To carry on …. Alex and I were to dine at Moyo’s that particular day, the day the husband’s car got stuck - not partly due to the fact that the said husband refuses to fix anything until it’s broken.
He believes not one jot in maintenance - of any form. He would categorically state if pressed that what is the point of fixing anything unless it is broken. This ground breaking philosophy runs the gauntlet through to teeth, he once puffed up like a hamster and, doubling up on paracetamol and agony, he eventually asked for a needle, he was going in alone. He is a surgeon after all and he trusts doctors and dentists not with his life, nor his teeth. He knows they laugh and jibe at patients’ pathetic pain thresholds and he’s not to be on the receiving end of that kind of treatment. So after a quick DIYsession in dentistry and root canal exploration, with the aid of the said needle and a magnifying mirror, he grunts, collapses to his knees and disintegrates into a pool of tears and whimpering. He eventually begs me to organise the dentist, now, now NOW!!
To return, Moyo’s is an establishment for the upmarket tourists who have the courage to roam the streets of our fair city. I have to say I enjoy being a tourist here more than being a native; they definitely get the better end of the hospitality industry. Why is it the tourists get better treatment than us? Could it be the pound speaks in more affluent tones than the rand? I have no idea but from now on I’m going to model myself on an English chav visiting this gorgeous country wif me hoodie ‘usband, who’s on the run for doing summink nasty to them coppers. Yeah, he right belted one of ‘em at the footie game, yeah, like that’s ‘ow he got that big lump on his cheek, dinnt he.
So there we are, sitting at this fancy establishment which is a play on the Africa meets nouveau colonialism theme, with a touch of swank it up with an outrageously expensive menu. Doing the North African cuisine, with a soupçon of southern African just to keep it all strictly authentic.
On the menu there was this saying about this being an eatery for the movers and shakers. This place is surrounded by the banking set and by God, I’ve never felt more at home. This is me, sitting in my Sunday best, cellphone at the ready, high heels and dark glasses, hell I’m cool. Surrounded by people who matter in the world, yeah, people whose throw away comments can move the stock market. Those who’ve been in Style magazine at least once, who’ve bought Hallo magazine and hidden it under the mattress so’s they know wot the posh people are wearing. God this is me, in my element.
It reminds me of a story Harry Oppenheimer told (yeah, this is me, just a bit of a big name dropper, that’s wot we do, see) he said he was out to lunch at an establishment I guess very much like the one I was embracing, when he went off to the loo. A guy followed him in and said he was lunching with a client and he wondered whether Harry, who, as you know, was Chairman of the greatest mining company in the world, Anglo American, so he wondered if Mr Oppenheimer could just pass his table and say ‘Hi Jack, nice to see you’. It would make a huge difference to his client and the business at hand. So Mr O says sure, no problem and the guy goes back to take his place. Mr O comes out and walks over to pass the table and says ‘Hi Jack, nice to see you again’. Jack says ‘Oh hi Harry, yes great, listen I’m just busy at the moment, I’ll call you tonight’.
Mmm, I guess you had to be there. Hint – mover and shaker. Moi.
Anyway, the food was great. Ambiance Great, Moving and shaking, fabulous. There was even some ugly tourist, rich international type of woman, 40-ish with that tanned, leather lined skin one gets from too much St Tropez-on-the-yacht sun. Anyway she was there with her shrivelled friends and the body guard was hanging about, watching us all. Neurotic we may just steal her handbag. I mean no one was going to touch her. Ugh.
Love them tourists.
