Rewind to Mumbai. They are telling me that South Africa is going to be cold. And I should carry warm clothes. ('Dress warm, it's the southern hemisphere, moron?') I should have, right? Afterall, I am from the great muffler-n-monkey-cap-donning race. But I'm stupid, see? Really stupid. So here I am, in South Africa, with just a couple of jackets. The weather's flirting between 4 degree Centigrade and 1 degree Centigrade. The papers are full of snowing in this place and that. Fun.
But ostrich egg is supposed to be one of the richest in the world, so I should be warm soon. Then there's ostrich fillet as main course. At the moment, though, the ostrich looks at me like I'm the lunch!
The great thing about being in this farm is that it's so incredibly open. The ostriches are kept in these giant fields. Anyone can enter with a guide; go up close and personal with the birds, nice (though if they get mad, well, let's just say... it's not that much nice). The chef, just before explaining in detail how they butcher ostriches in nearby abattoirs, talks about the how a mad ostrich once bit off a chap's... Poor guy, says chef Arthur, he was on honeymoon in South Africa.
It's just the best thing to tell someone trying to feed ostriches. Beside me, a lady from Chennai, is sniffing loudly. "Do they eat them?", she is asking what looks like her husband, or lover. Actually husband (he looks quite lonely.) Yes, says the lover/husband. "Terrible. How could they? What a heartless country? Such beautiful birds. Let's feed them, darling."
The husband/lover stretches out his arm. On cue, the ostrich, also called Arthur, pecks him. Hard. The husband/lover yelps and jumps away. The woman looks at the ostrich lovingly. "I think you annoyed the poor baby. You weren't even smiling at him." You need to talk to Arthur, says the guide (who is, naturally, also called Arthur), he likes a conversation.
I move to the kitchen, where chef Arthur has ostrich yolk and white swimming in a large ceramic bowl. I'm feeling cool. I change into a white apron. Hmmm... this is my Anthony Bourdain moment. And right on cue, Sharla arrives. She is tall, dusky, has Chennai-roots and manages the ostrich farm souvenir shop. She winks. "Hello," I say. "Can I cook for you?" Seems like just the right thing to say. She giggles. "Where are you from?"
"India. Don't I look Indian?" This is my finest moment, I'm thinking, finally, I'm looking global. "Let's see, no, actually you don't. You look Malaysian."
"What a pity," says me. "I've spent most of my life trying to look Italian but I'm failing miserably. But that's my ambition. I want to look Italian before 30."
She throws her head back and laughs. "You are funny."
"Yeah, that's all anyone every says about me."
But today is my lucky day. Sharla will stand and watch me cook. I'm putting herbs in the bowl. No salt, just freshly ground pepper, says chef Arthur. One ostrich egg is equivalent to 27 chicken eggs and feeds eighteen people. I am going to have a breakfast party on my wedding and feed everyone ostrich egg omelets, brilliant budgeting.
It tastes a little bland, though rather rich and creamy. But Sharla makes for spicy conversation. Seems like she had an Indian boyfriend whose mother used to refer to her as "that woman". I didn't like that every much, Sharla confesses. Are all Indians like that?
Not at all, I say a little too forcefully perhaps. Mostly Indian mothers are the most gentle, loving, nurturing, caring and friendly people in the world. Mine especially.
Next, we are cooking ostrich fillet. The flesh feels cold and smooth under my fingers. Outside the south Indian woman is asking loudly for vegetable soup. I rub in pepper and some more herbs. "Always cook medium-rare," says chef Arthur.
"You are nice fingers," says Sharla. "I could feed you some ostrich fillet," says me. Actually I don't. I just think of saying that.
So, finally me, Arthur and Sharla are eating ostrich fillet, omelet, fresh bread and cow milk cheese and a 2004 Shiraz from the vineyard of Good Hope. Sharla is saying she wants to visit Mumbai.
I drink in good hope.
first published:August 08, 2006, 18:42 ISTlast updated:August 08, 2006, 18:42 IST
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The ostrich is looking at me. I am looking at the ostrich. It's a tense, tense moment. I want to dig a hole, put my head in it and forget that the ostrich exists. What an ostrich-like thing to do, the ostrich seems to be saying. I am in South Africa. At an ostrich-farm near Cape Town. And I'm feeling terrible.
