This week has been cold, but the weekend offered a glimpse of summer, so I jumped in the car with my speargun. I caught a yellowtail and have been dry ageing it in the fridge.
In a couple of days, I’ll crack open a Ghost in the Machine Malbec Viognier. Until then, the fish waits.
Last year, I escaped the city centre chaos and stumbled upon a run-down apartment across the bay from a buzzing fishing harbour. I’d spend the indefinite future here in Hout Bay, immersed in the charm of a seaside valley often hailed as a model for the rest of the country.
This valley, compact and revealing, lent itself to integration. Worlds ran parallel, carved up by race and wealth: to the east, a wealthy suburb; to the west, a grinding township; and to the south, a Cape Malay fishing community.
All three districts sat in sight from my balcony.
A shadow’s length away sat my icy Atlantic garden, with mussels, urchins, and rockfish. Sea bream ceviche proved a crowd-pleaser.
We’d drink wine, fish for dinner, and take any excuse to host.
Weeks were long and weekends short, but they were filled with a zest for life.
I was out of sync with the rhythm of this place I call home. Hout Bay. South Africa. This whole big African rock. Besides the weekend, ninety percent of my time was spent behind a laptop.
I needed to find a way to make this more than a weekend lifestyle. How could I build a full-time gig around this way of living?
With no idea what it would be, there was one thing I knew for certain: a hunger for Africa, the ocean, and, most importantly, an appetite for great food and wine would be deeply embedded in my journey ahead.
At first, I toyed with just about everything: kitchens, food trucks and dinner clubs.
But the truth caught up with me. My hard skills lay elsewhere, with editorial experience and a gig as a copywriter. Marrying storytelling with this newfound love for wine and food seemed the most natural choice by a long shot, and would eventually land me a job in sales.
In the interim, inspired to get things moving after a premature resignation, I set off on a road trip to Lesotho with no name for my future except a commission about Joe Dyantyi, a horticulturist and unofficial diplomat.
He welcomed me with a jug of umqombothi. A few sour sips later, the exhaustion of the two-day drive had melted away.
I traded my Jack Journal with Joe for an extended stay.
Over the next few days, I listened to Joe wax lyrical about food, travel and politics. He shared stories of being dubbed South Africa’s first Black hippie and his pilgrimages to Brazil and India.
Having far less interesting things to say, I told him about the crossroads I was facing.
Criss-crossing back through the country, I arrived home on a routine harbour morning. Waiting for the boats to come in, I found myself in a scene that, through inspired eyes, carried an indelible charm.
The weathered Cape Malay fishermen belting out promotional pitches in broken Afrikaans championed an unsung romanticism that could rival the social media-famous Greek fishermen of Santorini.
Later, I told Joe about my morning in the harbour.
Joe and I reflected on what food meant to us and why it was worth building a life around.
Food carries stories, history, people and place.
Brimming with ideas, I knew what lay ahead. I would apply to Bruce Jack Wines. Joe, the Jack Journal, and a growing love of food and wine had somehow converged into the same story.
A paraphrased version of that conversation formed part of my application: food and wine are one and the same for me, and good wine, like good food, represents the values of patience, provenance and people.
Now I’m lucky to spend my days away from the laptop, out in the trade, drinking wine with great people, making a deal by making a friend, and growing in an industry that rewards curiosity and understands that the journey is the destination.
Today, that yellowtail has matured.
My new favourite book, Fish Butchery by Josh Niland, explains how dry ageing fish reduces the chemical skirmish between marine lipids, iron and tannins, allowing red wine to taste savoury instead of metallic alongside fish.
Tonight I’ll finally crack open a Ghost in the Machine Malbec Viognier and see if he’s right.
Some friends are coming over.
I’ll boast about the Ghost in the Machine Malbec Viognier, its cross-stitched label, and how it would normally pair with pork or ostrich.
But tonight we’ll drink this red with fish.
I’ll read the room and not say the word herbaceous if I’m trying to avoid eye rolls.
Tomorrow the south-easterly is up, with swell on the West Coast – the perfect excuse to set up a tasting or two in Paternoster. I’ll need my rest, but it’s all good because the red wine makes me sleep like a baby, and the omegas in the fish make sure that sleep is filled with dreams of big barrels.
So, cook something you’ve never cooked before. Open a bottle you’ve been saving. Invite people over. Stay curious. You never know where it might lead.