Forty years at the Mauritian table — a love story seasoned with spice

The ‘Mountain of Rice’

When I fell in love and married into a Mauritian family almost 44 years ago, I didn’t realise how much garlic, ginger and thyme would become a part of my life. I had no idea that, more than a marriage, I had embarked on a culinary affair that would last a lifetime. In sickness and in health, till death do us part.

I have always been more of an eater than a cook. When I was a student at UCT, sharing a flat in Tamboerskloof with my boyfriend (later to be husband), and his brother, I was not allowed in the kitchen except to feed the cats.

My relationship with food had been fork’s length at best by the time I reached UCT. And never having boiled an egg, literally, I was happy to be relegated to chief cat-feeder.

Even making tea was not entrusted to me, and in my late teens and early 20s I found myself hopelessly, helplessly, gloriously useless and at the mercy and whim of two young men who could cook, make tea, clean and even iron when absolutely necessary. (Bliss.)

The first time I sat down at my future family’s table in Joburg for Sunday lunch, I gawped in wonder as they all heaped rice onto their plates. Not a polite spoonful, but a towering mountain. To me, it looked less like a meal and more like a geological event.

Up until today, when my husband sits down to dinner, he builds a perfect, towering replica of Trou aux Cerfs, piling the rice high to form the crater rim, just waiting for the molten lava of his rougaille or kari poulet (chicken curry) to fill the caldera.

His plate isn’t just dinner, it’s an homage to the central highlands of l’Ile Maurice: lush, fertile, verdant, with steam rising deliciously, not unlike the misty slopes of Mauritius’ famous dormant volcano.

In my suburban “English” childhood home, rice was a background actor, a tablespoon at most, a stingy, pale bed for Bisto gravy, to be pushed aside for the main attraction, roast beef and potatoes.

With rice at the centre of the kitchen in the Mauritian home, I was soon to discover an appliance called a rice cooker, which had travelled all the way from Mauritius to South Africa with grand-mère Gaud AKA Maidoudou.

Rice is often the foundation on which everything else rests in Mauritian home cooking. And just as Trou aux Cerfs has stood for centuries, a silent witness to history, rice stands as the daily witness to Mauritian life. It is the canvas to the cheerful, colourful, uncomplicated Creole cuisine that is now part of my life. It absorbs the flavours, anchors dishes, and reminds everyone that abundance is not something out of reach.

So, when we have rice (often!), even though the instructions on the packet are pretty clear, I don’t even try cooking it. Cooking rice perfectly needs 10,000 hours of experience, and plenty of boiling water, as mysterious as all the boiling water needed to deliver a baby in days gone by. I leave this subtle mid-wifery to the Master.

Creole heart

Mauritian cuisine is a mosaic of Indian curries, Chinese Minn, French-inspired Iles Flôttantes. But it is Creole cooking that captured my heart. Creole food thrives on rhythm. Like the wave and beat of a Sega dance, onions, garlic, ginger, thyme, tomatoes and chillies weave and thrum until they melt into a sauce that clings lovingly to whatever protein is at hand.

Creole cooking is not about precision, it is about generosity. A handful of coriander, a splash of vinegar, a pinch of turmeric, a few curry leaves. Measures are felt, not counted.

Rougaille saucisses (a tomato-based sausage stew), lentils, rice and grated carrot salad is my go-to quintessential Creole meal.

Here’s how I make rougaille saucisses for three to four people:

Take twelve good quality sausages (beef or pork bangers) and cook them for about 15 minutes or so in an air fryer if you have one. Turn half way through cooking to make sure they are nice and brown on all sides.

While they are busy cooking, slice two onions. (Peel, cut in half and then slice thinly.)

Prepare your garlic (4 to 6 cloves) and a thumb-sized (or bigger) piece of ginger. Chop and crush together with a teaspoon of coarse salt.

Heat some olive oil in a nice big pan that has a lid. Fry your aromatics slowly and gently so as not to brown them. Onion first, then the crushed garlic and ginger.

Add two tins of chopped tomatoes and a bushel of fresh thyme (about 10 sprigs). You can remove them when your sauce is ready.

Cut your browned sausages in half and add them to the tomato gravy. Simmer gently for about half an hour, adding boiling water as needed to stop the sauce from getting too thick or drying out. (Be careful not to make it too watery!)

Taste and adjust seasoning and finish with a grind of white pepper.

The trick is to keep the lid on and cook at the lowest temperature.

Serve with a sprinkling of fresh dhania (coriander) if you like.

You always serve rougaille with rice, lentils and a freshly grated carrot salad, simply dressed with lemon juice, olive oil, and salt.

Lentils: the everyday companion

Everyday meals like this often include a pot of lentils simmered gently, perfumed with garlic, ginger, onions, and thyme. They are ladled over rice (always rice), forming a comforting blanket that ties the meal together.

I like to use brown lentils when I want to serve them with Rougaille.

