I was very excited by the prospect of slobbering over a decadent mass of bread and meat, so Billie and I went off to find a gatsby place on Friday. They aren't so easy to locate, since the sandwich is more the product of the colored and black populations than the whites. Most white South Africans couldn't tell us anything about where to find a place, if they even knew what the sandwich was. "You'd probably have to go to the townships," one girl told us. Uh huh.
However, once we realized we were barking up the wrong tree, it wasn't too hard to find a vendor. I ordered myself a steak gatsby, which apparently means delicious Indian beef curry. It looked like this:
The photo, of course, does not do justice. A smell is worth a thousand pictures.
Then Billie offered to take pictures of me stuffing the monster into my face.
It was really tasty. Though I predictably felt a bit sick afterwards. I've since decided that I am allowed one gatsby per month, tops.
By the way, I am going to find a way to bring this delicacy to the States and start a restaurant chain which will be awesome, of course.