Carol’s Column

British hack blasphemed noble ritual

A headline in an English paper caught my eye last week. It said "As summer draws to a close, it's time - thank goodness - to put out the barbecue".

The writer, Julian Champkin, doesn't like braais. Writing about our second national pastime, he calls barbecues "gruesome" and says "where else but at a barbie (a barbie?) do you queue for an hour to be served with a sausage that is charred to blackness on the outside and salmonella-raw in the middle?" and adds "where else indeed, is an unskilled man in charge of the cooking?"

With views like this, it's obvious why the British pound is dropping.

Mr Champkin should visit South Africa and see how the real thing is done.

The following is a typical scene at the Lazars most Sundays.

The man of the house is muttering over the oil drum he's skilfully converted into a braai. "Dammit, not enough charcoal."

There is chaos in the kitchen. Chops and boerewors (the real thing, not that pale imitation stuffed with bread and heaven knows what) are merrily marinating in an original blatjang marinade, the recipe dating from 1857. I'm stirring mealiepap and the onion and tomato sauce is bubbling.

The fridge is stuffed with beers. "Braaiing is thirsty work," says my spouse.

Our guests arrive. But wait. I've asked 10 but there are 20 because of the kids' friends who've popped in, seen the food activity and are staying. "You don’t mind, Ma?"

"No, no, great," I say, bang the door in the kitchen, growl "Welcome to the Holiday Inn", and quickly take out a buy-in-bulk chicken-pieces pack and add it to the meat.

Outside, our guests are sitting happily under the oak tree drinking beer. "Shall I bring the meat?" I call.

"Let me see if the fire's ready." says my spouse, then modestly: "What a great fire. Bring the meat."

I do and he places it carefully upon the braai: No-one else would dare arrange meat on a griddle in this family. It is an art perfected by my husband.

The men and their beers have moved to the braai, at least four of them are armed with braai tongs and the tone of conversation is almost religious in its intensity. "That's a wonderful fire," says Herbert. The others nod admiringly. They discuss the advantages of wood or charcoal and why oil drums make the best braais. The ongoing state of the meat is also discussed. Reverently, it is removed, dunked in the marinade and replaced in its exact place in the griddle.

The women sit poised on the edge of their chairs waiting for the imperious calls: "Ag, skattie, bring me another beer."

Someone accidentally breaks the huge coil of boerewors and the group of men go into mourning. "Dammit, it'll be as dry as sawdust," they say in unison.

Finally, we eat. A dish of delectably braaied meat is placed in the position of honour and the men are chortling. "There’s nothing like a perfectly cooked piece of meat," they agree.

Sometime, round about 5 pm and many beers later, the word "coffee" is mentioned. "Do you feel like making coffee?" I suggest to my husband. "Coffee?" he says.

I realise that every South African man has his limitations. The ultimate achievement for each and every one is the successful cooking of a piece of raw meat on a fire. And when Julian Champkin criticises the grand institution of the braai, he strikes at the heart of the nation.

So I put on the coffee. But I am happy because I know this little ritual is enacted in almost every home in the country. Such is the tradition of the braaivleis.

■