notwithstanding, the conversation continued unabated, the drinks flow renewed, and the laughter became increasingly louder.

Eventually, Kobus, who by this time had completely overcome his earlier apprehension, demanded that everyone should have a ‘lasty’.

To fulfil his request, he produced a selection of liquors and his guests had to decide on their choice of poison. Jägermeister for the guys and liquor de Menthe for the ladies.

One time, two times, three times and then “an absolute lasty” before they lost count.

Eventually Peter looked at his watch. He had to concentrate really hard on focusing on its dial. ‘Twenty past one’, it read. He turned to his host and his wife. “There ishno way I can drive that think,” he exclaimed pointing roughly in the direction of his new car.

“Nee, man,” said Kobus, “You’ll be fine boet,” and slapped him so hard on his back that Peter stumbled forward.

“Lishten,” Peter staggered into an upright position, “I can’t, won’t, cannot, even revershe up your drive!” he stuttered.

Joan stepped up with a surprisingly sober tone, “Kobus, if you reverse the car out of your narrow driveway, I’ll drive us home’, she volunteered. Peter was not in a position to argue, let alone object.

Kobus, as sharp as a razor, jumped into the car and smartly reversed it up the hill, through the gates and onto the road. “There you go,” he announced handing the keys to Joan.

Joan had never driven the 4 x 4 before, as they had just taken ownership of it the day before. Nevertheless, she clambered up and behind the wheel and commanded Peter to get into the passenger seat and buckle up.

And off they went, onto the dual carriageway that links the two cities and back to their little flat in the south.

Joan stuck to the middle of the three-lane, southbound road and drove at a constant 60 kilometers an hour, with both hands firmly gripping the steering wheel and a picture of determined concentration etched on her face.

Peter sat staring at the empty roadway ahead in a mindless befuddlement. He could have been on his way to Mars, for all he knew.

In front of them, driving in the same direction, rode a police car. Joan approached them and realised that they were cruising unusually slowly.

She simply put on her indicator and began to overtake the police car.

“Shorry,” Peter had suddenly come to life, “what the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m taking us home,” came the reply.

“But you’ve jushed gone pashed a polish car,” observed Peter, somewhat alarmed and perplexed at the audacity of it all.

What the policemen thought, they would never know.

When Peter woke up, Joan was pulling into their garage at home.

The next day Peter arose just past eleven in the morning. “What happened?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’m not entirely sure,” came the reply, “but somehow, I got us home alive. And that’s the last time we go to a pukka Boere braai for lunch!” Joan declared.