One size fits all

There's always that Moment: the awkward instant when you and your friend have almost finished your shared slice of cake, and only one mouthful remains. Of course, neither of you wants to appear a glutton, so although you might know everything about each other, from how you really feel about your in-laws to what actually happened between you and Brad from accounts when your company went on conference, all of a sudden it's as if you've been invited to sup at Buckingham Palace.

"You have it," she'll say.

Your cake fork will, reflexively, make a move towards it, but you'll catch yourself just in time. "Oooh no," you'll trill. "I couldn't possibly." (Yes, I could, you are thinking. I could and I want to.")

"Well, I really shouldn't. I've already broken my Banting this week." Now comes the cliffhanger, a moment soaked in suspense: will she, won't she? Things could go either way, but unfortunately it's "Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound."

And then she takes what was rightfully yours.

Thankfully, this was not the problem I had when I had coffee at Zaris Espresso Bar earlier this week, because I went with my sister - and she knows that I do not believe sharing is caring. Anathema, hideous, less for me, heartwrenching, yes but caring - no. For instance, she was once with me when we were mulling over whether to buy a slice of pecan pie to take home - well, she was mulling, I was paying. She finally went with no - then instantly had non-buyer's remorse. She tried to ask for a bite from mine, but I forestalled her by licking the entire slice, twice over. My husband has also seen this side of me. The first time we celebrated his birthday together, I took him to Circle, then one of Greenside's best restaurants. Since we are both dessert addicts, this was the highlight of the meal, and both of us was worried that by deciding on one thing, we'd be missing out - it was a tremendously tempting menu. "I know," he said. "We'll both order different things, eat half and then swap." Which we did. Well, at least he did. I still remember his look of anticipation as he slid his plate over to mine, thinking I would do the same - and how it melted into confusion when I carried on eating both my own and his servings. Perhaps he'd only ever been to restaurants with girls who declared themselves stuffed after one leaf of lettuce, or maybe he's one of those people who thinks they deserve special treatment on their birthday. Either way, he was shocked, but I was happy.

But back to Zaris. My sister and I did indeed share cake - pecan, as it turns out and it was magic. Not cloyingly sweet, as pecan pie can be, yet deliciously crumbly and buttery, with some unexpected macadamias adding extra crunch. Also, there was no fighting over who got the last mouthful because I  knocked her fork out the way and told her she was having a fat day.

The coffee was excellent too, but what I really loved about this place was that everything was R20. Coffee, cake, sandwiches - everything. It was kind of like stepping into a time machine: if Blur had been playing on the sound system, I really would have been convinced that I was back in the 90s, and R20 for a sandwich was the norm instead of something worth blogging about.

It's a great concept, I think, and only one of the things that made me really take a shine to this place. I also loved the decor - all soothing minty green with copper geometric lights - and the quirky touches, like the love locks for sale (so you're on 4th Ave Parkhurst instead of overlooking the Seine - does it really matter?) and the bag of coffee grounds the owner gave each of us to perk up our roses.

Another must for my coffice mornings.

Green eggs and...

A couple of things sprang to mind when I heard that an all day breakfast spot, specialising in egg dishes, was opening in Melville.

The first was that a few years ago, while researching an article I was writing on creme brulee, I learnt that a chef's hat reputedly has 100 folds, representing the one hundred ways there are to prepare an egg (it's knowledge of trivia like this which I believe makes me an outstanding dinner party guest).

The second was my deep regret that, when I was honeymooning in Israel, we never got to try Tel Aviv's famous 24-hour breakfast restaurant, Dr Shakshuka. Actually, this is one of several things I would change about my honeymoon if I could. I would also have stopped gushing to every single customs official that I saw that I had just arrived in my spiritual homeland, because for some reason this identified me as a security threat. When on honeymoon, it is not romantic to be dragged into the special searching office to have your dirty clothes honeycombed by eagle-eyed security personnel who seem impervious to young love. It reached the point where my husband begged me to stop greeting everyone with a Shalom, I'm Jewish too - but I think he was just embarrassed because I was acting like those African-Americans who disembark from their SAA flight and start kissing Cape Town's soil while singing "Halleluja, I've come home".

