Good morning – I just arrived in Cape Town last night, en-route to one of my favorite parts of the country, the Garden Route. When looking around, I notice the first-time visitors and remember my first time visit to South Africa…
‘The smell of coffee comes first. Strong coffee, the kind that says, wake up or else. On the buffet I see fruits I recognize – apples, bananas, and shiny oranges. And some I haven’t seen before: something small and purple that I’m not sure about. I decide to be brave. It’s about the size of a plum, but its shell looks hard.
The nice lady who works here smiles and says, “Help yourself, dear.” I nod like I understand completely. I look around. Other guests are taking food, so I copy them and take the fruit – naturally, like I planned it.
She hands me a sharp knife, and suggests I cut the fruit in two when she sees my puzzled look. “It’s a grenadilla”, she says, as the sour, yellow juice drips onto the thick, Greek yoghurt. “We also call it a passion fruit.”
She brings me toast, warm and golden. The butter melts faster than I can spread it, so I chase it around with my knife. It becomes an art performance. Jam is on the table, and the marmalade which the English guests at the next table seem to favor.
The lady comes again. “Would you like some eggs?” she asks. I say yes, because eggs are safe. Or so I thought, until the next question comes: “How would you like them done?” I grew up in a country where boiled eggs are the norm, and only on Sundays, so the choice of “fried sunny side side up, fried over easy, scrambled, boiled – soft, medium, hard? – or poached?” is too much choice. And almost too exotic. I though eggs were safe. I let the lady surprise me, and five minutes later she returns with a plate that looks like a small victory: two eggs with shining yellow eyes, little sausages, and a grilled tomato that smells like it came from a campfire.
She offers coffee or tea. I say coffee, of course. She laughs and says, “Good choice!” I feel proud, like I passed a small test of local wisdom.
People at other tables talk softly in Afrikaans. I catch one phrase: “Lekker ontbyt.” I nod wisely, pretending I understand everything. Later I learn it indeed means “Nice breakfast.” Yes, it is. Very lekker indeed.
Outside the window, the garden cat walks by, looking more confident than me. The sun comes in slowly, golden, and warm already. The whole room feels gentle, like it’s saying, you made it, now relax.
Tomorrow, I think I’ll try the porridge. Unless it looks too healthy. Then maybe I’ll stick with my old friends — the toast, the butter, eggs and that mysterious passion fruit.’
And that’s how breakfast in South Africa always feels to me: a little familiar, a little new, and always full of kindness. It’s never just about food. It’s about being welcomed, about the small conversations and the smell of coffee drifting through the air. Every time I sit down to a “lekker ontbyt,” I remember that first one – and how good it felt to simply be there, awake, curious, and a little bit lost in the best possible way.
