Carol’s Column

Carsick crayfish — a dead loss

THERE are few things in life more pleasurable than crayfish, those prehistoric little creatures with their sweet and succulent flesh protected by their home-grown armour.

Which is why, when, at the end of our holiday, just prior to leaving Cape Town, Peter and Eve Horwitz phoned to suggest we bring back a box of the delectable creatures to share with them, we jumped at the idea.

“Pop along to Hout Bay,” said Peter, “and buy a box of live crayfish specially packed for transport to Johannesburg. They are guaranteed to stay alive for 48 hours.”

“Excellent idea,” enthused my salivating spouse. “The drive home is only 14 hours, which means they’ll still be wriggling at the other end.”

So we drove to Hout Bay where, in the harbour, at Mariner’s Wharf, the fish sparkled with freshness and the kreef crawled slowly around their large tank.

“Buy them alive,” advised a helpful assistant. “They’re far tastier than the frozen tails. We pack them in wet surroundings and they survive for 48 hours.”

The cost of a box of 12 kreef? R139,75. “That means we’re paying R11,65 a kreef,” said my husband joyously, “A bargain!”

We left Cape Town at 6am with the Horwitzes (we’d named them after our friends) happy on the back seat with the air conditioning on full blast.

“Poor crayfish,” I murmured.

“How can anyone get emotional about a crayfish?” said my spouse cynically.

Somewhere round about Beaufort West, I noticed his nose twitching. “That’s a strange perfume you’re wearing,” he remarked.

“It’s body odour,” I replied.

“So I notice,” he muttered.

“Put your shoes on,” I said as we drove into Victoria West.

“They are on,” he answered sharply.

“You could have fooled me,” I replied. There’s nothing like a little verbal sparring to keep one awake on a long journey.

By Britstown there was a distinctive fragrance in the air.

“I think the Horwitzes are high,” remarked my spouse anxiously.

“It’s probably the stress of travel,” I said.

By the time we hit Potchefstroom, we’d opened all the windows and were trying not to breathe.

“I’m worried about these kreef,” said my husband. “I think they’re not as kosher as they should be.”

“That they’re definitely not,” I agreed. “But don’t worry, it’s probably the fact that we’re all in a confined space that makes us more aware of their presence. They’re guaranteed for 48 hours and it’s only 24.”

We drove straight to the two-legged Horwitzes to deliver their six namesakes.

“I can’t wait to see their faces,” I said happily. “All ex-Capetonians love kreef.”

The Horwitzes were in and, as predicted, overjoyed to receive their crayfish.

We opened the box. The smell was most horrible.

Gingerly Peter lifted the crayfish. They were dead and indescribably pungent.

“Perhaps they’re just resting,” suggested Eve, so we placed them in water, but not a feeler twitched.

Both men burst into tears.

“How can you be emotional about a kreef?” I said to my spouse.

“This is R139,75’s worth of smell I’m crying about,” he gulped.

“What a tragedy,” wailed Peter.

“I think we should return them,” I said. “We must take a picture of the evidence.”

We unpacked the box and lined up with them. They weren’t smiling. Neither were we.

Naturally, we phoned the Mariner’s Wharf who were nearly as distressed as we were. “This has never happened before,” said the manager, “but don’t worry, we’ll replace them when you are next in the Cape.”

There is a moral to this tale. Crayfish get carsick.

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