Bobotie Blues

"It's meatloaf," says The Great Ducknik.

"No," says The Great Plotnik. "It's bobotie."

"It's meatloaf," says The Great Ducknik.

The Great Plotnik has just followed a painstaking South African recipe through many steps, translating g. and ml. and kg. to oz. and tsp. and lbs., shopping for the exact ingredients, which include apples, dried apricots and sultanas. He has used his special "Mother-In-Law-Killer" curry powder smuggled back home from Mr. Moodley in Durban. He has prepared the custard which covers it all. He and Duck, with great expectation, have taken their first bite.

A pregnant pause.

"(word that rhymes with Duck)," says Plotnik. "It's meatloaf. And not very good meatloaf."

"Sad, but true," says Ducknik.

Bobotie tasted better in the dining car of the train plodding across The Karoo from Cape Town to Johannesburg. There was nothing else to do on that train but eat and reminisce with phleghmy Afrikaaners about The Good Old Days. Maybe that's why the bobotie stood out. It also tasted a lot better when Charlotte, the safari guide, made her delicious Namibian version, every last bite of which was consumed by the side of the road right before seeing the lions eating the zebra.

"It was meatloaf then, too," says Ducknik. When Plotnik winces, she says: "OK, ground meat casserole, if that makes you feel any better."

Reality slips in. "This would feed four rugby players or 60 Saint Plotnikans. What'll we do with the leftovers?"

"Put it in the backyard. Maybe the lions will eat it," says the Great Ducknik.