But I digress...Obviously, checking out Pablo Eggs Go Bar was the remedy to my Israeli oversight. I have been soooo egg-cited to try it (sorry - couldn't resist) - and yesterday was finally my day.

First of all, I loved the decor. For a while, I have had a major art deco crush, so the whole look of the place had massive appeal for me - how I wished I was swishing in with a fox stole draped from my shoulders, a cigarette holder dangling from my gloved fingers and Cole Porter jaunting jazzily in the background.

On the plus side, being a product of the twenty-first century meant that I could attack my green shakshuka with a gusto and lack of elegance no self-respecting woman of the '30s would have displayed. Which is good, because I literally could not help making one of those embarrassing foodgasm sounds - you know, mmmmmmmyuuuummm mmmm- when I took my first bite. That mouthful burst with a pop of flavour that meant I couldn't get the second forkful in fast enough. The dish was a play on regular shakshuka (think comfortingly rich tomato stew fragrant with smoky paprika, a cayenne bite and cumin for warmth): green shakshuka has a spinach base and is served on a satisfyingly chewy cushion of lavash bread, with hummus and Israeli salad on the side. The lavash was toothsomely carby: if you would rather undergo a week's worth of colonic irrigations than turn Banting, this is undoubtedly your dream food. The eggs were perfectly done, and what I loved most was that every mouthful tasted a little different: one was chili-sharp, the next was garlicky, the next was bitter-fresh with parsely.

Also nice is the great workstation setup for people who want to coffice. And, of course, the fact that you can have breakfast for dinner.

The only drawback is that, at R100 for my dish, I think it's a little pricey - but well worth the splurge.

Let me eat cake

I was always more of a summer person - until I spent this January, which I spent schivtzing under a 37 degree sun, with a hungry newborn pressed to me around the clock. With sweat seeping into my skin folds in prickly trickles, I fantasised about those winter mornings that are so cold your nose hurts when you breathe in; about the special smell of a Highveld night in June; about sheets that send a chilly jolt down your legs when you dare move out of your warm spot in bed...

Happily, autumn is more than living up to my expectations. I really love this time of year - there's something incredibly wonderful about a change of season. I suppose because, most of the time, we soldier on in a world that's focused more on cell phones than sunsets, but when the world shifts into a new season, nature asserts herself in a way that can't be ignored. Maybe it's the crispness of the air or the brightness of the sky, maybe it's the coppery boldness of the leaves, but there's something about autumn that makes it feel as if you're standing on the brink, about to take a step into something wonderful.

And, it is also a marvelous season to eat cake. Cold afternoons call for cozy comfort, and there's nowhere better to answer this need than in a cafe. So, earlier this week, Leya (my three-year-old) and I traipsed off to Oregano, a tiny spot in Linden I've been wanting to try for ages.

Oregano isn't actually a restaurant or cafe; it's home to a catering company, but it does have one or two tables inside and - most importantly - a table laden with exquisite pattiserie. It's a place made for lingering over cappuccino while you pick off the last crumbs from your plate with your finger.

Choosing our treats of the day wasn't easy: it was a tug of war between milk tart (my favourite), brownies (also my favourite), caramel cheesecake (baked on a brownie base, drizzled with caramel and sprinkled with caramel popcorn) and cinnamon buns.

Eventually, I went for a cinnamon bun, and I certainly wasn't disappointed: crackly with sugar on top with loads of sticky goo in between the whorls of buttery dough, I was licking my fingers with each bite. Leya chose a gingerbread man, which was a bit of a disappointment to me - I was really hoping she'd go with a brownie and we could 'share' (ie I would pass her the odd bite). But, as she said, we can go back "every day" to try something new (proving that a) even at such a young age, she totally shares my food philosophies - I couldn't be more proud if she had started reciting the table of elements in French, backwards, and b) all the cake I ate while pregnant with her has probably turned her into a ganache fiend).

Although Oregano doesn't do breakfasts or lunches, there were some great-looking savoury pies on offer, as well as truly beautiful breads.

Definitely a place I'll be returning to.

www.oreganocatering.co.za