This is my way of cooking them:

Boil your lentils till slightly overcooked and still quite saucy. (One cup of lentils to three cups of water.)

Tip 1: I like to buy the ones you don’t need to wash endlessly or soak.

Tip 2: Never add salt when you are boiling your lentils! It will make them hard.

While your lentils are simmering away, fry sliced onions, ginger, and garlic as you would when you are cooking your rougaille. (For one cup of lentils you will need one sliced onion, two to three cloves of garlic, and a thumb-sized piece of ginger. Crush the garlic and ginger in a pestle as you would for the rougaille.)

Tip 3: I generally increase my batch of aromatics so I cook enough for the rougaille and lentils at the same time.

When the lentils are nice and soft, add the aromatics you have fried in olive oil as well as a bunch of thyme. I generally add a glug of olive oil and salt before gently simmering for another 15 minutes until all the flavours are perfectly fused.

Gâteaux Piments and Phoenix beer

For my family, Mauritian late afternoons are punctuated by gateaux piments. The little treasures are made from split peas, garlic, ginger, thyme, and fresh chillies. Crisp outside, soft inside, they are the taste of the island’s street corners and, for me, the taste of sunset.

The ritual is simple: buy a paper packet of gateaux piments, still hot from the oil, and wash them down with an ice-cold Phoenix beer, preferably on the beach as you watch the sun set. The bitterness of the lager cuts through the spice, and suddenly you understand why life is good.

1 cup yellow split peas, soaked overnight

2 green chillies, chopped

2 spring onions, chopped

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 thumb ginger, grated

1 sprig thyme, chopped

Salt

Grind peas coarsely, mix with chillies, onions, garlic, ginger, thyme and salt. Shape into balls, flatten slightly, and deep fry until golden. Serve with Phoenix beer.

Mazavaroo (muzzies): the chilli on top (of just about anything)

When I think about heaven, it involves a beach, a swim in the ocean, and a peanut butter sandwich with chopped tomato and onion (chatenie tomates) and plenty of mazavaroo.

Mazavaroo is a traditional crushed chili mix you eat with just about anything.

It’s also known as piment écrasé in French or pima crazé in Creole. It can be fiery depending on the chillis you use, and is made from either red or green chillis or both, garlic, ginger, salt, olive oil and a tangy element like lemon or lime juice.

There are so many different ways to make muzzies. Some do it by hand, chopping all the ingredients and dousing them liberally in olive oil, but you can also blend everything together with a hand blender. This method will give you something creamier and less colourful.

I’ve had muzzies with crushed peanuts blended into it, and cooked muzzies with green pepper to calm it down. I have a brother-in-law who swears by a large splash of vodka in his muzzies to “preserve” it.

We have never needed to preserve mazavaroo in our house. It’s eaten up in a day or two, and I find you can keep it just fine by topping it up with olive oil.

This is how I generally make my mazavaroo:

Gather together:

A big handful of chillis

About 6 to 8 cloves of garlic

A thumb-sized piece of ginger

Olive oil and salt

To make it:

Discard the stalks and finely chop your chillis.

Peel and chop your garlic and ginger.

Mix together with your chopped chillis, sprinkle with about one full teaspoon of salt (I prefer coarse salt), and chop everything together again.

Finally transfer into a bowl and cover generously with olive oil. You will need at least half a cup of oil.

Sometimes I might add the juice of half a lemon and some finely grated lemon rind when I want to be fancy.

Let this sit for a while and then eat it with anything you like.

Warning: Not for children! Use with care. A tiny teaspoon at a time until you find your measure.

Street food and everyday pleasures

My favourite thing to do in Mauritius is shopping for fresh produce in the bustling markets to be found in every village, or local supermarkets where you can buy your freshly baked baguettes every morning.

The real highlight of these daily shopping expeditions is to sample the street food or gajaks (snacks), on offer everywhere.

On the roadside, glass cases gleam with fried treasures: samoosas, stuffed with spiced potatoes, dhal, or minced meat. They are bought by the dozen, tucked into paper bags, and eaten standing up.

The pastry is crisp, the filling fragrant with garlic, ginger, thyme and chillis. They are the island’s fast food, but also its comfort food and proof that Mauritian cuisine is as much about the street as it is about the Sunday table.

Tea culture

I grew up a tea drinker. In fact, I don’t think I drank coffee at all until my 20s. But my husband’s family took it to the next level. Never had I tasted tea as fragrant and delicious as his mother’s brew. Always loose leaf, always brewed in a big brown teapot, and best of all, when someone has visited Mauritius and returned with a few boxes of the island tea from the Bois Chéri plantation, redolent with vanilla.

If you’ve ever visited the southern highlands of Mauritius, you will know the feeling of the air, soft and humid. The temperature drops just enough to make you crave something warm and sweet. The landscape is a vibrant, rolling tapestry of emerald green. DM