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The great art of braaing starts with three men standing around a fire, sipping beer and staring at the meat on the braai, turning it backwards and forwards. They never leave it alone. They are just drawn to it like moths to a flame. The braai is a man-magnet. And since “Defending the Caveman” there hasn’t been a better portrayal of men’s ri(gh)tes. This happened last weekend at Beaverlac, a wonderful campsite in the Cederberg.
My husband Jac said the boerie could use a turn, his buddy Rob consented by nodding his head, agreeing it could use a turn and the other guy, Shaun, also nodded his head, meaning it really needs a turn - it was a unanimous turning decision. My husband gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling it over. A lesser tong-man would've lost control; the boerie would've tangled. But not a tong-master. Nice, Rob said. The others nodded. A campsite neighbour was passing by, obviously attracted by the siren-song-sizzle of the boerie. He stuck his head into the tight circle and said “howzit neighbours”? This, a woman will never understand: no more questions, no curiosity, just nodding – and a move called - the braai shuffle. Jac shuffled to the left, Rob shuffled to the left, Shaun shuffled to the left. Now, there was enough space, for the fourth man to easily slip in and they all could continue sipping their beer.
Now there were four of them at the braai, and Jac gave Rob the nod, his cue. He was second-in-command, so he had to take the lamb chops out of the tupperware and lay them on the braai; not too close together, not too far apart. You can imagine how carefully he laid them across the grill. Jac snapped his tongs with approval - there was no greater braai honour.
Another neighbour came along, he said “looking good” - the irresistible lure of the braai had pulled him in, too. They just nodded, murmured in agreement and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in and they sipped their beer.
Five men, lots of meat. Shaun was the fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Western Cape's finest boerie and he showed a lot of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing.
The newcomer was shaking his head, and said “I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them”.
There was a long silence; you could have heard a needle drop. This guy was obviously playing with fire, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. And even worse, he didn't seem to understand the hierarchy; first the tong-master, then the boerie-layer, then the fork-pronger - and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the braai.
At this moment the neighbour´s wife popped her head in; “hmmm, smells good”, she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; but the men closed ranks, pulling their heads down and their shoulders in, mumbling, but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the braai, heading for the only available space... the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, until she couldn't take it anymore. She gave up and backed off, taking her husband with her. The four men waited till they were gone, sipping their beer.
The next morning, the neighbours didn´t come over for the breakfast braai, but it must have been pretty hard for them to see all the jaffle irons in the fire as the wind carried all the fabulous smells of the different freshly prepared toasts with ham, cheese, tomatoes, eggs, mushrooms, mouth watering crunchy peanut butter and sweet chocolate spread in their direction. The men were once again standing around the braai, this time sipping their coffees, and with an elegant flick of their wrist, turning the jaffle irons at exactly the right moment. This is the perfect start to the day and you can feel that our braai guys are already anticipating the evening braai - like moths the flames.
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