Introduction to Bacon & the Art of Living
This is the definitive story of bacon and life. Our story.
The narrative spans the late 1800s and early 1900s, a time when many of the most pivotal advances in bacon curing took place, while blending seamlessly into the 2000s. Each character is based on a real historical figure and woven into events that actually occurred, both past and present. The world carries a steampunk flavour, with modern speech, behaviours, attire, and technology layered over a historical backdrop. The characters interact with one another through the cultural and historical biases of their time, creating a rich interplay between past and present.
The technological journey traced in this work is remarkable. It begins in prehistory and follows the evolution of curing methods across centuries, arriving in the modern day.
But it is also a personal journey. An our-story.
It may have started in Cape Town, but then again, perhaps somewhere else. Maybe on the dusty roads of Asia, in the Turfan Depression, or in cities like Samarkand and Batumi along the Silk Road. Perhaps it crossed the Alps into Hallstatt. Or maybe it began on the Wechsel in Austria, with a farm girl growing up on alpine meat and butter, raised by extraordinary parents and grandparents.
Maybe it began on the banks of the Vaal River and the wide grasslands of the Northern Free State. I’m not sure anymore. And perhaps it doesn’t matter.
Because wherever it began, it continues.
narrative
Once Upon a Time in Africa
Cape Town, 13 April 1885
An exceptional story does not begin in a chemistry class but with people and a setting so breathtaking that it becomes a character in its own right. For me, that setting is Cape Town!
My birth itself was an ordinary event. Yet, on my 16th birthday, I learned from the midwife who had delivered me, Maria de Lange, that the day I was born had been anything but ordinary. At the gathering of friends and family, she recounted her hazy but dramatic memory of that night. The reason she remembered it so well was due to a tragic incident that had taken place just hours before my birth. The daughter of Edwin Gregory (1), known as Lady Gregory, had been struck by a Cape Cobra while visiting her father’s grave on Somerset Road. She was rushed to the hospital, where Maria, a trained nurse, attended to her. Lady Gregory died minutes before I came into the world, just before 11:00 p.m. on Tuesday, the 13th of April, 1869.
Three facts emerged that evening, which etched themselves into my memory. The first was that my birth was overshadowed by Lady Gregory’s death. Her father had died in June 1858 on Table Mountain, trapped by bad weather and frozen to death. His gravestone bears what is believed to be the earliest recorded death on the mountain.
The second fact was that my mother was admitted to the hospital around 6:00 p.m. with bleeding, yet I was delivered without complications.
The third fact was far more peculiar: my father, Dries (Andries), pulled a small piece of bacon from his knapsack after my birth. With his pocketknife, he carved off a slice and offered it to Maria de Lange to sustain her.
These three details were prophetic, foreshadowing what would shape my life, not Lady Gregory’s tragic death, nor the cobra that killed her, nor even her father’s misfortune on the mountain, but rather, the connection to Table Mountain and the bacon my father carried.
Table Mountain became my sanctuary, my childhood playground. As a teenager, its cliffs called out to me like the voice of a stern but loving teacher. It became my cathedral, where I worshipped God and felt closest to the Creator. There, I dreamed of impossible adventures, fought imaginary battles, and hunted dragons. Later, I sat in the silence of its rocky crevices, contemplating the mysteries of life and the marvels of nature. I lost God and found Him again on those slopes.
Then there was the bacon. On our family farm, we cured our own bacon every year. My father often said it was the only food loved equally by both rich and poor. The wealthy savoured it for its unique taste, while the poor relied on its preservation, a lifeline when meat had to last. “A quarter or half a kilogram,” he would say, “cut from a single loin of bacon in the morning, will sustain a worker for an entire day.” In the evenings, it could be boiled in water for a broth that children drank while their parents ate the meat to gather strength for another day’s labour. This ritual meant that no one went to bed entirely hungry. (2) Crafting good bacon became an art for us, a skill I grew to obsess over, eventually aiming to create not just good bacon but the best in the world.
