FRED KHUMALO: Why stain perfection with politics?
My Portuguese evening was too perfect to be spoilt by ungrateful, greedy birds or knowing the true identity of the wizard in the kitchen
I met Anatole over the weekend. He’s the chef who takes care of the gastronomic requirements of Bertie Wooster and company in PG Wodehouse’s yarns. Give him a skillet and he will conjure something Bacchus and his friends would admire. Anyway, my encounter with dear Anatole happened at a place called 1920, in Ferndale. Who finds themselves in Ferndale on a Saturday afternoon, you’d be forgiven for asking. Anyway, I’d heard of the place from someone and because I hadn’t booked I made a point of being there when it opened for dinner at 6pm. The minute I stepped in, I could identify the table where Michael Corleone killed Sollozzo and that dirty cop, McCluskey. Or is it McSkullskey? But there, he got it in the skull, whoever it was. Unlike the Italian family restaurant where the two were killed in The Godfather, 1920 is neither Italian nor is it in the US. It is Portuguese. But the feeling of being home, among people who recognise you, hits you in the face. So Bethuel, the waiter, gave ...
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