Hotel Foibles and Feisty Fowls — no, this isn’t Fawlty Towers

On the long roads, when we’re pulling in for the night here, for petrol there, or stopping at that place over the road for dinner or breakfast, and when we have all those hours behind the wheel to fill our heads with thoughts we normally don’t have the time for, we might play a little game.

We might ponder on the weighty matter of which chicken dish was the best on the journey towards Durban. In particular: how would that eccentric fowl on your plate in Komani have fared if it had encountered that feisty little chook that somehow made it onto that menu in Kokstad? Not without a fight, I don’t doubt.

I see feathers flying in every direction as the plucky little fella from timber country lays waste to the plump hen from Queenstown.

And what would the denizens of Kokstad, living their lives in the desultory timberland bypassed by travellers making their way from the interior towards the coast, make of the food served at The LivingRoom at Summerhill, which happens to be your destination? Mysterious little twists and curls of who knows what, with drizzles of this and squeezes of that, each morsel tasting exquisite yet unlike anything served on any menu in the region. So different from the Cape, where there are now many restaurants indulging in the intriguing new ways of the contemporary world-wise chef.

Chef Johannes at Summerhill actually cooked us a farmyard chicken when we finally did reach Durban. Hêrrie Hoender from Kokstad would have seen that one off too, I have no doubt.

And those crunchy, spicy deep-fried prawn balls in Queenstown. Were they really as good as you remember them — and in Komani, which you didn’t even know had any restaurants more interesting than a KFC or Spur until this trip?

And what the hell was that thing I had for a starter in Kokstad? I had no recollection of it when I went through my camera roll back home. 

Komani, if you’re wondering, is the new name for Queenstown, which is regarded as a sort of informal capital of the Eastern Cape. Komani has become almost unrecognisable to those who may have known it in earlier decades. 

Though it’s a small town, relatively, its CBD is a shambolic urban nightmare. You might feel you’re in the middle of a large African city, with cars and trucks paying no attention to traffic lights, and wonder how the hell you’re gonna find your way out. 

Honestly, I gave up trying to be a gentle, respectful driver and just did what everyone else was doing — ploughed forward, through robots, turning left or right while holding my breath and hoping for the best, otherwise I wouldn’t have got anywhere. I waved my fists at sneering drivers, who barked through their windscreens only because I was doing precisely what they all were. Just donnering ahead and to hell with the consequences.

I’d punched Game (the store) into the GPS. Somewhere on the endless road through town, which presents eyesore after eyesore on either side, the GPS man (I call him Kirby, after the hilarious voice recording on FlySafair flights) told me to turn right. Whereupon, we were in another place altogether. “Thanks, Kirbs,” I muttered. (Yes, I talk back to the GPS.) How can a South African town fall so far without entirely falling apart? How does anyone ever get out alive? You said right, but this is left. Right? Kirbs? Hello? But Kirby was saying nothing.

But I pushed forward no matter what. That’s how you survive Komani traffic (and pedestrians). And being grateful when you finally make it back to that discordant main road which suddenly feels a much better place to be. We did find the new suitcases we were looking for at Game, by the way.

But... (take a bow, Kirbs, we made it out) … Veer off the main road to the left and you find yourself in leafy suburbia. I had no idea. It’s quite lovely, in fact, and we stayed overnight in a neat and tidy small hotel called the Positano, where we found ourselves in the Presidential Suite, would you believe, which is a moniker that suggests a certain style, a standard, a benchmark. 

More than that, a “Presidential” (or King or Queen) Suite holds, in its very name, a promise: that if you stay in this suite you will be treated like a king or head of state. You will be pampered.

Grey is the new beige

Now, I don’t expect to be fussed over, in fact I hate that: I just book a room, pay right away, and am glad of a bed and something to eat. I’m not fussy on the long roads. 

But don’t claim something and not deliver.

On the website, it is called an executive room, which itself suggests that it’s a cut above whatever the other rooms must be like.

Arriving at the door, I see that it is emblazoned with “Presidential”. Ooh, look at this. Pleasant surprise. Inside, it’s smart in a monotone kind of way. Greys and blacks are the first choice these days when renovating an interior, it seems. 

Grey is the new beige.

But it’s what was not in the room that got my goat.

No bedside lights, just empty bedside tables.

