Carol’s Column

Boerewors will overcome

THE boerewors king of Africa has saved Bolivia.

So to speak.

Morris Meyerowitz, alias Morris the Butcher, has also saved lives with his boerewors. Indeed, it has inspired such slogans as “Suck a Sausage to Save your Lungs”.

Thousands have become enslaved to Morris’s boerewors — Cabinet ministers, rugby players, generals and even farmers.

On two occasions, Morris’s vast boerewors emporium in Long Street, Cape Town, has been plundered by thieves and kilometres of boerewors have vanished.

And now Morris has hit the Transvaal.

“Come and meet Morris the Butcher,” said Jenny van Niekerk, the PR lady from the hotel chain that has brought Mr Boerewors to Johannesburg.

Extraordinary

“He’ll be creating wonderful boerewors dishes for the month of March at the Landdrost Hotel, so come and sample his extraordinary culinary concoctions,” said an enthusiastic Jenny.

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Tastebuds at the ready, I arrived at the Landdrost Hotel eager to become intimate with Morris and his spicy sausage.

Ouma’s Kitchen fairly sizzled. Under gay orange and yellow striped umbrellas sat expectant boerewors-tasters. On a huge braai fire a potjie bubbled and succulent pieces of boerewors grilled merrily. Supervising the operations was Morris the Butcher. A slight Gandhi-like figure with tinted spectacles and Yiddish accent, he directed operations like the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo.

So this was the man that had made Bolivia’s gastronomic juices tingle.

A while back, one Thomas Drove of Cochabamba, Bolivia had written the following letter to Morris the Butcher:

“Dear Morris,

“All of us here who have known your famous boerewors just cannot forget the delicious taste of it and imagine that glorious sensation in the backs of our mouths - every time the subject of boerewors comes up ...”

He went on to say that Morris’s boerewors could do more for the image of South Africa than “any dozen speeches of any Cabinet minister” and, for the sake of international relations plus the interiors of Bolivians, he begged Morris to consider importing, at best, his boerewors, at worst, his secret recipe, to Bolivia.

This giant among butchers was the man that had saved countless lives by suggesting that people “suck a dried boerewors every time they felt the urge to light up a cigarette”.

Need

This was the man who, in the Defence Force’s hour of stomachular need, had sent our boys on the border a 100-metre-long rope of boerewors.

Expectantly we waited. And then the cymbals clashed and a chorus line of girls clad in striped butcher’s aprons and little else, came high-kicking on to the stage singing what someone said was “An Ode to a Boerewors”. This was followed by a spirited can can.

After the traditional salacious ending, when skirts are flung over heads and derrieres are exposed, Morris and a mound of boerewors were strategically positioned among the upturned posteriors for a photo call.

It was a sight to enrapture.

While sampling potjiekos and grilled wors, we learned that Morris had taken 28 years to perfect his boerewors recipe. Furthermore, it contained no less than 13 secret spices and was more heavily guarded than the Crown jewels.

In a good week he produced more than 1 000 kilos of wonderful wors.

Such facts were mind-boggling but did not detract from the extraordinarily good eating experience that was taking place between my mouth-hole, stomach and Morris’s boerewors.

Then came question and answer time.

Adroitly Morris, his radiant pate glistening ostrich-egg-shell-like in the sun, fielded such questions as “What actually goes into boerewors?”

“Only the VERY BEST meat.”

Said Morris: “If you haven’t tasted my boerewors, you haven’t lived.”

Perfect

“It took me many years to get a perfect blend of spices,” he confided, “because everything has to be tested until it is perfect. I lost a lot of friends in the testing stages.” He laughed. “But the Minister of Health is one of my best friends.”

In answer to whether or not his boerewors would be freely available on the Rand, Morris replied: “No, not freely. It’ll sell for about R8 a kilo.”

Lunch was a treat.

As I departed, I couldn’t help thinking that although apartheid is unique to South Africa, so is boerewors.

And, as I climbed into my car, I heard somebody say: “Did you know that boerewors is the most powerful aphrodisiac?”

It makes one sigh.

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