Imported French ingredients, fine wine and rare cigars are to the political and business elite what diamond-encrusted platinum pendants the size of hubcaps are to rappers: a way to flash your newly acquired squillions and your exquisite taste — the culinary equivalent of bling.
Last Saturday, armed with a big splodge of the M&G’s wonga, a friend and I went off to Auberge Michel to see what all the fuss was about. She is a member of the SADC aristocracy and a PR diva, so I hoped her presence might balance out my unreconstructed leftie/knit-your-own-muesli tendencies.
I am, after all, the kind of person for whom the term “gastronome” conjures up the image of a garden ornament suffering from a tummy bug, instead of someone who goes into raptures about dishes, with descriptions that invariably include the words confit, squid ink jus or pan-fried everything (as opposed to teacup-fried, one imagines).
Paul Mashatile’s predilection for fine dining landed him in the soup (or the bouillon as our burgeoning class of gourmands would have it) after he racked up that now legendary ninety-six-grand bill at this swish French eatery.
But more astonishing than the chutzpah required to treat an undisclosed number of one’s chums to an epicurean orgy of this magnitude, is the news that this it is perfectly natural for your hard-earned tax Titos to be used for this sort of blow-out.
Mashatile’s spokesperson, Percy Mthimkulu, was quoted in various newspapers as saying that this kind of expenditure is routinely budgeted for and “is not an unusual expense”.
Mashatile has been charmingly reticent about the guest list for the dinner that caused all the trouble, but the restaurant looks like it might seat a maximum of 70 guests (this is no pack ’em in, push ’em outsteak house).
So even if we buy his story that he booked out the entire restaurant (which I don’t) each guest must have noshed their way through almost R1 400 worth of artfully arranged morsels of haute cuisine. Frankly, I have no idea how they did it.
As anyone familiar with the dying journalistic art of expense-fiddling will tell you, there is nothing a hack likes better than bigging it up at the bosses’ expense. But, pitiable as this is to confess, try as we might we couldn’t seem to spend more than about R450 each, about a third of the amount spent by each of Mr Moneybags’s guests.
Perhaps none of them was a vegetarian. I started with a goat’s cheese beignet with thyme, served on bed of rocket with Bayonne ham (which I asked them to leave out) and sweet chilly (sic) chutney. Basically six little pastry ravioli balanced atop some dry green stuff, at the paltry price of R69.
In the interests of lavish living I encouraged my friend to choose a starter from the fleshier, flashier end of the price range.
Her marinated giant tiger prawns with lime and raspberry vinegar came served with salmon caviar on a bed of leaves (no idea what kind of leaves, but be warned, marinated means raw shellfish!) at R115.
Of course, if we were Gauteng finance department employees we might have lost all sense of restraint and ordered the starter of 28 grams of best Russian Caspian Beluga caviar served with blinis, at a mere R810.
We chose a pleasant Domaine des Malandes French chablis at R230. We could, of course, have chosen the 2002 Romanee St Vivant at R6 500, or the 1995 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, a snip at R5 900, but unfortunately our combined sense of entitlement wasn’t well developed enough to allow it.
We had been warned off accepting any offers of water, which apparently later appears on your bill at R120 a bottle (RandWater’s finest Eau de Tap is not an option, I believe), so we waved the waiters away and bravely got stuck into our wine.
The restaurant is so thoroughly Gallic that the menu doesn’t list any vegetarian main courses, but the chef kindly produced some cannelloni, which seemed to be filled with mushrooms and artichokes (R89).
My carnivorous companion had the glazed duck in a honey and orange sauce, accompanied by a thimbleful of couscous (R158), but could have neatly doubled the price tag by ordering the giant tiger prawn kebabs gratinated with harissa spice at R295.
Somewhat underwhelmed by my meal, I hoped pudding would make up for it.
Concerned that we weren’t spending enough, we ordered some French dessert wine (about 50 bucks a glass). Sadly they had run out and we were forced to make do with a South African muscadel at R25 a glass. Perhaps we should have ordered the Sauternes on the dessert wine list, at R4 900 a bottle. (By this stage I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Mashatile’s woes may have arisen from the liquid portion of the menu.)
My buisson of chocolate with apricot compote (R40) was interesting, but I preferred my guest’s apple crêpes with calvados sauce (R52).
We rounded off our meal with a platter of South African and French cheeses, biscuits and figs in champagne syrup (R65), and coffee. Grand total: R889.
A hint for the horde of wannabes rushing off to host their office parties at Auberge Michel: if you want the cachet of putting your snout in the same trough as the big spenders, but can’t afford to lose your head (or your job), you really don’t need to go the Full Mashatile.
They offer a couple of set menus with options like a starter of Springbok and foie gras terrine en croute in a balsamic and truffle vinegar; main course of pan-fried sea bass served on crushed potatoes with a basil and lobster reduction; and an almond and pistachio nougat log coated with chocolate and served with marula crème anglaise for just R265 per person.