It’s true that I frequent Caprice in Camps Bay more than the average person. Circumstances have allowed Caprice to be the nearest cocktail bar / restaurant to my place of residence. You see, God has blessed me – and I will shamelessly punt Caprice until I can punt no more. This is not the first time, nor is it the last time.

Cappers

I must make mention of the fact that I am in a semi emotional mood at the moment as I have set the iPod to play Bilitis by Francis Lai. If you don’t know it, it is QUITE moving. My folks played it since before I could walk.

I’m back on the scotch now. Ok. Caprice.

I’ll start by saying that many people don’t know that Caprice is not all about Sunday nights. Granted, Sunday nights is, was and always will be their signature night – but don’t knock a breakfast, lunch or early evening drink any time of the week. It’s not all about the mad party – Caprice is also tailor made for chilling out. Caprice is perfect for every mood. Great for Saturday morning breakfasts. If you’re hungover or not in the mood, they understand. You can’t be in your underwear on the bar counter every night of the week. If you want attention, they give it and they understand your insecurities. They are like you. They understand you. In fact, I’ll tell you what…. Fuck Spur, Caprice has a taste for life.

And last night was no exception. Caprice owner, David Raad, deserves a gold medal. Not only is Dave an accomplished closet break dancer (previous article mentioning his skillz can be found here), but also a true embodiment of service. So last night was a Camel party at Cappers. Wow! I’ll say one thing, the angels came out VERY nicely last night. A VERY naughty mid-week party! I see the two blondes who seem to be joined at the hip were there again – the last of the Mohican’s – waiting for their ride to come through town. Don’t worry girls, he’ll come. All over your face, in the back of his laundered Lambo.

More scotch.

So last night was a haven of excitement. All the guests were given “dollars”. Each one equated to 10 South African Rands. Because I felt I was far too important to stop at the front door to sign in, I did not receive my dollars. I sent a sms to Dave who appeared next to me at the bar, stuffing dollars into my jeans and introducing five blondes to me whilst the bar lady had already begun pouring ten tequila’s in front of us – all at the same time. Dave told the girls they should thank me. For what? God only knows. The point is Dave is a fucking legend and he runs a good show. Blues restaurant could learn a thing or two from one of Dave’s farts. Caprice is the institution Blues was in the 80’s.

Even more brilliant was a facility for the partygoers (first time I’ve ever used that word ‘partygoers’ – feels weird) to go up and have their picture taken. There was basically a full on developing service on the premises and each photographed patron would get an A4 print of themselves on the cover of a magazine! But the mind blowing thing was not that. No, no. What really struck me was the name of the magazine was ‘2oceansvibe’.

Nothing short of hilarious.

So that’s what this article is all about, really. Cappers. Ignore the idiots. Enjoy yourself. Look around, you’re in a good place. The staff are hysterical. Someone for everyone. The moaners, the groaners, the happy-go-luckies, the hungovers, the perky, the smiley, the sad, the positive, the negative, the bitch, the model, the cow, the youngster, the hippie – they have them all, and we love them all.

God bless you, Caprice.

It’s true that I frequent Caprice in Camps Bay more than the average person. Circumstances have allowed Caprice to be the nearest cocktail bar / restaurant to my place of residence. You see, God has blessed me – and I will shamelessly punt Caprice until I can punt no more. This is not the first time, nor is it the last time.

Cappers

I must make mention of the fact that I am in a semi emotional mood at the moment as I have set the iPod to play Bilitis by Francis Lai. If you don’t know it, it is QUITE moving. My folks played it since before I could walk.

I’m back on the scotch now. Ok. Caprice.

I’ll start by saying that many people don’t know that Caprice is not all about Sunday nights. Granted, Sunday nights is, was and always will be their signature night – but don’t knock a breakfast, lunch or early evening drink any time of the week. It’s not all about the mad party – Caprice is also tailor made for chilling out. Caprice is perfect for every mood. Great for Saturday morning breakfasts. If you’re hungover or not in the mood, they understand. You can’t be in your underwear on the bar counter every night of the week. If you want attention, they give it and they understand your insecurities. They are like you. They understand you. In fact, I’ll tell you what…. Fuck Spur, Caprice has a taste for life.

And last night was no exception. Caprice owner, David Raad, deserves a gold medal. Not only is Dave an accomplished closet break dancer (previous article mentioning his skillz can be found here), but also a true embodiment of service. So last night was a Camel party at Cappers. Wow! I’ll say one thing, the angels came out VERY nicely last night. A VERY naughty mid-week party! I see the two blondes who seem to be joined at the hip were there again – the last of the Mohican’s – waiting for their ride to come through town. Don’t worry girls, he’ll come. All over your face, in the back of his laundered Lambo.

