It has to be one of the special spaces on a hot Cape
day – the piece of real
estate running along the railway line all the way from Muizenburg down to
Simonstown. Today is particularly special, with a steam train coming past,
the unmistakable rumble of the engine and coaches – so different from the
electric version - felt through your body long before the hooter has been
sounded down the line.
““I like this salad. I'm glad I got the salad. I like the sauce not the
liver. I never eat, babe, when it comes to liver and mussels, just the
sauce.”
Sitting on the narrow deck of an iconicKalk Bay
will compliment the refreshing drink I’ve ordered. Across the tracks and
about 10 paces of sand, a few families are paddling in the warm-ish water.
It’s midday, but neither the restaurant nor the beach is busy yet,Cape Town ’s
notoriously slow start only just kicking in; except for them, three tables
away, every monotone, nonsensical word tearing through me.
“You know what my best is? She wakes up and then I watch her go back to
sleep,” she says of the infant asleep in the carry cot next to her. You
polish your food, hey - gone, nothing there? It looks nice though, hey babe?
Very nice. Have you tasted the bread, babe? It’s got a lot of spice in it -
some sort of spice, cinnamon, allspice, like nutmeg maybe, some kind of
spice.”
Boring, vulgar, nasty, obsessively drilling down into every detail – over
two, three, even five courses, loud conversation has replaced smoking as the
bad habit of choice in restaurants, says a loved one. Too right; go into any
restaurant – actually, any public space - and there will be some idiot going
off at an unnecessary decibel level, about silly, arbitrary things.
Some will describe every morsel crossing their lips, killing any interest
you may have had in that particular dish.
There are the lovesick talkers, out with their best friends, hanging out all
the dirty linen.
There’s another kind who’ll turn on their lunch partner right there: “Why do
you ask if I'm gay? It’s this frickin white hair.” And then proceeds a
diatribe about how he has this gay look but he really isn't. Do I care? Do I
look like I care?
Sometimes, patrons on cellphones will step out of line, like the guy in the
beachfront coffee shop yesterday closing a deal on a nearby house, but
they're easily swatted away.
Meanwhile, she drones on, her inanities interspersed with sweet pet names
for her partner. We don’t hear his responses, so some understanding is lost.
Sadly, we’re forced to hear her.
“It doesn't even phase me. I’m bringing it up cos it happens all the time.
You’re such a liar. And you didn’t tell me. You didn't tell anybody else.
You told Ed.”
“I didn't tell,” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“She told me. In your stupidity you told someone else and you’re lying even
now. And now that she knows the whole world knows.
“Why am I going on about this? Because I'm catching you out, that’s why. You’re
not even telling the truth now. That's what so infuriates me about you, my
love.”
Her partner tries to be sarcastic but her rant continues to roll over him.
Eventually, he switches off, an option sadly not open to the rest of us
diners.
Most restaurateurs care little for the bad acoustics patrons have to endure,
even when there are ways of putting a lid on obtrusive ambient noise. And
managers care even less about protecting us from customers who don’t know
how to keep their lips zipped when out on the town.
Apart from the obvious, like telling them to shut up, we have the choice to
move to another table.
Or move to another restaurant entirely. - RAY HARTLE
estate running along the railway line all the way from Muizenburg down to
Simonstown. Today is particularly special, with a steam train coming past,
the unmistakable rumble of the engine and coaches – so different from the
electric version - felt through your body long before the hooter has been
sounded down the line.
““I like this salad. I'm glad I got the salad. I like the sauce not the
liver. I never eat, babe, when it comes to liver and mussels, just the
sauce.”
Sitting on the narrow deck of an iconic
will compliment the refreshing drink I’ve ordered. Across the tracks and
about 10 paces of sand, a few families are paddling in the warm-ish water.
It’s midday, but neither the restaurant nor the beach is busy yet,
notoriously slow start only just kicking in; except for them, three tables
away, every monotone, nonsensical word tearing through me.
“You know what my best is? She wakes up and then I watch her go back to
sleep,” she says of the infant asleep in the carry cot next to her. You
polish your food, hey - gone, nothing there? It looks nice though, hey babe?
Very nice. Have you tasted the bread, babe? It’s got a lot of spice in it -
some sort of spice, cinnamon, allspice, like nutmeg maybe, some kind of
spice.”
Boring, vulgar, nasty, obsessively drilling down into every detail – over
two, three, even five courses, loud conversation has replaced smoking as the
bad habit of choice in restaurants, says a loved one. Too right; go into any
restaurant – actually, any public space - and there will be some idiot going
off at an unnecessary decibel level, about silly, arbitrary things.
Some will describe every morsel crossing their lips, killing any interest
you may have had in that particular dish.
There are the lovesick talkers, out with their best friends, hanging out all
the dirty linen.
There’s another kind who’ll turn on their lunch partner right there: “Why do
you ask if I'm gay? It’s this frickin white hair.” And then proceeds a
diatribe about how he has this gay look but he really isn't. Do I care? Do I
look like I care?
Sometimes, patrons on cellphones will step out of line, like the guy in the
beachfront coffee shop yesterday closing a deal on a nearby house, but
they're easily swatted away.
Meanwhile, she drones on, her inanities interspersed with sweet pet names
for her partner. We don’t hear his responses, so some understanding is lost.
Sadly, we’re forced to hear her.
“It doesn't even phase me. I’m bringing it up cos it happens all the time.
You’re such a liar. And you didn’t tell me. You didn't tell anybody else.
You told Ed.”
“I didn't tell,” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“She told me. In your stupidity you told someone else and you’re lying even
now. And now that she knows the whole world knows.
“Why am I going on about this? Because I'm catching you out, that’s why. You’re
not even telling the truth now. That's what so infuriates me about you, my
love.”
Her partner tries to be sarcastic but her rant continues to roll over him.
Eventually, he switches off, an option sadly not open to the rest of us
diners.
Most restaurateurs care little for the bad acoustics patrons have to endure,
even when there are ways of putting a lid on obtrusive ambient noise. And
managers care even less about protecting us from customers who don’t know
how to keep their lips zipped when out on the town.
Apart from the obvious, like telling them to shut up, we have the choice to
move to another table.
Or move to another restaurant entirely. - RAY HARTLE
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