By Mmathabo Maebela
(Can this umbrella close already)
As the door swings open to announce our arrival, my friend and I are greeted by a gust of warm air. The damp scent of rain drifts from our jackets into the air, intensifying the restaurant’s petrichor. The atmosphere is humid with laughter and the low hum of clinking glasses in every corner of the room.
A lady in a black Pothole & Donkey uniform walks towards us with a pen and paper, “Good evening, ladies, table for two?” (Aghhh maan, the booths are full). Couples and groups sit tightly in the coveted havens; some of their coats hang on their laps, candles on the tables casting shadows on their faces. We deliberate for a minute. Our eyes land on a corner couch tucked near the end of the room. It’s less ideal, but at least it’s by the window.
A trace of dark, damp impressions forms as we walk towards the carpeted part of the restaurant. The next few steps are accompanied by a soft, wet squelch as the water that flooded my Puma sneakers attempts to make its way through the torn leather. (Tjeeer, I should have worn a different pair). We throw ourselves on the couch and let the soft leather comfort us. From our couch, we can see alles.
Outside the window, two beggars stand next to the cars parked opposite the restaurant. Their eyes, drawn and tired, glance furtively into the dimly lighted restaurant as their orange and yellow lab coats get damp from the storm. They’re a quiet, distant, yet persistent presence that a sane person cannot ignore. (It doesn’t seem right that they are out in this rain).
Outside, the rain persists. Inside, the world hums with life and chatter, and Gerald Levert’s “I’d Give Anything” echoes in the background.
“We’ll have a glass of Nederburg Lyric and a rooibos tea, ma. Enkosi”
The air inside is thick with the smells of slow-cooked meats and rich sauces. But it’s the Thursday night pizza special getting immersed attention. Two pizzas make their way to a different table almost every time I blink. The sound of the sterilising machine pierces through the conversations from time to time. As patrons sit bundled in their pairs or groups, their private conversations create a sense of community. A warm bubble of murmurs shields us all from the storm outside.
Across from our couch, three guys and one woman sit on high stools. They laugh, and pieces of their conversation enter the dining area. “Izawfika ngoku,” the lady says. Their conversation shifts to money and relationships. “yi 2.5,” one of the guys says. Three beers and one margarita make their way to the table.
Their gaze shifts to the soccer game on the big TV screen mounted on the wall. One of the guys excitedly moves from the table to take a video call. The other guy with sunglasses takes off his jacket, exposing his white Nike Gold shirt. Another round of drinks makes its way to the table, followed by a round of four tequila gold shots.
We get the menu.
Another guy in a yellow reflector joins the two beggars walking around the parking lot. He leaves them again. The reflection of the candles on the mirror imposes itself on my view of the two beggars outside, dividing my attention between the two worlds, (dis)comfort. Inside, the world feels like a celebration, with glistening light spilling over crisp notes and credit cards as patrons prepare to leave. Outside, the world is a fight against the elements.
In one of the booths, two older men, white and black, in a blue and red gold shirt, have an entirely different conversation – family, the state of the nation, investing. (haibo, what’s with monied men and golf shirts). Their conversation turns to how expensive public transport is. “Buy a coupon for the week. A coupon for the week is cheaper than the taxi you take every day.” The black man jokes about when he advised someone to stop using the taxi.
As the rain begins to subside, they say their goodbyes and the black man heads out of the restaurant with a toothpick peeking out of his mouth. (a real Grootman). He hands two takeaways to the two beggars and steps into his grey Polo. Soon enough, the white man also heads out and steps into a similar grey Polo. The two beggars tuck in, sharing what they can.
We finally settle on a big margarita pizza and a bowl of con pollo pasta.
