There are braais... and then there were Dad's braais.
You knew it wasn't just another Saturday afternoon when the familiar clink of his favourite Hout Bay Chilli Infused Gin hit the glass. That first sip was the official announcement that the fire would soon be lit. Somewhere, birds stopped singing, neighbours mysteriously appeared at their fences, and everyone instinctively knew they had at least another hour before any food would actually hit the grill.
Because a proper braai wasn't something you rushed.
Dad had standards.
The first rule? Boerewors had to be plain. Just a proper 1kg plain boerewors—because when you've already perfected something, why mess with it?
Then came the tongs.
Not just any tongs... those legendary LK's extra-long braai tongs that looked more like medieval weapons than cooking utensils. They were an extension of Dad's arm. Nobody else was allowed to use them. In fact, if you even reached in their general direction, he'd somehow appear beside you before your fingers touched them.
"Careful... you'll drop the wors."
He was probably right.
Every family has that one thing that instantly transports you back to childhood.
For us, it was the old oval aluminium roasting tray. The braaied meat would be piled into it fresh off the fire, juices collecting in the bottom like liquid gold. Once everyone had eaten, the leftovers somehow tasted even better standing around the kitchen, picking straight from that tray with your fingers.
No plates.
No ceremony.
Just one more piece...
...and then another.
No braai of Dad's was complete without his beloved Steers Monkey Gland Sauce.
He always claimed he only ate it because he didn't want the monkeys to feel bad after working so hard making it.
To this day, we're still not entirely sure where those monkeys were employed, but judging by the sauce, they deserved a pay rise.
Then there was the one item that absolutely had to be on the table before Dad would even think about sitting down.
If someone forgot the Creamstyle Sweetcorn, Dad would remain standing with his plate in hand until someone made the emergency dash to the pantry.
It simply wasn't negotiable.
Looking back now, it wasn't really about the food.
It was about the laughter.
The stories that somehow got funnier every time they were told.
The debates over whether the fire was "ready yet."
The smell of wood smoke that clung to your clothes and hair loong after the braai was over.
The sound of Dad proudly announcing that this was the best boerewors he'd ever cooked... even though he'd said exactly the same thing every single weekend for as long as anyone could remember.
Those are the moments that stay with us.
This Father's Day, we raise a glass of chilli-infused gin, pass around the Monkey Gland Sauce, make sure the Creamstyle Sweetcorn is on the table, and remember the man who taught us that a braai wasn't just about feeding people.
It was about bringing them together.
Happy Father's Day to all the dads who stand proudly behind the fire, defend their tongs like family heirlooms, and somehow make every boerewors taste like home.
And especially to my Dad...
The undisputed Braai Master.