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By Hymli Krige
If you can find your way in Covent Garden on a Sunday among live statues, a silver character and his bicycle, a wind-up soldier and a jester with pointed toes, it is only a few strides to Bedford Street and the Springbok Bar. The latter is one of those places that you have known about for ages, but never bothered to find. After many years of fascinating tales, I had great expectations...
Friend Anys and I predicted the menu with unerring accuracy. It is displayed at the top of the stairs and features pap and wors, bobotie, sosaties, boerewors, hotdogs and a boerieburger. Somewhere in my ancestry there must have been northern blood, because I was looking forward to the mieliepap with keen anticipation. But first let's get back to the pub, the TVs and the counter.
The waitresses wear predictable green shirts, the colour of a rugby field, and surprisingly each of them speaks Afrikaans. Neither Anys nor I have the patience for beer and decide to order some wine. Wine list? No such thing. Just one bottle of white and one bottle of red wine. (And a few seconds of total incredulity.) The open bottle passed over the counter is called Cullinan View, a 1999 Merlot, and the only indication of its origin is the Breede River Valley. The same goes for the white - a 1999 Chenin Blanc. Well, if the choice is limited to one, that's what you select. A red for £11. This was obviously an unusual order, judging from the efforts behind the counter to open the bottle.
By that time we had explored every nook and cranny of the pub. A long row of rectangular tables alongside one wall (with an empty counter at the furthest end), with two high round tables, and a few tables against the wall under the staircase. For the rest, standing room for the cheering masses who come here to watch rugby.
Christelle Gilmore of Johannesburg is one of the greens behind the counter. She explains that there are three Springbok pubs in London and that the British owners intend opening seven more within the year.
Two wet glasses later we familiarised ourselves with the wine. Motioned to Christelle that she may bring the menus. By now we were used to the strange pub lunch rhythm, in terms of which you have to place your order by 14:00, failing which no amount of pleading will get you any food. She brings the menus with the tiding that the kitchen is not open yet (13:30), and that there is no pap today. Nor bobotie. Nor sosaties. Very sorry, she only works here. She suggests boerieburgers.
Anys orders the boerieburger. My only interest is in the Nachos. Fortunately the menu is on the cheap side. Potato chips (the warm kind) cost £1.50, and the most expensive item is £5.25.
Our food arrived at half past two. Meanwhile we had the wine to keep us company, plus the occasional arrival of a home boy in a worn T-shirt, and the not-so-young English gents supporting the pillars.
That was the first one.
Christelle explained about the other Springbok at Sheperd's Bush, Green Zone 2. It is just past six in the evening when we exit the underground station. The time was chosen carefully so as to take pictures in the gentle late afternoon light. Even though the instructions were clear, it nevertheless took us a couple of minutes to realise that the building under construction on the opposite side of the road was what we were looking for. The name is indeed discernible under the scaffoldings and between the partitions, but it was asking way too much to waste a photo on such a mess. We entered, none too optimistically.
The entrance is the same as in Bedford Street: a dark red staircase to the basement, with a lot of animal paraphernalia against the walls. This time the worn wooden floor was replaced by a wall-to-wall carpet and more evidence of quality. Framed vetkoek recipes decorated the wall (in Afrikaans and English).
Alas, the wine situation here was even worse. Just one bottle, French in origin, and one is only allowed to order by the glass. I opted instead for a single exotic drink, notably a watermelon flavoured Bacardi Breezer.
The pub is more spacious, with a couple of affable snooker players. Once again, the TV sets are omnipresent. After a while, we made polite enquiries about the menu. Sorry, but the kitchen closes as 18:00. Extremely taken aback we ordered a few bags of the Klerksdorp biltong behind the counter.
The last stop was at the Springbok Café - next to the first Bar in Bedford Street. It is advertised in orange as an internet café.
The Springbok Café is in a different class. Modern, open and stylish - the rugby theme a bit more subtle (rugby jerseys this time behind glass). The straight-backed bar stools have zebra skin upholstery - no wonder the bar got hold of some of these lovely things!
The café caters for those who want a quick coffee, or a take-away bowl of salad. The South African approach is subdued, with a few sticky Peppermint Crisps in a basket on the counter.
The biggest disappointment, however, is the internet section - apparently no longer in existence. Disappeared due to a lack of interest.
The moral of the story? If you find yourself in London in June and experience rugby withdrawal symptoms, or are looking for plastic bags of biltong, you may as well down a few beers in a Springbok Bar (at least they have a good variety of South African beers). This is where you'll find the SA Times, and if you are hearing too little Afrikaans in the streets, this is where you will find ample speakers of our mother tongue. Wine? For that you should rather go to an English pub...
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From the street entrance, it is not a typical English pub. Going down the stairs, however, the place soon acquires an identity. Rugby jerseys and Springbok colours wherever you look. Conspicuously, even from a distance, the Big Symbol presides over the bar counter - a big screen TV. There is an abundance of Castle bunting against the ceiling, then you notice another TV, and yet another, and one more.
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