The Finest Royal Silver
An afternoon on the patio of the Swartberg Hotel, Prince Albert.
His voice is barely audible over the cacophony of codeswitching emanating from the table with the man and the polka dot socks and the gin and the mobile oxygen machine. "Ken julle van Bukhara in Church Street? In Cape Town julle is spoilt vir choice for Indiese kos."
Andre wears a fez and a shiny leather jacket and a pair of black gloves and a gold tooth when he smiles.
Born and raised in Prince Albert, he tells me about how he used to be a branch manager at the Lewis in Caernavorn (in the Northern Cape, I imagine, as opposed to North Wales). He has been working at the Green Prince Gin Bar for three months, having left the heart of retail at the home of astro-tourism in order to care for his ageing parents back home.
"Life is all about making choices," he tells me as he pours tonic into my rooibos-infused gin. "And I've made many bad choices in my life."
He is mid-sentence when he is summoned to another table on the patio, where a mother and daughter share a bottle of Rosé. They've been here a while, I can tell, from the cheers of "Go Andre! Go" as he comes forth with another pink vessel, this one more chilled than the last.
Welcome to the patio of the Swartberg Hotel.
Formerly known as the 'Eksteen Hotel', 'The National Hotel' and 'The Prince Albert Hotel', the now-Swartberg Hotel was opened in 1864. The village of 'Prince Albert' was just under 20 years old, having been renamed to honour the husband of Queen Victoria in 1845, just a few years before the inauguration of the village's first post office, school and library.
Today, the Swartberg Hotel offers far more than a comfortable bed for the passing trader or gold speculator. Scribbled up on the board outside in red and white chalk is an advertisement for its Spa special: "Peel Season is here: Cooler months are the time to resurface, brighten and renew your skin."
On the other side of the board is the set menu at the Victoria Dining Rooms for the evening. Ostrich Carpaccio or Butternut Soup, followed by Karoo Lamb Medallions and Malva Pudding. All served, as its website attests, with the finest royal silver. A stolen peek into the dining room reveals white linen so crisp it could be cut with a blunt blade, heavy dark wooden furniture, pristine cutlery and the obligatory chandelier. A far cry from the open-kitchen minimalism of the "concept-restaurant and wine bar" serving tuna tataki and braised short rib in a glass box nearby.
And here, on the patio of the Green Prince Gin Bar, you can enjoy a juicy Kudu Burger with mushroom sauce for only R90. A fellow patron recommends having it with the hand-cut chips.
"It's a rugby special," Andre tells me.
It strikes me that golf is showing on the large-screen TV.
Women in hairnets walk down the street languidly, possibly having cooked more than one Karoo Lamb Shank too many in the lunch and dinner shifts that have stretched over their lives, gentle nods to this dorpie's "olde-worlde charm".
