Around the table
The art of entertaining.
The best dinners aren't the most elaborate — they're the ones where the host sits down. Here's how I try to.
The gentle timeline
How the evening unfolds.
- 01
The day before
Set the table fully. Polish the glasses. Make the pudding. Iron the napkins watching a film.
- 02
Three hours out
Flowers in low arrangements. Candles trimmed. Playlist on. A bath, not a shower.
- 03
One hour out
Anything in the oven goes in now. Pour yourself something cold. Light the candles.
- 04
Ten minutes out
Door slightly open. Music a notch louder. Breathe. They came to see you, not the soufflé.
An ode
Middle Eastern table.
There is a rhythm to a Middle Eastern meal that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with gathering. The dishes do not arrive to fill you — they arrive to slow you down, to give your hands something to do while your mouth is busy laughing, and to make the table the only place anyone wants to be.
The dips — first, and for a while.
Hummus, baba ganoush, muhammara, labneh with za'atar and a pool of olive oil. Warm pita, still soft from the oven. This course is not an opener — it is the conversation. It stays on the table so no one checks their phone, so hands reach and meet in the same bowl, so stories have time to stretch their legs.
- Hummus — velvet chickpeas, tahini, lemon. The quiet anchor.
- Muhammara — smoky red pepper, walnut, pomegranate molasses. The spark.
- Labneh — strained yoghurt, thick as cream, dressed with oil and herbs. The cool down.
The mains — when the room is warm.
Only when voices are loud and cheeks are flushed do the larger plates arrive. By now nobody is in a rush. The food comes not to end the evening but to give it a second wind — something to tear, share, and argue over politely.
- Lamb tagine — apricot, almond, cinnamon. Sweet, slow, and impossible to eat quickly.
- Chicken shawarma — cardamom, allspice, garlic. Carved at the table, eaten with fingers.
- Grilled halloumi & roasted vegetables — the vegetarians' triumph, and everyone else's envy.
Why the order matters.
In the West we rush toward the main event. In the Middle East, the event is the table. The dips come first because they demand nothing — no knife, no ceremony, no full attention. They let guests arrive gently, settle in, and find their place in the conversation. By the time the lamb appears, the room is already glowing. The food is not the entertainment; it is the excuse to stay a little longer, to laugh a little louder, and to leave only when the candles have burned low.
In the glass
White wine always.
I will choose white over red every time. Red feels like work — white feels like a window opening. A cold glass of something pale and bright is the first thing I pour when guests arrive, and the last thing I reach for when the kitchen is clean.
Chablis — the queen.
Chablis is Chardonnay stripped of everything unnecessary. No oak, no butter, no theatre — just pure chalk, green apple, and the mineral soul of ancient seabed. It is grown farther north than almost any other great white, which gives it a tension and precision that warmer climates cannot replicate. It tastes like cold stone, lemon peel, and honesty. That is why it is the best: it does not shout. It simply knows exactly what it is.
My desert-island bottle. I reach for this when I want to feel like the smartest person in the room without saying a word.
Pair with: oysters, sole meunière, goat's cheese, or anything you want to taste more clearly.
Pinot Grigio — the escape.
One sip and I am on the terrazzo of a lake-side trattoria, somewhere between Milan and the Dolomites. Pinot Grigio is not trying to be profound — it is trying to be easy, and that is the whole point. Pear, green almond, and a lightness that makes you pour a second glass before the first is empty. It is summer in a bottle.
My holiday-in-a-bottle. I buy this by the case in December and it is gone before February.
Pair with: grilled prawns, lemon pasta, a bowl of olives in the afternoon sun.
South African whites worth knowing.
South Africa's wine country is producing whites that belong on any table in the world. These are the ones I reach for.
Sauvignon Blanc — Constantia & Darling
Crisp, grassy, and alive with gooseberry and passionfruit. The Constantia valley is the oldest wine region in the Southern Hemisphere, and it still leads. Darling's coastal breeze gives a saline edge that works beautifully with seafood.
My Friday lunch wine. I keep a bottle in the fridge at all times for oysters and unexpected sunshine.
Chenin Blanc — Swartland & Stellenbosch
South Africa's signature grape, and the best in the world. Swartland's old bush vines produce something lean and stony; Stellenbosch gives richer, honeyed versions. Both are extraordinary.
The bottle I bring to dinner parties when I want to impress without showing off. Everyone asks where to find it.
Chardonnay — Robertson & Walker Bay
Robertson's limestone soils make Burgundian-style Chardonnay with real backbone. Walker Bay, cooled by the Atlantic, delivers elegant, restrained versions that age beautifully.
I only reach for this when I am cooking something buttery and indulgent. It rewards patience.
Viognier & Roussanne blends — Swartland
Perfumed, peachy, and weighty without being heavy. These Rhône-style blends are Swartland's quiet masterpieces — perfect for a slow roast chicken or a spiced tagine.
A newer discovery for me. I am still learning when to reach for it, but it is growing on me fast.
What to eat with them.
Light & crisp
Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Grigio love oysters, ceviche, grilled white fish, and salads with citrus. The acidity cuts through butter and oil like a knife.
Rich & textured
Chablis and oaked Chenin Blanc stand up to roast chicken, creamy pasta, and soft cheeses. The body of the wine matches the body of the food.
Cookbook of the month
Our Italian Legacy of Love.
By Ciara Viljoen — best known to me from Café del Sol Botanic in Bryanston, Johannesburg. She is putting South African Italians on the map, one beautifully written recipe at a time. I have cooked my way through so many pages of this book, and every single one has been a hit.
The tried-and-trusted favourites.
- Nonna's secret ragù(Bolognese to me and you)— A slow, rich, deeply comforting sauce that tastes like Sundays and worn wooden spoons.
- Napolitana — Bright, clean, and somehow both simple and impossible to stop eating. The kind of sauce you make in a big batch and eat straight from the pot.
- Creamy chicken pasta — Indulgent without being heavy, the kind of bowl you eat in silence because nobody can talk through how good it is.
Filet Picante — the best of the best.
Tender filet in a tomato and basil sauce that somehow manages to be both delicate and bold. The beef is seared fast, rested well, and then dressed in a sauce so fragrant you will want to wear it as perfume. This is the recipe I make when I want to remind people I can cook. It has never failed me.
The dish I reach for when I want to make a statement without saying a word.
Why this book belongs on every South African shelf.
Ciara writes with the authority of someone who grew up around Italian tables, but also with the generosity of a host who wants you to succeed. Her recipes are precise without being pedantic, and the results are consistently extraordinary. Every recipe I have made from this book has been a hit — not good, not very good, but a genuine, everyone-goes-home-happy hit. Five out of five stars. Let's put South African Italians on the map.
The rule
"If you can sit down, pour wine and laugh in the first ten minutes — the evening is already a success."