Rewind to Mumbai. They are telling me that South Africa is going to be cold. And I should carry warm clothes. ('Dress warm, it's the southern hemisphere, moron?') I should have, right? Afterall, I am from the great muffler-n-monkey-cap-donning race. But I'm stupid, see? Really stupid. So here I am, in South Africa, with just a couple of jackets. The weather's flirting between 4 degree Centigrade and 1 degree Centigrade. The papers are full of snowing in this place and that. Fun.
But ostrich egg is supposed to be one of the richest in the world, so I should be warm soon. Then there's ostrich fillet as main course. At the moment, though, the ostrich looks at me like I'm the lunch!
The great thing about being in this farm is that it's so incredibly open. The ostriches are kept in these giant fields. Anyone can enter with a guide; go up close and personal with the birds, nice (though if they get mad, well, let's just say... it's not that much nice). The chef, just before explaining in detail how they butcher ostriches in nearby abattoirs, talks about the how a mad ostrich once bit off a chap's... Poor guy, says chef Arthur, he was on honeymoon in South Africa.
It's just the best thing to tell someone trying to feed ostriches. Beside me, a lady from Chennai, is sniffing loudly. "Do they eat them?", she is asking what looks like her husband, or lover. Actually husband (he looks quite lonely.) Yes, says the lover/husband. "Terrible. How could they? What a heartless country? Such beautiful birds. Let's feed them, darling."
The husband/lover stretches out his arm. On cue, the ostrich, also called Arthur, pecks him. Hard. The husband/lover yelps and jumps away. The woman looks at the ostrich lovingly. "I think you annoyed the poor baby. You weren't even smiling at him." You need to talk to Arthur, says the guide (who is, naturally, also called Arthur), he likes a conversation.
I move to the kitchen, where chef Arthur has ostrich yolk and white swimming in a large ceramic bowl. I'm feeling cool. I change into a white apron. Hmmm... this is my Anthony Bourdain moment. And right on cue, Sharla arrives. She is tall, dusky, has Chennai-roots and manages the ostrich farm souvenir shop. She winks. "Hello," I say. "Can I cook for you?" Seems like just the right thing to say. She giggles. "Where are you from?"
"India. Don't I look Indian?" This is my finest moment, I'm thinking, finally, I'm looking global. "Let's see, no, actually you don't. You look Malaysian."
"What a pity," says me. "I've spent most of my life trying to look Italian but I'm failing miserably. But that's my ambition. I want to look Italian before 30."
She throws her head back and laughs. "You are funny."
"Yeah, that's all anyone every says about me."
But today is my lucky day. Sharla will stand and watch me cook. I'm putting herbs in the bowl. No salt, just freshly ground pepper, says chef Arthur. One ostrich egg is equivalent to 27 chicken eggs and feeds eighteen people. I am going to have a breakfast party on my wedding and feed everyone ostrich egg omelets, brilliant budgeting.
It tastes a little bland, though rather rich and creamy. But Sharla makes for spicy conversation. Seems like she had an Indian boyfriend whose mother used to refer to her as "that woman". I didn't like that every much, Sharla confesses. Are all Indians like that?
Not at all, I say a little too forcefully perhaps. Mostly Indian mothers are the most gentle, loving, nurturing, caring and friendly people in the world. Mine especially.
Next, we are cooking ostrich fillet. The flesh feels cold and smooth under my fingers. Outside the south Indian woman is asking loudly for vegetable soup. I rub in pepper and some more herbs. "Always cook medium-rare," says chef Arthur.
"You are nice fingers," says Sharla. "I could feed you some ostrich fillet," says me. Actually I don't. I just think of saying that.
So, finally me, Arthur and Sharla are eating ostrich fillet, omelet, fresh bread and cow milk cheese and a 2004 Shiraz from the vineyard of Good Hope. Sharla is saying she wants to visit Mumbai.
I drink in good hope.
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