Dusty Miller
29 March 2008
opinion
MEIKLES' publicist shot to my table during main course at the Institute of Directors' dinner saying, breathlessly: "Don't dump all over the hotel, in your piece, as the food's cold...it was ready ages before we got the nod."
I'm sure it was. Sadly this type of event, in mid-Mashonaland, rarely works with Swiss or Prussian efficiency.
I heard of concerns, when cost was set at $500 million three weeks earlier, over possible consumer resistance (presumably by number-crunching directors?) On the night, half-a-billion bucks bought two-and-a-bit cheese burgers, sans chips, at a junkfoodery near the world-famous hotel. Overseas readers will be stunned to hear that in this land of freedom it is illegal to carry more than $500 000 000 cash. At the time of writing, that's worth about US$10!
One beer in Meikles bars was $96m (brown bottles; $140m, green.) Ensconced with a group of "lads" for pre-event cocktails, we had three or four tipples each (including Scotch, good brandy and Cape wine.) This overture was optimistically named "African Sunset": ironically it rained carpet rods non-stop and a "light show" was scrubbed. The marquee's sides were dropped (why, when rain was perpendicular?) "canapés" (mainly chicken and steak) were braaied. Heat and humidity soared, eyes watered from acrid smoke and booze slid down thirsty throats. Many of the 400 guests drank $500 000 000 worth of "cocktails" before the MC's announcement had them finding usherettes with brollies to shelter finery from the monsoon, racing from sodden roof garden to dinner.
Talking of finery, tickets said it was strictly "black-tie", but not 30% of male attendees (including IoD bigwigs) wore DJs! As I'd grafted 11 hours disabusing under-strappers and various other folk that the word "deadline" = "joke", in sweaty shorts, golf shirt and trainers, and finding no Zesa or water at my flat, I checked into Meikles -- with tuxedo, frilly shirt, studs, cufflinks, bow-tie, cummerbund, black socks and shoes -- to at least bathe before the do.
(Booked out without much of this kit, as a keen, sweet-natured, temp waitress knocked a big glass of orange juice down my left side, and the girl on my left's right side. Meikles kindly offered to dry-clean: the bill for which will be more than the suit cost!)
Fellow diners eyed starter "Total Eclipse" warily: a trio of layered tomato and basil soup, avocado and vichyssoise with garlic croutons. "We don't get much soup, cold or otherwise, in Tafara!" I heard. But all 10 on my table tried -- and finished -- it. No-one at the next table sampled a spoonful. Shame!
Theme was Star Wars, underscored by table décor and hi-fi music, but decorations were so tall you couldn't see folk over the table and it's hard to chat across "rounds" of 10 or 12. A matte black paper napkin drifted onto a tiny ornamental candle: table linen blazed briefly!
Entree was a tiny, but delightful "Pulsar": succulent mushrooms in puff pastry casing; welcoming music a smooth medley of standards and jazz by Annette Eastwood, piano, and clarinetist John Kelly.
The programme gave a minute for the MC's welcome, then half-an-hour's whisky tasting by world-renowned drink expert Dave Hughes, of "Saywen" Stellenbosch, I found fascinating. But, I was the only one for tables around to abandon buppie fruit juice and sniff, sample and slurp John Jameson Irish whiskey (smoother than I recall it during "The Troubles"), White Horse, Johnnie Walker Black Label and Glen Ord single malt. It could have been fun to add a "Chitungwiza scotch" (Two Keys, say), to the array!
I groaned when the programme apparently gave David Mutambara 75 minutes for his address and key speaker, a South African Asian number-cruncher whose speech (to this humble hack) might have been made in Hindi with enhanced clarity, had 30 minutes.
Thankfully they didn't use allotted time, but the wordfest dragged on and when mains: corn-fed chicken breast poached in French tarragon sauce, "married" to prime grilled Zimbabwe beef fillet in a beef reduction (gravy!) with whole-grain mustard came, it was....cold! No one asked did we want the vegetarian option of squash filled with lentils and pine nuts. Both came with William pear potato (shaped croquette) and a "symphony" of fresh, seasonal vegetables. Call it what you may...it was cold. There's only one thing worse than burnt food (apart from no food!) and that's cold grub (when meant to be hot.)
But it clearly wasn't Meikles' fault.
Pudding was Starburst: golden tulip basket filled with panna-cotta, brandy snap cigar "enrobed" in a strawberry coulis; wines, Flamingo Bay Chenin-Blanc/Sauv-Blanc and/or Du Toitskloof Shiraz (a favourite of mine.).
Feel sure few tried Milky Way (Meikles' luxury cheeseboard, with petites-fours and tea or coffee) as it wasn't served at the time awards ended -- after 11 -- when almost everyone bombshelled yawning (fatigue, not boredom) leaving Victor Kunonga's music (an hour late) apparently unheard or danced to!
I had only eight floors to ascend by lift, gingerly removing juice-splattered breeks, before a quick shower, then the sleep of the just.
At breakfast next day ($351m) Dave Hughes and I talked, ploughing manfully though cereals, porridge, fresh fruit, fruit juice, lovely omelette, sausage, flapjacks, beans, grilled tomatoes etc; toast, a little cold meat and gallons of coffee; more toast and marmalade. The more you eat, the more you need: by lunch I was ravenous and I usually have one main meal a day.
A week earlier, on Meikles' opulent 13th floor pooldeck, Grapevine Club members enjoyed a cocktail-tasting and erudite talk on the disputed history of these mixed drinks from Afdis' Michael Gaskin, sartorially elegant in tuxedo. (I wore, as usual, shorts, golf-shirt, trainers!)
Among cunningly combined comely compatible concoctions consumed were a delicious Blue Lagoon (cane, lemonade, Blue Curacao, crushed ice, garnished with orange slice and cherry); Silver Sunset: vodka, apricot brandy, orange juice, ice, orange slice and cherry trim and Springbok: layered Amarula and crème-de-menthe. But, I found 007's famous vodka-martini (shaken, not stirred), with tart green olive and sharp lemon slice, dreadfully dry. James Bond can keep it!
Lensman Peter Barron snapped the proceedings but, unimpressed with rainbow-hued hooch, stoically sipped a cleansing ale at the al-fresco marble bar. I joined him!
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