Becoming a demo model after a lifetime of shying off

After a lifetime of being more comfortable in the wings, I’ve chosen to stride on stage, if with a little trepidation. It was never my comfort space. I’d rather write a play and have somebody else stride out there for me.

Why? Because every time I say “yes” I inch closer to an imagined halcyon era when I am utterly at ease chatting to a roomful of many strangers. When I might even look forward to it. Like, to my surprise, how I’m looking forward right now to this Saturday’s appearance at Woordfees in Stellenbosch. Because I’ve somehow managed to negotiate three earlier events unscathed. Maybe it’s not scary... it could even be fun.

First stop was Kenton-on-Sea, which I wrote about here (everyone’s saying how funny this piece is, please read it); followed by a lovely lunch in Pippa Smith’s home in Constantia, and then Barrydale in the Klein Karoo, where I ran my own Karoo cooking workshop at the Karoo Art Hotel last weekend.

Only days after Kenton, I found myself at the kind of house in Constantia I could never afford, a much-treed affair with a pool that went on forever and beautiful pooches lounging on lawn and paving. They sure landed with their tails in the butter. The house had enough art to fill a small gallery, but everything in it seemed to revolve around the central kitchen hob and massive – what to call it? “Workbench” is far too tiny. “Table” suggests it isn’t also a kitchen work surface, which it is, sinks and all. “Kitchen island” maybe – but this was more continent than island. Nah. This is Cape Town, so I’ll go with peninsula. My host has a kitchen peninsula. With taps.

Pippa Smith is a bright, charming woman who likes to invite cookbook authors over to chat to a room full of people he’s never met. This was only last week, and she welcomed me as well as 16 or so women of her friendship or acquaintance.

In Constantia, Pippa interviewed me – expertly – in front of 16 unsuspecting people who appeared to be pretty well off and living lovely lives in the Constantia valley. I feel so different from the sort of people who are blessed to live such lives, although we should never judge books by their covers. Behind a gorgeous dress, exquisite makeup and a whiff of something very French can lie a troubled mind or a human who is going through great difficulty. The vagaries of life, good or bad, can touch us all.

Sometimes people bring a little of themselves forward, like the woman who seemed familiar to me, and who told me she was the widow of a former newspaper editor of renown. Or the woman who looked uncannily like a famous foodie who seemed to know the inner-boy me better than most. Sometimes people just get you.

And it was sunny, warm and lovely, and I’m not only talking about the weather on that fine Wednesday. Pippa Smith holds these events with cookbook authors often (she did one with Karen Dudley not long ago) and they are brilliant. She and I cooked a trio of my recipes and chatted to these lovely humans. I loved every minute of it. Yes, the scared kid at the back of the classroom loved, loved, loved being in front of these people. You’re okay, kiddo!

And then it’s over, and I’m in my car headed home, and my first thought is: Barrydale! That the cooking workshop weekend is only two days away. And the nerves and fears flood back.

When I do get to an event, I find that people say the kind of thing I don’t expect to hear, things that have me puzzled. Like hotelier and businessman Rick Melvill at breakfast in Barrydale last Sunday, at the end of it all: “Tony, shoo, well, you’re certainly not ordinary.”

I’ve puzzled ever since about what he meant. That I’m odd, weird? Not out of the box, for sure. Labels never fitted me. And I loathe the thought of being ordinary. Or “normal”. Heaven forfend. My late sister loved being “normal”; I flee from the very thought of it. What’s the point of having an individual mind if all we do with it is copy all the others?

Rick, a contemplative, quiet man, went on to say lovely things about the weekend we’d just had, and everyone at the long table seemed very happy with how it had gone. The many photos and videos various people posted on our weekend WhatsApp group show a bunch of people having a grand old time cooking, talking and having fun.

But in still shots of me, I’m looking morose or worried. It doesn’t fit how I feel when a photo is taken. It’s just my contemplative face.

