wombles parktown north

Tuesday 4 June 2013

Depending on what magazine your dentist has in the waiting room, you may or may not be inclined to believe that global warming is causing the polar caps to melt. Regardless of which side of that fence you've planted your organic vegetable garden on, you must concede that ice melts. It changes between phases from a solid to a liquid. This is a naturally occurring process. Perhaps a slightly more complicated feat is for a chunk of steak to melt.

In the absence of our chairman in attendance at Pappas last month, we cultivated a cunning plan to survive the teeth of winter by visiting some old favourites for the upcoming three months. Its the winter threesome, if you like, and Wombles was first up.

I had never been so enthusiastically greeted by a doorman before. I thought for a brief, terrifying moment that i was being attacked and was worryingly close to soiling my new pair of jeans. Stepping underneath and around a leopard print blanket after discretely checking my underwear, I emerged into a toasty warm room and was greeted by a very well presented, overly organised man. He kindly showed me through to the bar area where a bunch of the usual steak purveyors were enthusiastically enjoying a pre-dinner drink.

I failed spectacularly at trying to order a draught beer. Turns out, at my own gawking dismay, that there aren't any taps. I even scanned the bar area to make sure the waiter hadn't misheard me and thought i asked for a for a tube of toothpaste. There truly was no beer on tap. I refuse to become accustomed to these little disappointments about decent beer being available.

I expected Lancelot and Arthur to greet us at our table. It was a setting fit for a feast. If i had heard the final squeals of a wild boar from the kitchen, it would have matched the ambiance perfectly. Dark, solid-wood, heavy, high-backed chairs and wine glasses big enough for a reasonably sized koi fish to make a comfortable home in added a sense of homely contentment to what our evening was to become.

There were twelve of us long the sides of the very long table. It was impossible to remember what everybody ordered, but from the superb delivery of hot plates by the excellent waitering team, from around me intrigued the billowing smokey aromas of a fillet on the bone covered in exotic mushrooms from the right and a heavy wholesome beefy smack in the nose of prime rib from the left. I was very pleased with my momentary, but obvious brilliance at ordering both a 360 gram rump and a 220 gram fillet. The gentle, controlled explosion of perfectly cooked fat that cradles one side of a rump when the juices smother and entice your taste buds to receive a subtle, sweetness which your entire body seems to agree with, confirms that you are eating quality food. Its a very bleak note to make that the rump itself was overcooked and dry but crammed full of flavour. Fortunately for me, as part of my blinding brilliance, I had ordered my favourite blue cheese sauce which would recover the parched clack that my mouth makes when struggling for efficient chewing and swallowing. Like when you get the peanut butter to bread ratio wrong and your tongue feels thick and stupid and useless. Unfortunately for me, my blue cheese sauce turned out to be a mushroom sauce.

The fillet was a sheer frustration that easily trumped that of the beer situation, although perfectly cooked, it was like a stubborn polar ice cap and refused to melt. It lacked flavour and provided enough reason and justification to eat a vegetable in between bites to try and give hope and reassurance to my taste receptacles that we had not accidentally been teleported to the local Spur.  It was faulty. It was broken. It was tough, flavourless and was nothing special.

Plates were cleared and tummys were full while we enjoyed the new members umm speeches, some gentle discussion on who had been covered in what variety and quantity of poop, how to countersteer a motorbike, the comparitive gestation periods of various mammals and the reason why they dont just pop out like a poleroid picture, a very short story about how Woody lost his razor, and a toast to this blog being read on 4 continents.

We left with handshakes and greetings from the waitering team and a warm fuzzy feeling that we'd be back.

Wombles is without a doubt the best steak restaurant in Joburg, its just a pity someone forgot to tell the steaks that.

Joburg Steak Club welcomes Gavin (another one) and Wade to the fray.

Until we meat again at The Local Grill in Parktown North in July.