Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Quarts, Sambuca & A Twenty Year Old.

It's always a bit of a gamble when you've spent a good three months building up the reputation of a place to your friends, when you actually decide to take them to said place.  I've spent hours of break time explaining the ins and outs of the infamous Pan and Kettle to my colleagues.  I wasn't sure whether they believed the truth about its Madam, but I am no liar, and so was sticking to my guns.

It just so happened, however, that on Friday night I had the opportunity to share its glory with some of my friends.  Boy oh boy - do they believe me now.  And further, if there were any cobwebs cluttering our brains, they're well and truly blown away.

Girls' Night, we called it.  And 8 of the most mismatched women huddled around The Incubator's dining room table, fervently drinking red wine (the sole purpose of which was to stave away the cold) and eating homemade pies (my mother is, by all accounts, the most gifted chef in the world).  The plan was to move on to the dodgy pub with its toilet in a tent on the side of the road and a madam who thinks that the world 'class' refers to a room in which teaching takes place.

The wine lubricated quickly and within an hour of gathering, the word fuck was being bandied around with such ease that The Father - who hadn't cracked the nod but was rather required to mind The Daughter - was walking around with eyes like those of a deer caught in headlights.

And then we descended.

The women of Durban immediately began laughing.  Out loud.  A lot.  At everything.  Its decor (red and yellow balloons in the shape of little heads with ears), its clientelle (particularly the raggamuffin dressed in bona fida cargo trousers and a fawn checked shirt with... I think they were once sneakers), its musical accompaniment (a tone deaf stoner called Neil with a real Red Indian from Red India on the harmonica) and its owner-cum-barlady-cum-security-company.

This woman is to be admired, really.  I mean she built the bar herself (including the semi-permanent tent structure that houses the toilet on the side of the road), she lives inside the bar to protect it from criminals.  She hires noone to assist her.  Should a patron require a meal, she is more than prepared to duck out back to the garden, fire up a camping stove, and cook on the fire.

But her dress!  Good God, it felt like Back To The Future Into a Rick Ashley Music Video.  Short dress, (no bra - because bikini tops are far more supportive), fuck me boots, and wind swept hair.  Big time 80's style.  Like it stood out at least fifteen centimetres on the side.  Kind of like this:

but not as neat.  Ah she was a treat indeed.

Upon arrival, the one colleague insisted on standing outdoors for a cigarette.

The Pant:  Why are you standing out here in the freezing cold?

The Colleague:  Oh Pant, I'm just dying for a ciggie.  I'll be in in a sec.

TP:  Come on in, girlfriend.

TC:  But I'm smoking.

TP:  And you're expected to smoke indoors.

After our eyes had grown accustomed to all that surrounded us, The Girls and I took to the "dancefloor" - there was a floor, and the moves we made may have looked like dancing if you yourself had a sight impediment - to attempt to gyrate to hip current songs by The Doors and Eagle Eye Cherry (Oh, were we "save(ing) tonight" and "fight(ing) the break of dawn" like it was nobody's business) and whilst doing so, I happened to trip over a young boy child - all of twenty years old - attempting to rhytmically pound on a pair of bongo drums.  He was cute - I thought, although I cannot be held responsible for my thoughts after those icy quarts and delicious sambuca shots.

The Pant:  Why hello, little boy (I said this while bending down with hands on knees as though speaking to the dog of someone who is really into dogs)

Young Boy Child:  Hi!

Young Boy Child and I hit it off immediately.  I enquired about his general education (limited) and work prospects (none), but he was cute - in a Patrick Lambie kind of way - and he thought that he'd hit the jackpot for having found an older woman in possession of a car and more than R30 to her name.

And I've got to tell you, the attention did not go amiss.

Young Boy Child and I had a whale of a time, until some of the other patrons decided to kick in a panel of the neighbouring shop and jump on top of the basin in the ladies', causing The Madam to lose her sense of cool and threaten to destroy us each individually with blunt teaspoons and arsenic.  When that happened, The (sober) Incubator fished me out of the pub by the ear and promptly deposited me in the back of my car.  And drove me home.

But Young Boy Child had found love.  True love.  And so continued his quest to actualise said love per telephone.

Young Boy Child:  Hey babe.

(If you know me at all, you'll know that 'babe' aka 'pig in the city' is my least favourite term of endearment)

The Pant: It's Pant.

YBC:  I forgot your name (extended stoned laughter)

TP:  Well, it's Pant.  Same as it was at the pub.

YBC:  (extended stoned laughter)  So am I going to see you again?

TP:  I'm kind of busy for the next three to six months.

YBC:  Cool.  So can I see you then?

TP:  Did I say three to six months?  I meant years, Pet.

YBC:  And when you're free, are we gonna like, actually like hook up like?

TP:  Like what does hook up mean?

YBC:  Like you know like like like kiss and stuff?

TP:  Like, I'm not like sure that we're you know like destined to be together.  But we'll see.  In three to six years, of course.

YBC:  Uh...(stoner's tone) Where?

TP:  I'm not really sure.  It's still a while away.

YBC:  No like ahwe.

TP:  Huh?

YBC:  It means like I'm really happy like.  But you wouldn't know that because you're old.

TP:  Pardon?

YBC:  No.  You're not like old and wrinkly old you're like old and not young old.

TP:  I've got to go.

YBC:  My airtime's going to run out anyway.  But I'll call you this we----

Old?  Ahwe indeed.

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