Sophiatown is an ironically named bar lounge popular with Johannesburg’s ever-expanding hip set.
Depending on the day, Sophiatown, with its wide-open piazza and grey-scale photographic tributes to its namesake, attracts an eclectic crowd of oddball interracial couples, geeky families on holiday and cross-generational black sophisticates of all walks.
On this particular Sunday afternoon, a DJ spins easy-listening jams by the likes of Maxwell, Sade and Busi Mhlongo. A quick scan of the tables reveals the near-unanimous choice of drink to be beer and cider. A table of effete black men is conspicuous by its drinks of varying tincture.
Sasha, a light-skinned guy in Armani shades, says he comes here every day, to soak up the atmosphere (not as “hectic” — read “clubby” — as Melville) and knock back a few. Though nursing a Peroni, he says he consumes different drinks depending on the mood he is trying to conjure. “I’m usually drinking whisky now because there are no tons of bricks on your head the next day.”
A typical day on the beat involves wine as a starter — “something light” — and may progress to beer chased down with sours or a variety of shots “for fun”.
While Thabo, who looks like the eldest of the group, might switch to water after six beers, Tshepo confesses to enjoying being carried home.
“It makes me feel like a princess,” he says several times for emphasis. Idiosyncrasies notwithstanding, the table unanimously agrees that as a nation, we tip the bottle a tad too much.
“More people can afford to go out every day now,” says Tshepo, who prefers the crisp taste of Smirnoff for the way it hits the chest. “I know I look young, but I’ve never been asked for ID. It’s more like, ‘What do you want? What can I get you?'”
As a group, Thabo, Tshepo and Sasha place their reasons for boozing equi-distant between trauma and debauchery.
“It’s not about how much I spend,” reasons Sasha, a BCom student. “It’s about making sure I get enough.”
While the crew admit that liquor cuts a deep hole in their pockets, Thabo, a fashion designer, maintains that he knows his own limits as he is his own boss. On the other hand, Tshepo, a rates collector for the City of Johannesburg, likes to stretch stereotypes to the max. “Who cares how much I drink on a Sunday?” he says with a mock sneer. “Everybody knows government workers don’t deliver.”
The next table I approach consists of a bunch of black guys, all casually dressed to camouflage their advertising nine-to-fives.
They respond with a unanimous “beer” to my enquiry about their preferred potion. Beneath this apparent simplicity lies a collective social survival mechanism honed during years of peer pressure, dodging freeloaders and ducking consumer clichés.
“I can afford anything that the next guy can, but as soon as you order a whisky [among beer drinkers], it’s like you’re some pretentious fuck,” says Sello emphatically. “Whisky just says, ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, I got money.'”
Musa, an accountant who has been working for just two years, attributes his choice of drink to being broke. “I’m broke, so my friend is paying,” he says. “If I was [paying for myself], I’d be drinking Johnny Walker Blue.”
Ultimately, I’m told, what informs our choice of alcohol is a mix between pragmatism and a subconscious need to flaunt social standing.
While Musa may argue that he can consume Heineken until 1am and still be fresh for work later that morning, Sifiso argues that there’s “a general place [in society]” where you put yourself.
“As much as you might like drinking something, if it comes across too cheap, then you have to defend it all the time, and I’m not representing the brand, I can’t be drinking something I have to defend all the time.”
Adding his own spin, Kgomotso, a copywriter, says: “Like you might find yourself working with a guy who still stays in a backroom in the township. I’d be like, ‘No, I know you can afford to rent in Bryanston or whatever. If you’re renting a room ekasie, the people from your section, what are they doing? They have to stay there. You have to move up, and move out.'”