Cape Town - That Noakes oke can’t kill off the potato, no matter how hard he and his legions of acolytes might try.
Sure, there are hordes of them, these Vikings of victuals with their terrifying incisors dripping bovine blood and their chainmail made of warthogs’ knuckles and petrified gemsbok gonads.
They have invaded by stealth, like Chinese shops that have sprang up in every town while we were distracted. Like thieves in the night, they have infiltrated almost every menu in every restaurant except the pizza parlours which, for reasons that ought not need explaining, would find it difficult to offer a pizzaless pizza. Stop at a greasy spoon at a one-stop on the N1, 2 or 3 and there’ll be a Tim Noakes carb-free dish on the menu. These dishes are taking the wimp out of Wimpy, and putting the purr back into the Spur, that bastion of all things meaty. But you can no longer have the lovely bun with Spur sauce, or the onion rings in their coating of nasty crumbs, or the chips or baked potato on the side. Instead, lashings more of the sensually sinew-ous flesh.
Our would-be conquerors follow their loincloth-clad leader like a Scottish brave following William Wallace, or an impi falling into formation behind King Shaka, willing to die for the terrible cause. “Banting! Banting! Banting!” they cry as the surge forward en masse, devouring all in their path and spitting out the entrails. Or eating them. No one is safe from the Great Warrior Noakes, behind whose seemingly innocent smile lies the horrible truth: no less than world domination and subjugation of every palate to the Banting diet will appease his appetite for power. And only we diehard carbo-eaters stand in his way. It is Banting or bust.
But we have armour too, we Carbo Crusaders. We have no clanging metal vests or shields of hide. But we have wit and wile, charm and a little guile. The Great Commander Noakes may bludgeon the quarry with meaty mendacity, defying them not to believe the mantra that meat is a treat and carbs are defeat.
But we have another kind of arsenal. When the growing legions are sitting on an Apache banquette at the Spur, tucking into a nice plate of steak and chops and boerewors and cauliflower mash, and pondering upon the one issue that surely must vex even the most hardened Banter – “Must we have cauli mash with everything?” – we will be sitting nearby wafting the delicious aromas of French fries straight from the pan in their direction. We will watch as their eyes mist over, and read their thoughts: “Ah, remember when? I could just kill for a plate of chips!” There lies our path to glory on this bloody battlefield.
Allow me, then, to proffer a recipe for an item of the non-Banting persuasion that may help us Carbo Crusaders in our quest to hold back the panting Banting marauders. Let us don our mantles of hasselback potatoes, one of the greatest gifts the Americans have given the world, even though they are hardly known on our shores, and sally forth to face the dribbling foe. Let us taunt them with our bowls of creamy mashed potatoes finished with lashings of butter, and our oven-baked potatoes topped with creme fraiche and chives.
To make the kind of hasselback potato that will have a Banting devotee sobbing for mercy and begging to be let back into the light of a fully balanced diet is almost frighteningly easy.
To quell the Banting masses, you’ll need: 1 potato per enemy, a steamer, boiling oil (which doubles as an old-fashioned way to defeat a particularly determined foe), and salt. Steam the potatoes over briskly boiling water for 10 minutes.
Drain and pat dry with kitchen paper. When the potatoes have cooled to room temperature, use a sharp knife to cut carefully down at 0.5cm intervals until halfway down the potato, to create a ridgeback. Go carefully to avoid accidentally cutting the potato right through, like a fallen comrade-in-arms.
Heat the cooking oil (sunflower will do) in a pan (I used a metal bread tin) just big enough to hold all the potatoes, in a hot oven. When it is very hot, add the potatoes carefully, using a ladle or slotted spoon, into the oil.
Spoon hot oil over the top of the potatoes. Return to the oven and roast until golden brown.
Repeat the recipe as many times as possible, and serve it to everyone you know, passing on the recipe so that they can make converts of their friends. In time, we will defeat the scourge of Banting and the big Noakes oke will return to his sodden lair, licking his wounds and wondering what happened.
Sunday Argus