More scotch.

So last night was a haven of excitement. All the guests were given “dollars”. Each one equated to 10 South African Rands. Because I felt I was far too important to stop at the front door to sign in, I did not receive my dollars. I sent a sms to Dave who appeared next to me at the bar, stuffing dollars into my jeans and introducing five blondes to me whilst the bar lady had already begun pouring ten tequila’s in front of us – all at the same time. Dave told the girls they should thank me. For what? God only knows. The point is Dave is a fucking legend and he runs a good show. Blues restaurant could learn a thing or two from one of Dave’s farts. Caprice is the institution Blues was in the 80’s.

Even more brilliant was a facility for the partygoers (first time I’ve ever used that word ‘partygoers’ – feels weird) to go up and have their picture taken. There was basically a full on developing service on the premises and each photographed patron would get an A4 print of themselves on the cover of a magazine! But the mind blowing thing was not that. No, no. What really struck me was the name of the magazine was ‘2oceansvibe’.

Nothing short of hilarious.

So that’s what this article is all about, really. Cappers. Ignore the idiots. Enjoy yourself. Look around, you’re in a good place. The staff are hysterical. Someone for everyone. The moaners, the groaners, the happy-go-luckies, the hungovers, the perky, the smiley, the sad, the positive, the negative, the bitch, the model, the cow, the youngster, the hippie – they have them all, and we love them all.

God bless you, Caprice.

Sunday was a fun day. Sunday was also Mother’s Day. With my parents living abroad there is a distinct lack of friends on these family related days. I did the usual and called up a few bastard child friends who also have parents living far away. G-man accepted the invite and we headed off to Blues restaurant. We were meant to go to Primi Piatti in Camps Bay but decided to treat ourselves. Like the moment Eve met the snake….that, right there, was our big mistake.

Having been a waiter at Blues for nearly two years in the late 90’s, the first thing that surprised me was the fact that we managed to get a table on the balcony…….on Mother’s Day……at lunch time….. without booking.

Sitting down on my chair was awesome. My arse was in with troduced to a puddle that had formed on the chair from the previous evening’s rain. Jerk-Off, the host, apologised and got me another chair but that didn’t change the fact that my arse was now saturated. In fact…….hold on a sec…….yup….it’s still wet.

I just want to stop there and say one thing. There is nothing that annoys me more than people jumping on the “Blues is shit” bandwagon. I have always maintained that they (the critics) obviously went at a bad time. So I think it is important to be aware of that before you read another rant about Blues Restaurant.

Thanks for letting me say that. I feel better now.

I see some others have arrived to listen to my story. Come in, come in…..gather round people.

Our waiter had the charisma of a starfish and looked like he could have very easily spent the previous night sleeping inside a barrel of cocaine. I watched to see what new tricks the staff had been taught, but everything seemed pretty standard. Even the line fish was the same as it was eight years ago. I would tell you what it was, but do you really care?

Fart-face left us to look over the menu. Wow! I’ve been in soup kitchens with a better range. The R450 price tag for the crayfish was nothing short of hilarious. I chortled and decided on 12 oysters to start and lamb shank for my main.

G-man and I chatted for a bit as the starfish set the table. I was drooling for my oysters – and then…………….. they arrived.

OH

MY

GOOD

LORD

NOTHING on this earth could have prepared me for what was placed before me. My hands are visibly shaking as I type this. I am not even sure if it can be put into words.

BEFORE I attempt to do that I just want to say (for our non oyster eaters out there) that it is a general universally accepted understanding between humans that oysters are served in their shells on a bed of ice. It’s just standard stuff. There is no need to bugger around. It’s terribly simple. Open the oysters, make sure they’re fresh, put them on ice and serve them. The idea behind this is to keep them cold and to go through the motions of adding tabasco, pepper, lemon…… tearing the oyster out of the shell, eating it and drinking the liquid that is left behind. It’s a process. A fun process. Probably 50% of the enjoyment of eating oysters.

I can see some of you nodding. Glad you’re still with me.

Now I want you to read this slowly, because you need to fully grasp what I am saying. Slowly and carefully.

THE OYSTERS WERE SERVED OUT OF THEIR SHELLS AT ROOM TEMPERATURE, WITH EACH ONE SEPERATELY PRESENTED ON WHAT APPEARED TO BE THE STALK OF A LETTUCE-LEAF. ALL SERVED ON A PLATE, WITH NO ICE.

