Extraordinary day with Extraordinary Professor

I spent the other day with an Extraordinary Professor of philosophy. What makes him so extraordinary? And who am I to judge his extraordinariness seeing I know bugger all about philosophy? In order: He is willing to be seen in public with me. He is family and willing to admit it. And extraordinary professor is apparently an official title. But mostly he is extraordinary because he can start truthful sentences with “When I worked at the zoo”.

“That is no way to speak about my alma mater!”, I interrupted.

“I said zoo, not circus” was the reply.

Fair enough. “Go on about the zoo.”

He was on the ethics committee, thinking about what the zoologists did to the animals and how ethical it was. What the animals did to the scientists were not considered. Clearly slaughtering rhinos and braaing them on Friday evening was not ethical. He wasn’t needed for that. That was clear. With dissecting and braaing off the menu, zoologists gather lots of information from non-invasive sources. Bodily fluids to you and me. Blood, urine, faeces and even semen in some genders.

Did gathering semen not constitute sexual assault? This question apparently still amuses the zoo staff years later. After getting off the floor they showed him a video of a penguin semen gathering, eh, operation. And while it is fair to say some uncomfortableness existed, it was not with the avian participant. In fact the donor not only participated willingly, he came back for more. How many genes do human and penguin males share?

My cousin and I spent a glorious autumn day together in Stellenbosch and environments feasting and tasting wine. It can be rather intimidating to hang around with a professor of philosophy.

“How long did it take you to get here?”, he asked.

“About 45 years.” I replied, in a desperate attempt to rise to his intellectual level.

“No, Doofus, to get here from your home to pick me up.”

Philosophy 1. Engineering 0.

I nearly stuffed up this glorious day by forgetting that my mental and bodily age differ by several years. Checking in to the Oude Meul guest-house (now highly recommended by me), the proprietor saw me and a young lady ⁽¹⁾, in a shapely Maties exercise outfit, at the same time and assumed we were together. With age comes a certain circumspection, or slowness, that saved me. I was half a second away from proclaiming “I should be so lucky!” when asked if we were together when I realised the guest-house owner saw a father and daughter, the pretty one saw a fat old bloke and her young self and only a delusional me saw a possible couple. I should have been thinking “If only I was 20 years younger! I still wouldn’t have had a chance with her.”

The day ended somewhat accidentally with a glorious dinner at Jardine. It is the type of place where the frequently changing menu is only a double spaced A4 long and each dish has several words in the description that I did not understand. Seeing that we were clearly from the other side of the railway than her usual customers the waiter assisted superbly. She explained everything patiently and recommended a wine with our meal. As ever in restaurants like this, I felt somewhat of an imposter.

It is also the type of place where bready type thingys (yes I am that inarticulate about fine dining) came unbidden to the table. In our case it was a seed-like provita in aioli. Crispy and nourishing. Complex and rewarding. The other piece was a fridge magnet sized vetkoek. It was by some distance the best vetkoek I’ve ever tasted. Not oily at all and lacking that door stopper quality of bazaar ‘koeks of yore; this was fluffy and dry. Boere chic.

And the rest of the meal only improved on it. Quail with Gorgonzola and a version of potato (I think) that was sublime. Mushroom dust and a delicious sauce matched with Chardonnay made up the rest of our fodder. Not sure which part of the quail we had, but it looked and tasted nothing like chicken. In fact, chicken can only dream of tasting this good.

For dessert (we opted for the two courses) we had a triple mix of guava. Thinly sliced in syrup, in a sorbet and a foam in brandy snaps. Given my predilection for guava this was not a hard sell. Next time I go to Jardine I will opt for the three course meal and ask if all three courses could be this collection of guava delights.

Days like this are far too infrequent. The heady mix of epicurean pleasures and reality delighting and grounding one’s body and soul. To be fair, if you look like me, it is rather delighting two’s body and soul.

(1) I’m guessing early twenties. And knowing quite attractive.