Saturday, March 19, 2011

Boquerones


The first ones I ever ate were at Cafe Milano, in Georgetown, Washington DC. They were arranged in a circle on a big white plate. I ate them with my mother. They were delicious.

The ones above were eaten under the tree in Cape Town, at No. 9, and where did they come from? I remember the plastic tub that contained them...I see a shopping basket. Help me, Mama. Ha - I remember: Joostenberg, the deli on the way to Paarl, which also makes good boerewors but refuses to correspond with me on the subject of boerewors recipes. 

We ate them one day, we three - Vince, my mom and I, as you see, with olives and brown buttered bread and one of many Caprese salads, of which I have never yet had enough. Except here, where buffalo mozzarella is $9 a pop. The pink wine is probably Graham Beck rose, sparkling, one of the nicest bubblies I have ever drunk - fine, light bubbles, perfect finish,  no yeasty aftertaste - and one of the least expensive. It holds its own well with Champagne.

So there it is, a memory of a lunch. The depth of the bread with its creamy, cool butter and the incision of vinegary anchovies, cutting against the moist, bland bread, the muting butter. The mediating sip of sparkling wine. The bright sunlit garden all around.
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