By the time I turned sixteen, Cape Town was known among sailors as the Tavern of the Seas. Yet, for all its fame, there was not a single good hotel in town (3). So, my parents, Santjie (Susanna) and Dries (Andries), accepted the invitation of our 64-year-old family friend, Uncle Jacobus Combrinck (4), to host my birthday at his grand Papendorp (5) mansion. It was a magnificent house with a small stream running through an expansive, carefully cultivated garden, an ideal setting for such a milestone celebration.
Jacobus Combrinck
Uncle Jacobus was a butcher. He learned the trade from a family friend, Johannes Mechau, who kindly took him on as an apprentice at the age of ten after his father passed away and his mother could no longer make ends meet. After completing his apprenticeship, Jacobus was appointed foreman at the business of Othmard Bernard Schietlin. Schietlin was the leading butcher in Cape Town at the time. When he eventually returned to Switzerland, Jacobus seized the opportunity to start his own butchery.
Schietlin was the kind of man drawn to the Cape of Good Hope in those days, men with adventure in their blood. Few places in the world could entice such spirited individuals more than the Cape. Uncle Jacobus often told me that Schietlin was born in Switzerland. At eighteen, he left home and travelled widely, passing through France, Holland, England, and Germany. He eventually secured a position as a cabin boy, working his way to the Cape of Good Hope. There, he established a pork butcher’s shop in Papendorp. It was this business where Uncle Jacobus worked as foreman and which he later took over when Schietlin returned to Switzerland with his family. (6) The return of Bernard Schietlin to central Europe would set in motion a chain of events that would one day transform my life completely.
Pork Butcher
A good butcher has an intimate knowledge of herbs and spices, and Uncle Jacobus, even in his old age and despite being retired, was still a master of his trade. In his enormous garden, he grew all the herbs he needed. Sage, rosemary, thyme, bay leaf, chives, ginger, garlic, saffron, and paprika. He despised the Dutch sense of order in what he called the “unnatural lines” of Cape Town. Instead of the “hideous straight-lined herb gardens” that were fashionable in town, he let his plants grow in a way that reflected the rhythm of nature. Some were tucked under trees, others against walls, some in shady corners, and others in open, well-drained areas. Sage thrived in the sunny spots, while paprika grew in between. Along the fences, wild rosemary, indigenous to the Cape, grew thick and strong, its bushy evergreen form reaching up to a metre high with silvery grey leaves. Whenever he needed spices, he would stroll through his garden with pruning scissors in one hand and a basket in the other, harvesting whatever his skilled hands required. I can still picture him walking slowly among the plants, examining each one with the eye of a craftsman who understood his tools. On the night of my 16th birthday celebrations, he prepared the meat with the same mastery that defined his life’s work.
Pork was my favourite meat, and it took centre stage on the tables that evening. There were pork loins, wrapped in pickled pork skin and roasted to perfection. Rind-on pork belly, spiced generously with black pepper and cold smoked for seven days, was sliced and served beside a platter of pork neck roasted in honey and pineapple juice. Small skewers of cured, smoked pork belly alternated with sweet pieces of apricot. Pork trotters, cured in vinegar, were fried over an open fire until the skin turned crisp. Eisbein, simmered with bay leaves in dark Dutch beer from the Woodstock Hotel, stood out as a favourite among the older guests. Even the offal was treated with reverence, with the colon stuffed with kidneys and heart, seasoned as only Jacobus could do. These were only some of the many dishes that filled the heavy wooden tables set beneath the towering Essenhout trees close to the homestead.
Our Dutch Reformed pastor, Ds. Lindeque, the man who had baptised me as a baby, attended, as did our family doctor, Dr. Van Eeden. My mother’s brother, Ds. Jan Kok, also a Dutch Reformed minister, came with his wife, Magna, and their three daughters, Joretha, Suria, and Daleen. Of course, my two brothers, Andre and Elmar, were there, as well as the midwife, Maria de Lange, who had delivered me sixteen years before and had remained in touch with my parents through their shared church community.
