“Skilpadjies” is a fine name for the little lamb’s liver bundles beloved of most South Africans, because the pattern of molten caul net that creates the resultant, light crust is very like the pattern on a tortoise shell. There’s also a long sausage-shaped version of this dish, not so surprisingly called a “pofadder”, which is sliced up after a flaming on the braai. But, for an approximation even before you taste our South African skilpadjies, think Bordeaux’ crepinettes, the patties of chopped pork liver, in this French instance, and sometimes even a grating of truffle, wrapped in the caul and finished just like the skilpadjie.

When the Bergbron Plaaskombuis was in Bergbron was when last I ate these delicacies. Retaining the name and the skilpadjies on the menu and schlepping the windmill along, it moved up Weltevreden Road, to a more gabled building surrounded by yet another generous stoep. However, it’s regarded as being a whiff or two more genteel because the new Bergbron Plaaskombuis is actually in Blackheath now.

After placing my order for the skilpadjies, this time with “putu-pap and sauce”, I reminisced with Johan Smith, the owner, about the family who lived across the road from the previous place in Bergbron, who would simply hop out of weekend beds, put on their pantoffels and shuffle across for breakfast still in pyjamas. He told me the family still comes for breakfasts but dressed for the new address.

My complementary breakfast ginger beer arrived in a little tin mug, today without a couple of litchis at the bottom, simply because they’re not in season. Johan said that another difference between there and here is that the current locals were initially loathe to eat off his enamel plates and downright refused to drink from the enamel mugs. They’d request “proper plates and mugs”. As it happens, all the porcelain hangs above the fireplace inside, much of it featuring the British coronation of Elizabeth ll.

Expats, of course, appreciate the enamelware and the randomly bilingual menu offerings. When I’ve asked friends, revisiting South Africa from other parts of the world, what they’d like to do on their first Joburg morning home, they’ve generally pled for “a boerewors breakfast somewhere”.

We’ve been doing those at the Bergbron Plaaskombuis, where they order the Boerseun Breakfast with its two toasted doorsteps of freshly baked plaasbrood, apricot jam, two eggs, three rashers of bacon, the boerewors with tomato and baked beans. They always exclaim at the huge helpings and they always finish them. Big helpings are how things are here.

Oupa Andries se Rooipeper Wors, which arrives with nicely char-striped Roosterkoek, is made up here strictly according to Johan’s father’s own recipe, not necessarily for any tender-palated homecomers but a favourite among the burly braver regulars. Johan said that the most popular breakfast favourite among these locals, though, is something that looks not so much like a foot-long cheese-griller, because it’s longer than that, but more like a seven-league-bootlength of glistening sausage.

By comparison, my skilpadjies appeared modest, atop their mountain of crumbly pap and its hot, robust covering of tomato and onion sauce.

I didn’t feel any particular need to rush my breakfast, especially the enamel bowl’s delightful topping. I’m not sure I can explain my obsession with these desirable little bundles of chopped liver and onion, a bit of garlic, some thyme or rosemary (even khakibos when I make them), wrapped in their lattices of caul fat and crisped slowly over the heat for 15 or 20 minutes, till the liver can just be glimpsed through the little gaps, shy and still-pink. But, the slower, the more delicious the experience.

Already, the wooden table on the lawn was feeling warm under Highveld breakfast sunshine. A group of men were breakfasting indoors alongside a hearty fire, some women outside in pastel hoodies. One was spooning melkkos – from a wide bowl that smelt evocatively of a melktert and was about the same size. Melkkos or milky food is babyfood that grown-ups are allowed to eat as comfort food. Crumbs made of white flour, salt and butter are boiled in milk, mixed till its smoothly porridgy, sometimes re-buttered, sometimes mixed with cream but always served with that most comforting spice, cinnamon.

But in the still-dark shade, between audacious clivias, waited a big, big wire tortoise. At first, I’d thought it a giant easter egg accompanied by an Easter bunny, also made of wire. However, it was almost certainly a tortoise. It was not many steps away from an Aesop hare, judging by the latter’s ears being even longer than ones I saw at Colle val d’Elsa in Tuscany, lolloping through a cornfield, Italian hunting dogs in pursuit, in turn pursued by a farmer armed with what appeared to be a blunderbuss.

That hare was going to accompany linguine soon. This hare, despite the fetching Christmassy decorations wound into its ears, we know, would also lose his race, always.

Perhaps as the fabled tortoise has ever won that race, I reckon the little skilpadjie constantly wins over many hearth- and fire-food fans. I might have been just speaking for myself, lip-licking the last bit of a simple piece of offal prepared for most savoury mouthfeel and downright tastiness, but I doubted it. DM

Bergbron Plaaskombuis en Padstal, 268 Welevreden Road, Blackheath, Johannesburg / 076 932 4333 / Facebook: Bergbron Plaaskombuis en Padstal