No sweeteners on the coffee and tea setup (I always look for them). That’s commonplace, annoyingly, but more to the point? There were no teaspoons either. Cups, sugar, but no spoons. What, you must use your sleeve? Grab a twig from a tree outside? I used the back end of a toothbrush to stir my coffee the next morning, after giving it a thorough wash.

There was no rusk or biscuit either. I didn’t mind overly, although these are things you find in almost every simple old BnB throughout the Platteland.

I’m a coper. As long as there’s a clean bed decently made up, I’m not gonna make a fuss. But don’t promise a cornucopia and deliver an empty basket.

Having said all that, ironically my overall impression of the Positano was strangely positive. And everything I cited above is easy to fix, in a single day. Maybe they will if they read this.

We drove a few blocks away to a restaurant called The Gallery for dinner, which we reached late after Kirby got us lost again. This place was really good as small town restaurants go. Part of a guest house too. Maybe they also have a Presidential room. We’ll ask them next time we go that way, because then we won’t have to take the risk of Kirby leading us back to the wilds of the Komani CBD. At night. (Creepy zither music here, please.)

The Gallery? Attractive environment, good service, and well-made food, if a tad eccentric. I had the “sweet and sour prawn meat” which were round, plump parcels of Chinese-inspired sweet and sour shrimp meat. So much like traditional sweet and sour pork, very sweet in a way that few like these days. They were really good — made me think I was at a local Chinese spot.

Then I ordered the “spicy crumbed chicken breast”. Well. What arrived was two massive chicken breasts “dunked in our spicy sauce and filled with a jalapeño and cheese mix”. Filling nearly the entire plate. Soooo much sauce, really hot and super-spicy in a good way. I actually loved it and devoured the lot. Everything on the plate screamed: “not for the fainthearted or squeamish”. Yes please.

What the hell was that thing in Kokstad? This was the destination for our second night on the road. This is the older me, I should explain. Back in the day I’d shoot right through to Durban in one day, but now I stop at least once, sometimes twice. Hence having driven from Cradock to Queenstown. 

(Queenstown/Komani, Somerset East/kwaNojoli? I should explain: I have a personal policy with changing place names: I choose to use both the old and the new name, interchangeably. I will not be dictated to. In a mature society, we should all be able to accommodate and be accommodated. Digression over.)

Anyway, back to Kokstad. For decades, we’ve occasionally travelled this route and stopped at Kokstad for breakfast at the Wimpy, which is on a petrol station forecourt.

I booked, online in advance, at a hotel called Mount Currie Inn. Which has a restaurant called the Guinea Fowl. Oooh, sounds quite posh, right?

It’s on that same forecourt.

But it’s not all that bad, speaking of the motel rooms at least. Like the Komani stopover, it was freshly painted in greys with black trim. There were zooty bedside lamps. There were sweeteners. There were teaspoons and rusks. And no executive suites.

After a glass of wine at a cement table and benches in the grounds, where I took this photo, it was time to meet that scrawny, feisty little bird.

It looks idyllic but it really is just the fenced yard of the motel that backs onto the petrol station complex. We strolled past all the other chalets with their cars parked outside and went inside to find the Guinea Fowl restaurant.

No grand expectations required. A functional, canteen-like space with attentive service and food no one is ever going to write home about. Except to say that this poor bird should have been left in the yard to live out its life. Ag shame, man. I actually said that when I saw it:

Oh, about that thing on my plate in Kokstad. I’ve just run the photo through Photoshop and blown it up. And it was cheese-topped mushrooms, gratinated and, now that my memory has kicked in, really not bad at all. Funny how a detail in a photo can prompt a memory. A good one, this time. Certainly a better one than the feisty little fowl whose short, sad life will haunt my dreams forever.

The destination for this first part of the trip from Cradock to KwaZulu-Natal was Summerhill in Cowie’s Hill, where we were expected for dinner. Talking of which, here’s great news for Durban foodies.

Chef Johannes Richter and his wife sommelier of The LivingRoom at Summerhill are friends with chefs Kobus van der Merwe (Wolfgat) and Vusi Ndlovu (Edge) in Cape Town, and the pair will be guests at Summerhill on Friday and Saturday, 29 and 30 August, when the three will present lunch and dinner with paired wines for R2,500 a head (that’s inclusive of wine). Details and bookings for those dates here. DM