[I think we need a moment to reflect and to read that over again]

The first thing that I wanted to say was “Are you fucking mad to not mention that your oysters are served COMPLETELY unconventionally?” And PLEASE don’t tell me that the menu describes this serving technique. I am very sure (I hope to God) that this debauched cleverness is described on the menu but I think it would be fair to have, at the very least, a flashing light bulb built into the menu next to the oyster description. If you’re telling me that no-one has been mind blown to the point of sending back the oysters then I’ll tell you that you’re lying. It actually verges on being humorous. It’s like they’re TRYING to make it revolting. If you thought oysters looked like nasal excrement before, you simply HAVE to see them served like this.

“Sorry, my roast chicken tastes like shit”

“Yes Sir, as it says on the menu, all of our poultry is served with a smattering of poo”

“Yes….but…. come now…….you should have probably checked that I read the fine print and was aware of the unconventional poo extravaganza.”

Point?

It doesn’t get easier

By the way, the classic seafood platter for two is now called the “Seafood Extravaganza”. Whaagh !!! Hilarious. That is R720 for a crayfish tail, a few langoustines, some prawns, line fish and calamari. I am not sure if this comes with poo.

Now I need you to bear in mind that NONE of the juice applied to the oysters is collected anywhere. All liquid applied to the oysters simply falls straight off the lettuce leaf and on to the room-temperature plate.

There was also a receptacle of sorts in the middle of the plate holding some sort of shallot sauce/vinegar. There was a lemon wedge LYING INSIDE the shallot vinegar – drenched…. like my bum. God only knows how this liquid is meant to be applied to the oysters as the receptacle had no pouring spout. So I had to pour it straight out, messily, over the oysters, down the lettuce leaf, onto the plate.

Needless to say I couldn’t eat more than four. They tasted absolutely revolting and I am STILL experiencing the after taste when I burp. Quite simply, they were the worst oysters that I have ever eaten in my life.

So that was par for the course……obviously the lamb shank was appalling. We had two bites, asked for the bill and ran out – taking note of the fact that the restaurant’s actual soul was completely dead. Funerals have a better vibe.

It’s a pity that the Blues of old is gone. Where did it go wrong? Oh give me the days when people used to arrive for lunch and stay for dinner. When the staff had character. When the air had an element of excitement. When movie stars used to struggle to get a table. It really makes me sad because I used to ADORE Blues. As a spoilt child who took to oysters before he could talk, all I ever wanted to do was to be grown up and to be able to come to Blues with my friends and experience extravagant long extended lunches. I can’t do that now and it makes me sad.

Blues is going through the dying swan days. We’ve seen it before….when you hear about a restaurant that gets bought and sold every year – passed around like a red headed step-child.

And then…. BANG…it’s gone.

I hope it doesn’t happen. Really I do. I think deep down inside, every Capetonian wants Blues to be amazing again. But for some reason, Blues just doesn’t seem to want to meet us half way. What a pity.

Goodbye Blues.

[lights dim and music fades into Sinatra's "My Way"]

Well we’re as pleased as punch! After a full month since the last TBG (Tall Blonde Guy) sighting, the great man has reappeared – looking better than ever I might add! Andre V sent this in :

The TBG – clearly enjoying returning to the public eye after his break.

Last Friday night I was at a wedding in Hout Bay. Lucky for me, the TBG was one of the guests!

After careful planning, I managed to grab a photo with my phone of the TBG, on his way to the bathroom. He was visibly glowing.

Once the dance floor opened, I was able to get previously un-documented insight into the TBG’s musical taste… it seems to be 80’s.

This may be give an indication of his age…

I tried to video some of his dance moves, but I didn’t want him to notice, I have no idea how he might react when angry, it wasn’t worth it.

Cheers, Andre

Well, God has blessed you, Andre. You have now joined the ranks of the enlightened. And well done on managing to refrain from filming him on the dance floor. We don’t know how he might react when angry and it’s not worth it. Why would you want to spoil such a wonderful evening in his presence anyway?

I stand to be corrected, but I cannot recall ever seeing the TBG so elated. This is arguably one of the best sightings of the TBG we have ever seen!

As we gather more information about the enigma (including his age – we’re putting him at around 29), we reckon he is able to cope with his adoring public, as long as he is allowed to rest. Well, the legend has rested and he has returned!

We missed you, TBG. Please don’t ever leave us. Our lives will be nought without you.