The crime writer Elmore Leonard’s first rule for mastering the art of writing was: “Never start a book with the weather.” But this isn’t Get Shorty and breaking that decree seems cheeky and necessary.
Because Sea Point on a sunny day, next to the SABC building, demands attention. It would be a crime to ignore the mood unfolding here. How can one not allude to the beachfront views, the salty smell of the ocean and the sounds of unruly waves breaking? They’re showing off again.
Near the horizon the sky turns purple, reminiscent of vivid descriptions in Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea. Then those indigo heavens stretch out, so special to Cape Town. A bit clichéd but, hey, these are the facts.
All senses come alive, a slight breeze tickles your apostrophe. Joggers, loners, lovers populate the backdrop, along with a thin man in a green jersey feeding a cavalcade of feathered banshees: gulls and prehistoric hadedas, beaks like Elizabeth Taylor’s stilettos.
The latest and hottest oasis in the suburb sits here, a fresh and shiny designer food truck called The Tandoor, right opposite the promenade. It’s like a scene from a visually extravagant film, clean lines against the backdrop of defiant waves. One minute across the road and you’ll stand next to the Benguela Stream posing as the Atlantic.
Growing up in Sea Point brings a touch of remembrance to this visit. Since childhood, the question has lingered: why do so few places on Beach Road offer food? Once the old-world Elizabeth Hotel lured diners with its outdoor garden, umbrellas, twinkly lights and café. They foolishly demolished the Carousel next to the Pavilion.
La Perla, the late Chris and Barbara Barnard’s hangout, still draws patrons, but people carp that the service disappoints and that the prices bite. Fair assessment. Two other spots aim at ghoulish tourists with a penchant for greasy American fast food, hardly worth mentioning.
On the days he went to mosque, he prayed hard for visitors, because when they arrived, food followed, lots of food
The Tandoor offers a welcome gastronomic addition and, though not a “traditional” restaurant, it provides tables outside where diners can sit and eat authentic traditional tandoor cuisine. After a walk or a swim, come and feast, sit and relax, or take a few fragrant Elysian treats home for a fine meal.
The truck’s glass window lets you see into the kitchen. Inside it is sparkling clean, neat, tidy. Just what you’d expect but don’t always get. Your late grandmother would approve.
While people conventionally make tandoors from clay, many use steel for durability and easier handling. The essence of a tandoor lies not in the material but in its shape, deep and cylindrical, and in its high-heat cooking method. This is what The Tandoor has.
But who is the mastermind and chef behind this? Riyaz Mir, originally from Kashmir — many consider it the “Switzerland” of India. To be exact, he hails from the city of Srinagar, the summer capital of Kashmir, which the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas surround. People celebrate Srinagar for its lakes, where boats drift amid floating gardens of lotus flowers.
Salman Rushdie set much of Shalimar the Clown in Kashmir, painting Srinagar’s waters and gardens as places of hypnotising beauty. Here, Mir’s journey started in his mother’s kitchen, where he watched his mom, Mymoona, but specifically his granny Khadija, cook with old well-soaked clay pots and conjure magic with a variety of spices.
“I can still smell that kitchen,” he says. “The fire made of wood mesmerised me and, in between, my granny threw in a few fascinating stories. The atmosphere of that kitchen, the food, the sounds and scents, I still carry to this day,” he says.
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People in Kashmir frowned on boys showing an interest in cooking, but this didn’t deter him. On the days he went to mosque, he prayed hard for visitors, because when they arrived, food followed, lots of food.
A chance encounter with a group of jolly South Africans holidaying in Goa, where he worked, inspired Mir to move to South Africa in 2004. His love for people and food led him to the celebrated Masala Dosa restaurant on Long Street, an Indian temple for Cape Town’s serious-minded food cognoscenti.
Covid came, and he closed his business, like so many others did. When restrictions lifted, he offered cooking classes and catered for parties. He dreamt up the idea of a slick-looking food truck, found a spot opposite the sea, and hired two professional tandoor chefs to help him out.
On a recent visit? A platter of smoky, spiced chicken tikka alongside creamy, tender malai tikka, fire and silk on one plate. And judging from his regular clients? Damon Galgut, the local novelist and Booker Prize winner of The Promise, is a regular — and here the food certainly keeps its promise.
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