Anthony’s Golden Cup

Anthony’s Golden Cup is an established purveyor of the finest coffee beans, freshly ground or that refreshing cup of coffee that had made him owner Anthony Swartz world-renowned.

Cape Town never afford the resident or visitor a dull moment. There always is a new discovery to be made or, sometimes, a hidden gem to be found. Such a gem is my dear old friend since eleven years ago, Mr Anthony Swartz.

Having grown up at #Kylemore near #Stellenbosch, Anthony has since settled in the greater #CapeTown and he has been in #coffee since 1963.

At age 79, Anthony is most likely the oldest serving #barista in Cape Town. He declines calling himself by that title yet he is an expert in knowledge about coffee – and also tea! He only sells the choicest #Arabica coffee beans, or ground to order and no Robusta is allowed in his little store at 59 on Loop Street, Cape Town.

Anthony’s Golden Cup has been the stage of various film shoots. Also, he has an established clientele internationally and we often see old friends arriving, GPS in hand. Having placed Anthony’s Golden Cup on Google Maps does help customers find him, as many forget where they last saw him. Do not underestimate the value of GoogleMaps.

As far as we could establish, Anthony was the first non-white commercial coffee roaster in Cape Town. His coffees are authentic and he does support the African farmers from many countries. Therefore, if it is the BEST coffee you need, Anthony’s has been rated as the best in Africa several times, also by in flight-magazines of international airlines, etc. But is that important? My nose regularly guides me to his front door and yet another special coffee or cappuccino finds its way down.

Do yourself an immense favour and go visit Anthony at https://goo.gl/maps/4JWyq68DLYU2 and be sure to send him my regards. Click on the link for lovely photographs as well!

To whet your appetite, here are a few.

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FemalePower! 

It is busy at the day hospital. A hundred and sixty of us are waiting in a stuffy room, waiting for our names to be called. If they call you, it is into a little room where they first ascertain that life is still found in you. Machinery is plumbed into you by abrupt F-types, almost like automotive technicians doing diagnostics tests on the supposed black boxes of modern cars. Some are blunt, but a sheep dip isn’t an overtly emotional heaven.

She caught my eye, a little girl. Maybe eleven or twelve years of age. Wearing a Burkah. I don’t see her mom. Did she find a new way to bunk from school, then waste her day of liberty in an unpleasant environment where she knows nobody will even come looking for her?

I notice many old ladies smelling of saffron and cumin or other kitchen spices. Or of incontinence.

The dreary day draws on indefinitely. My name is called and I enter the consulting room. I am invited to sit. Then the little girl across the desk takes out her stethoscope from its hiding place under her Burkah. She is my doctor. A sweet little kid who says that “uncle” may drink coffee again. I contemplate putting her in my shirt pocket. So that she can be on call to defend my constitutional right to coffee, should another fully grown doctor decide otherwise. I almost said “thank you, my child.”

Another of her kind saved my son’s life one night. A few months later, she treats my chronic condition and I get the opportunity to thank her for extending my son’s life. In jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, she appeared to be about thirteen, or fourteen at most. She could have been an identical twin to my daughter, when the latter was fourteen.

Looks can be deceiving.

Her room is lined with pictures of racing cars, rally cars, pipe cars and a go-kart. She has the best seat at the race track – behind the steering wheel. A plethora of silver cups and colourful medal ribbons testify of her acumen to hold it right. She is a menace, beating the boys at their own game. And reminds me of the quality female soldiers I had served with in the military. Most of the guys were of a still evolving species, homo erectus.

She sits across me, a very neatly packaged specimen and manicured, pedicured or just cured to perfection. A young professional lady that packs a bouquet of talents in a deceptively cute appearance. Here eyes tell me there is much more than meets the, er, eye. The mouth soon confirms this suspicion when she speaks her mind. The eyes are sweet, green I think, but it is the eye of the soul I sit staring at. So young, yet a little nuclear energy plant powering her strong inner drive, a creative visionary aided by a superior intellect. A young executive going places. An uncommon collection of gifts and talents combined with outward beauty. Yet this boardoom diplomat straps wings to herself and run off mountain cliffs. Icarus and Daedalus failed where she is triumphant. And she is only content with being at the top of the world. Which is where she climbs to, literally. Her spiritual wings are set for high altitudes.

Forty years ago, any or all of these would have been constrained to skirts and pianos. It is great to see that we have learned not to inhibit female power. My own wife has an unquenchable thirst for adventure, she is a pioneer in body and spirit. An overcomer and survivor, a true entrepreneur. An unstoppable business success only restrained by an acute lack of start-up capital. Yet she has succeeded greatly in the face of adversity.

My darlingmost wificle has opened my eyes to the tremendous inner power of Homo Sapiens (F). She gave birth to my two children, endured pain that would kill the toughest man in nine seconds flat.

And I love her, and only her, to bits.

Kofi

In those days, doors were only locked when people went away from home. At night, doors remained unlocked, windows wide open, weather permitting.

Patrick Ellis worked on the railways and came to my Grandpa’s town during the early hours one morning. He opened the door, lit a candle and brewed coffee on the Primus stove. He then took a cup each for my Grandpa and himself to Gran’s bedroom.

After waking up Grandpa, the two men engaged in conversation and stirred the coffee in a room lit by the candle. They took their time drinking their coffee, careful not to mention it, out of politeness.

Stirring did not help. 

Patrick had added salt, not sugar!

Nkosi

Nkosi is my friend but also my top barista. We meet regularly, locals who come together to solve the world’s problems, be it ideological, economical, socio-political, religious. We brew from a bean and exude wisdom, exhange thoughts, jestering a bit, all done in Love. Ja, Nkosi, thank you, my brew 😁

Oppikoffie

#coffee #Arabica “oppiekoffie I say that “Bad coffee causes depression, good coffee cures from amnesia to zits.” Visit www.opikoffie.com. I came across this very nice little bistro today and enjoyed a very rich, fragrant cup or two of gourmet coffee here. The atmosphere is homely and staff really are friendly, prices are within reason and this is the kind of venue to be visited again. When in Cape Town, go visit them.