De Villiers Graaff
An old friend of mine, and a family member of Uncle Jacobus, Dawie de Villiers-Graaff (7), who had been running Uncle Jacobus’ butchery since 1876, attended with his younger brother, Jacobus. Uncle Jacobus Combrinck never married and had no children of his own. When the Graaff family fell on hard times, farming on their Wolfhuiskloof farm in the Villiersdorp district, he took in some of the Graaff brothers and their sister, treating them as though they were his own. Dawie was only eleven years old when Uncle Jacobus brought him to Cape Town to begin working in his butchery.
Hannie, the Graaff sister, kept house for the boys and was our host that evening. Dawie completed evening high school, which was run by the Dutch Reformed Church, where my uncle, Ds. Jan Kok, served as a part-time teacher. This made the evening very personal, as everyone present knew each other well.
Dawie was a serious young man and became a mentor to me. A strict Calvinist, shaped by hard times, he possessed a relentless work ethic. He was dark and handsome, with a full head of black hair and a droopy black moustache. Though short in stature and slender in build, he had an enormous spirit. Many girls were smitten by him, but he showed little interest in them. He constantly urged me to complete my schooling before learning a trade and setting out to conquer the world.
He was not fortunate enough to follow his own advice, at least not when it came to formal education. As a boy, he attended school in the evenings while learning the butchery trade during the day. Long hours spent in the small workspace of Uncle Jacobus’ butchery, Combrinck & Co., near the local abattoir at the bottom of Adderley Street, gave him a deep appreciation for education. To me, he remains a shining example of what can be achieved through determination and part-time learning.
Mountain Gang
My mountain friends also attended. There was the inimitable Kristi, accompanied by Achmat Jackson and Taahir Osman. A love for the mountain bound us. It was not something new, and between me and Kristi, it was something primal that bound us together from an earlier time we shared on earth. A primal time very long ago. This is something we both knew. Our relationship would be much more than the mountains, but never less. She was from Austria and grew up in the Mountains. It was she who introduced me to her Wechsel Mountains, and I, in turn, to my Table Mountain.
It was Bernard Schietlin who originally encouraged Kristi’s father, Johann Berger, to visit South Africa. The two had met at an agricultural show in Vienna, where they struck up a conversation. At the time, Johann owned a farm in the Wechsel Mountains and also ran a business assisting farmers throughout the region with harvesting. Bernard, who just left the Cape to relocate back to Switzerland, spoke with great enthusiasm about South Africa and its agricultural potential. He was particularly intrigued by the farming methods of the Boers. This sparked Johann’s curiosity, and he soon decided to travel to South Africa with his daughter Kristi to see firsthand how farming was done in the African landscape.
Eben met Johann and Kristi one evening at the home of Jacobus Combrink. During their visit, Jacobus asked Eben if he would take them up Table Mountain, which he did three days later. From that point on, Eben and Kristi returned to the mountain again and again over the following weeks. Meanwhile, Johann was finalising arrangements with Jacobus to travel, alongside his farm manager, to visit cattle operations along the West Coast toward Saldanha. From the very beginning, it was clear to both Eben and Kristi that what was unfolding between them was far more than an ordinary friendship. It felt, rather, like two souls who had known each other since antiquity finally finding one another again.
Dawie was never keen on mountaineering. His life revolved around school and work in his teen years, and now, building an empire as the heir apparent of Uncle Jacobus’ butchery business. Unlike Dawie, we grew up in the shadow of the majestic mountain. Our friendships were forged well before we took to the mountain to fuel our dreams and before we set our ambitions on more daring pursuits. Cape Town has been, as it is to this day, a unique place for kids to grow up.
Since Cape Town is at the southern tip of Africa, one may expect the children to be hailing from the indigenous tribes, but Cape Town in the 1870s was not so. Unfortunate and shameful acts of powerful European nations cast devastating spells over this beautiful land, and a unique culture emerged from the struggles of many.
