Chicken is the number one source of protein for those of South African descent, and I’ll fly by that. Having recently become a member of Dias Tavern’s exclusive 150 Club, an honour bestowed upon those who have consumed a century-and-a-half of the Tavern’s legendary peri-peri chickens, I have taken the modest liberty of calling myself an expert on chicken-serving restaurants. This excludes the KFC chain, as I still have to be convinced that the putrid stringy pale flesh lurking under the scab-like crust of vile spices is, in fact, chicken and not some sort of medical waste.
Having just returned from the christening ceremony of my Khoisan god-child, !Exmigarraki, I needed some civilisation. Not that the Khoisan do not have a civilisation of their own. But if you are not used to donning a leather loin-cloth, being smeared with the contents of a gemsbok gall-bladder and doing some humming and foot-stomping while inhaling the smoke of burning quiver tree leaves, it can all be a bit too native for my kind of comfort.