The first espetada I remember was at my grandfather’s house in Eloffsdal. He came from Arco da Calheta in Madeira, as did my mother. My father came from Funchal. But this memory belongs to our family fire here in South Africa.

At family gatherings, my grandfather would go out and pick three or four branches from the laurel tree — the bay-leaf tree. He cleaned them carefully and made them into skewers. Then came the pieces of beef and coarse salt. In the version I remember as a little boy, there was nothing else.

The women would come around with the salt, and my grandfather would braai a skewer over the fire. When it was ready, he would call, “Come!” We all stood in a row, waiting with buttered bread in our hands. You held your bread around a piece of meat and pulled it straight off the skewer. Bolo do caco or a bun — suddenly you had that beautiful meat tucked inside.

I remember the beef being rare, still red and juicy. I loved it then, and I still enjoy my steak rare today. I was only a young boy and could not manage more than one helping, but the taste stayed with me.

Those family gatherings are among the most wonderful memories of my life. I can still taste that meat.

Gilbert’s personal recollection of childhood family gatherings in South Africa.

Die eerste espetada wat ek onthou, was by my oupa se huis in Eloffsdal. Hy het van Arco da Calheta op Madeira gekom, net soos my ma. My pa het van Funchal gekom. Maar hierdie herinnering hoort by ons familievuur hier in Suid-Afrika.

By familiebyeenkomste het my oupa drie of vier takke van die lourierboom gaan pluk. Hy het hulle mooi skoongemaak en as vleisspiese gebruik. Dan het die stukke beesvleis en growwe sout gekom. In die weergawe wat ek as klein seuntjie onthou, was daar niks anders by nie.

Die vroue het met die sout rondgekom, en my oupa het ’n spies oor die vuur gebraai. Wanneer dit gereed was, het hy geroep: “Kom!” Ons het almal in ’n ry gestaan en wag, met gebotterde brood in ons hande. Jy het jou brood om ’n stukkie vleis gevou en dit reguit van die spies afgetrek. Bolo do caco of ’n broodrolletjie — skielik was daardie heerlike vleis binne-in jou brood.

Ek onthou hoe rooi en sappig die vleis binne-in was. Ek was toe al lief daarvoor, en ek eet my steak vandag nog graag so. Ek was maar ’n klein seuntjie en kon nie meer as een porsie baasraak nie, maar die smaak het my bygebly.

Daardie familiebyeenkomste is van die wonderlikste herinneringe van my lewe. Ek kan daardie vleis nog proe.

Gilbert se persoonlike herinnering aan familiebyeenkomste tydens sy kinderjare in Suid-Afrika.

On a trip to Madeira in 2019, I found a little stand doing bolo do caco like I'd never seen it — split open and stuffed, like a rooster's-comb setup with different fillings inside. Steak was the main one, but there was cheese and ham, egg, and chorizo — proper chorizo sausage baked right into the bread itself, not just sliced on top. It was really, really good. I still think about that bread.

Gilbert's personal recollection. The vendor and preparation method have not been independently confirmed.

Op ’n reis na Madeira in 2019 het ek ’n klein stalletjie ontdek wat bolo do caco gemaak het soos ek dit nog nooit gesien het nie — oopgesny en gevul, amper soos ’n haankam, met verskillende vulsels binne-in. Biefstuk was die hoofvulsel, maar daar was ook kaas en ham, eier en chorizo — regte chorizowors wat in die brood self ingebak is, nie net bo-op gesny nie. Dit was regtig, regtig lekker. Ek dink steeds aan daardie brood.

Gilbert se persoonlike herinnering. Die verkoper en voorbereidingsmetode is nie onafhanklik bevestig nie.

I grew up in Valhalla, Pretoria, in a strongly Afrikaans community. The children around us knew their slap pap and stywe pap. In our Portuguese home, we had milho — and there was almost always a plate of it that had been left to set overnight.

If we wanted a snack, we could cut off a piece and eat it cold. Or Mom would quickly fry some for us after school. We grew up on milho frito. It was inexpensive, easy to make, and part of everyday life.

Mom had her own little twist. She cooked the maize meal with water, pork lard, a little thyme and salt. Then she would change things around: different herbs, a few spices, sometimes cabbage, sometimes kale. There was always something happening in Mom’s kitchen.

Our neighbours could not understand why we fried it. When their parents heard, they would laugh and ask, “What? It’s already cooked. Why are you frying it again?” That fried pap became quite a talking point when we were children.

All these years later, I still love milho frito. It is part of my DNA.

Gilbert’s personal recollection of growing up in Valhalla, Pretoria.

Ek het in Valhalla, Pretoria, grootgeword, in ’n sterk Afrikaanse gemeenskap. Die kinders rondom ons het hulle slap pap en stywe pap geken. In ons Portugese huis het ons milho gehad — en daar was amper altyd ’n bord daarvan wat oornag gestol het.

As ons lus was vir ’n peuselhappie, kon ons ’n stukkie afsny en dit koud eet. Of Ma het ná skool gou vir ons daarvan gebraai. Ons het met milho frito grootgeword. Dit was goedkoop, maklik om te maak en deel van ons alledaagse lewe.

Ma het haar eie klein kinkel gehad. Sy het die mieliemeel met water, varkvet, ’n bietjie tiemie en sout gekook. Dan het sy weer afgewissel: ander kruie, ’n paar speserye, soms kool, soms krulkool. Daar was altyd iets aan die gang in Ma se kombuis.

Ons bure kon nie verstaan hoekom ons dit braai nie. Wanneer hulle ouers daarvan hoor, het hulle gelag en gevra: “Wat? Dis dan klaar gaar. Hoekom braai julle dit nou weer?” Daardie gebraaide pap was nogal ’n gesprekspunt toe ons kinders was.

Al die jare later is ek steeds lief vir milho frito. Dit is deel van my DNS.

Gilbert se persoonlike herinnering aan sy kinderjare in Valhalla, Pretoria.