Rainbow Nation
For sure, I grew up with many black boys. My white friends were from America, England, Scotland, France, Germany, Russia, and many other places. I have friends from Arabia, Egypt, India, China, and the Malay Peninsula, even from St Helena, where Napoleon died. It seems as if I can count friends from every part of the world and every country. (8)
Some wore red jackets and round red caps made by their mothers for the pilgrimage to Mecca. Some were Christian and had to go to Sunday school when I wanted to play. Some of my black friends wore no shirts under their jackets and no shoes. (8)
Despite these differences in colour, background, income, and religion, when we all played together, we were oblivious to any differences that adults make a big fuss about. We mainly played Dutch games since these were the European people who first came here. In the daytime, we would play a kind of pitch and toss game like cricket or baseball; at night, we would gather in the bright moonshine and dance in a ring, singing Dutch songs. The police would allow us to play these games and only interfere when we started playing card games, which was not allowed. (8)
After we played, we all ran down to Table Bay and swam in the sea before returning to our different houses. Some, like myself, stayed in our rooms, in big houses. Some lived in tiny houses that looked more like two-bedroom barns, sleeping at times up to 30 children in one room. (8)
As we grew into our early teenage years, the games of bat and ball and dancing in circles evolved into a quest for adventure. This is how some of us exchanged late-night swimming at Table Bay while venturing ever higher up on Table Mountain. By age 16, Table Mountain was part of our lives as much as our daily bread.
Most of our friends did not share our newfound passion. Slavery had long been abolished at the Cape, but the old stories of runaway slaves hiding in mountain caves had given way to new fears of escaped convicts said to be lurking in the shadows. These fears, along with exaggerated tales of leopard sightings, kept many away from the slopes of Table Mountain. By the time we were sixteen, most of my childhood friends had lost their appetite for adventure, their curiosity spent. Only a few of us clung to that spirit, and it was with these friends that I celebrated my 16th birthday, late into the night, at the home of Uncle Jacobus. Above all, I was most thrilled that Kristi and Johann could attend. The very next morning, they set sail for Austria.
What none of us understood that night was that our forays onto the mountain were training for far greater adventures that lay ahead. Some would involve real battle and war; others, revolution and the struggle for freedom. And in my case, a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe, the answer to life, death, and everything that exists.
I have already shared with you the outcome of one such quest: the discovery of what truly cures bacon. But I will not yet reveal the conclusion of my search for the loftiest answers imaginable. The art of living!
Curiously, the answer did not come to me through divine revelation or as the result of a deliberate philosophical pursuit. It came through what might appear to be the most mundane of practices, learning and mastering the art and science of bacon curing.
Was it this quest that brought Kristi and me together? Or was it the mountain? Or the combined majesty of the natural world? Whatever the cause, one thing is certain: it all began, once upon a time, in Africa.
(c) eben van tonder
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Notes:
(1) From a tombstone in Maitland Cemetery, originally in Somerset Street. Edwin Gregory “perished from cold on Table Mountain,” June 1858.
(2) The evaluation of bacon was made by Edward Smith in his 1876 book, Foods, page 65. (D. Appleton and Co, New York)
(3) Quote: “The very best hotel in Cape Town would disgrace the meanest, dirtiest, most unsanitary village in England,” William Clark Russell, English nautical novelist, 1880.
(4) Jacobus Combrinck was born in Worcester on 21 May 1828
(5) Papendorp is the current Woodstock.
(6) Linder, Adolphe. 1997. The Swiss at the Cape of Good Hope. Creda Press (Pty) Ltd; page 270
Simons, Phillida Brooke. 2000. Ice Cold In Africa. Fernwood Press; page 7
(7) Dawie or David de Villiers-Graaff would have been 26 and a city councilor. He served as city major in 1891 – 1892.
(8) A beautiful description of the life of boys in Cape Town at the end of the 1800s was published in the Indiana State Sentinel on 17 Nov 1880, page 6, written by E. B. Biggar, called The Boys of Cape Town.
Photo Reference:
Old Cape Town: http://www.lifestories.co.za/old-cape-town-jpg-2/