People have always asked me “what’s wrong?” and “are you okay?” because that’s my face when I’m concentrating hard. The late Mary Marsicano, a friend in the 1980s who painted in watercolours, used to say: “Tony, you have a worried face. I want to paint a portrait of you.”

But I think it’s the face of the old man trying to explain to that scared kid inside him, trying to tell the boy, look, stop worrying, you did okay, you’re fine.

I doubt that the people in Barrydale suspected anything. They threw themselves in, and what a crew. A writer and designer who makes a killer coleslaw. An extraordinary woman from Durban, an urban designer, architect and town planner who’s forged her own path through a fascinating life. A photographer who specialises in capturing water in his lens (not literally) and who could have been a farmer but chose a different life despite being the eldest son. A rosy-cheeked man who’d brought all sorts with him, a proper cook’s cook. 

A French couple (he with a twirly moustache), full of smiles and winks, at home in the kitchen in the way the French are. A tall, grinning man with a quirky wit who turned out a smash-hit chicken potjie. A wry Irishman who speaks Afrikaans with an Irish lilt. And more, that’s only a sample of half the group.

Sue Melvill, delivering on her promise beforehand to be my producer. Rick Melvill, gamely taking part in everything while encouraging us to take a cold swim at 7am each day. (Nope, not I.)

At first I looked around thinking, what can I tell or show these people?

I started introducing everyone, “tell us who you are, Shane”, pointing to the Irishman. Cheesy or what? Then I moved straight into the demonstration because I need to get into it if I’m not to stumble. I never picked up the baton again for the whole weekend to ask the rest to tell us about them. In the end, most of them knew one another so it would have been pointless for everyone except me.

On Friday afternoon, one group made biltong pâté, another smoked snoek pâté, while I briefed the third group to do the roasted butternut soup. Rick and Sue Melvill and their fabulously helpful kitchen crew welcomed us all to cruise in and out of the kitchen at will. Honestly, they couldn’t have been more helpful.

I prepared whole picanhas, scoring them, and once the groups had done their pâtés and soups I challenged them to create their own rubs. The results were full of interest, and as distinctive from one another as the diverse members of our random crew of weekend cooks.

On Saturday morning, after the hardier members of our bunch had taken an early morning swim somewhere in the Tradouw Pass, we regrouped at 11 to make two Peppermint Crisp Tarts and a Tipsy Tart. Here’s the recipe we used for the latter, which is also known as Cape Brandy Tart/Pudding.

The Tipsy Tart was brilliant – a double-quantity tart that was probably the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. I’d call it the hit dish of the weekend.

Saturday afternoon was devoted to potjies. Roast chicken potjies. But we didn’t want to start too early, so I suggested we meet at the Tony Jackman boma at 4. I’m not sure it’s actually called that – yet? – but there was a reference to “the Tony Jackman boma” in a chat we’d had earlier in the week. If it is, I’ll take it, and honour it. In future sessions cooking in that boma, I hope. There’s already been mention of repeats of the past weekend’s activities and fun, and now we have lots of photos and videos to show just what fun it was.

Everyone thought their roast chicken potjie was the best, and they were all right, but all-round general manager and good guy, Wayne Robinson, was asked to adjudicate and pronounced one potjie the absolute best. This was a highly impactful potjie, to say the least. Masses of coals had been piled on the lid and underneath, and that the poor bird avoided being cindered was a miracle. But taste is everything, and there was so much flavour that I had to eat my words. (My words being that a few coals around the base and just a few more on top were all that was required.)

And the Frenchman, of course, portioned his bird and simmered it in the smallest potjie with a great deal of reduction, just as you’d expect from a French cook.

And the weekend came to an end, and we all climbed in our cars and headed home.

Now, I’m about to prepare 40 sheeps’ tails for tomorrow’s cooking demo in Stellenbosch. And 40 of my parmesan gem squash. The prep will be done today (Friday) and I’ll finish them on stage.

STAGE! Fright!? Nah… I’ll be fine. I have to be. DM