Nik Rabinowitz’s Not-So-Little Black Book of Cape Town

Welcome to my Little Black Book of Capetonian places I like to frequent (mostly during the day). Someone online recently told me to “stick to my day job”, but the joke’s on them – I don’t have one, which is why I’ve had time to compile this exhaustive list. It describes my Cape Town; not the Instagram version with perfect lighting and strategic angles, but the real one, in which I’m perpetually calculating how much of this SARS will let me write off as research for my next show.

Spirit Café, Constantia

The battle for spiritual enlightenment begins in the queue at this Constantia Village café, as you face off with Karen and her Lululemon yoga mat about who got there first. I’ve developed a specific technique for these confrontations: making direct eye contact while saying “Namaste” with just enough passive-aggressive energy that she knows I’m prepared to fight to the death for the last portion of kale-and-broccoli quiche, which is almost as good as the vegan chocolate brownies, which are legitimately fantastic… Which is the kind of statement that makes me question everything I’ve built my personality around.

Chardonnay Deli, Constantia

What most people ordering their R85 avocado toast at this rustic-chic Constantia establishment don’t realise is that this place has actual history. When I was a kid, we called it “Oubaas”, a modest corner shop run by a Muslim family who, with the aid of a local lawyer, had somehow flipped off the Group Areas Act when apartheid was busy whitewashing Constantia.

I occasionally perform stand-up here to an audience of wine moms and confused cyclists who just wanted a cappuccino but got an unexpected side of Jewish comedy with their almond croissant. It’s also where I once accidentally got involved in a public argument and was called a “bitch boy” by a stranger.

The entire deli went silent. Even the artisanal sourdough stopped fermenting. I’ve been called many things in my career – “unfunny”, “too Jewish”, “not Jewish enough” – but “bitch boy” was a new one. The owner, Charmaine, still brings it up whenever I complain about the R65 flat white. “Would Bitch Boy like some extra foam with that?” I’ve tried explaining it was a misunderstanding, but it’s now part of the deli’s unofficial menu. Some tourists from Germany once asked if they could order “the Bitch Boy special” after overhearing it.

Four & Twenty, Wynberg

Located opposite Maynardville (where Capetonians pretend to understand Shakespeare). I enjoy sitting in the window seat observing the “Mating Habits of the Southern Suburbs” documentary unfold while my soft-poached Eggs be Liscious congeal in real time. I recently overheard: “The production really captured Hamlet’s internal struggle”, which I assumed meant “I’d pomp the actor with good hair.”

 Starlings Locale, Claremont

A beacon of post-school drop-off sanity – a place to finish a sentence without someone interrupting to ask where their other shoe is. The French-speaking manager, Fabrice, and I traditionally greet each other in Chichewa, a language neither of us understands, but I have a few words memorised.

Fabrice normally says something that might mean “How are you?” and I respond with what could either be “I’m well” or “Your grandmother smells of elderberries”. Numerous spontaneous conversations have taken place here over a cortado – because ordering a flat white in 2025 is basically announcing that you still use Internet Explorer.

Cecilia Forest, Constantia

Awesome dog-walking spot, apart from baboons, puffadders and the middle-aged car guard who appointed himself Chief Safety Officer. This guy turned fear-mongering into performance art, stopping every dog walker to deliver his detailed prophecy about how your beloved pet will inevitably be devoured by either baboons or snakes – preferably both – in a tag-team death match.

A few months back he greeted me with a full Nazi salute. Just a straight-up extension of the right arm, accompanied by a chirpy “Heil” … in the parking lot of a nature reserve… in 2024. After listening to Elon’s justification maybe it was just, like, a Roman thing? Or maybe his heart was just going out to me. The weirdest part is, I still gave him R20 the next time I saw him. What’s that about? “Thanks for the fascism, here’s a tip!” Now I understand how Germany happened. The good news is, that was the last time I saw him – I’m fairly sure he’s permanently gone.

Kristen’s Kick Ass Ice Cream, Constantia

Located at Constantia Uitsig Wine Farm, which – fun historical fact – was first owned by Simon van der Stel, who rolled up to the Cape in 1679 after leaving his wife Johanna Jacoba back in Amsterdam and bringing her hot younger sister Cornelia instead. The original colonial trade-in programme. Nothing says: “I’m establishing a refreshment station for the Dutch East India Company” quite like ditching your wife and upgrading to the newer model.

My kids love going to Kristen’s, and now measure their self-worth by which flavour they’re allowed to get. “Dad, can I have the Madagascan Vanilla Bean with Gold Flakes?” No, you cannot, because Daddy isn’t running an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.

Bob’s Bagels, Kalk Bay

Many memories made here. Like the time I was sipping my chai latte in the park opposite when the President of the Kalk Bay Community Watch approached me and said: “I’m so sorry, but you’re exceeding the weight limit on the kids’ swings by approximately your entire body mass. Please leave.” Or the time a gale-force southeaster transformed our rustic Airbnb (with the stability of a mid-game Jenga tower) into a budget remake of Twister, and we ended up in Bob’s front room. I still tip extra whenever I go to Bob’s, partly from gratitude and partly because I’m pretty sure the owner, Robin, has photos of me trying to sleep on a dining room table while clutching a soggy bagel.

Farieda the Fisher Queen, Kalk Bay

The undisputed queen of Kalk Bay Harbour and my favourite person to buy yellowtail from, despite my friend Carl warning me: “Nooit, bru! Don’t buy anything that’s swum in False Bay!” According to Carl, those fish have seen things, man – like the collective sewage of the southern suburbs and whatever the hell people are dumping off Muizenberg. He makes it sound like these fish are the maritime equivalent of war veterans with PTSD. “That yellowtail,” he’ll say with deadly seriousness, “has witnessed atrocities”. But I keep going back to Farieda because her yellowtail has never given me food poisoning, (I know, literally the lowest bar for seafood purchasing) and we’re guaranteed to have a laugh and make inappropriate jokes and roast her husband Fiekie about that time he (an All Black supporter) had to sleep on the floor after the Springboks won the World Cup.

Olympia Café & Deli, Kalk Bay

A Kalk Bay culinary institution – I love testing out new material in the Bakery. Last time a granny heckler came in an hour late shouting: “WHERE’S PAUL?” as if Paul had the nuclear codes and the countdown had started. At the start of a previous gig, I walked onstage to find a pot of soup actively boiling in the corner of the stage. Not backstage – on the stage. Try delivering punchlines while competing with the aromatic waftings of Kenneth’s minestrone. It’s like doing stand-up with a silent heckler that smells delicious.

Highlights: The fresh mussels, pan-fried yellowtail, and calamari were worth committing minor crimes for. Now I can’t eat octopus without hearing (Craig Foster impersonator) Glen Biderman-Pam’s voice narrating the tragic life story of the cephalopod in front of me.

Salt, Kalk Bay

Next door to Olympia, with half-price coffee from 6am to 9am, it’s the perfect antidote to freezing your 5am tits off with six elderly Dalebrook ducks (in shower caps).

C’est la Vie, Fish Hoek

A hole-in-the-wall bakery manufacturing the best chocolate croissants on the continent. The kind of pastries that make you question every life decision that didn’t involve you being here sooner. Hot beverages to recover from early onset post-immersion hypothermia. Fish Hoek’s commitment to being alcohol-free means you’ll be sober enough to remember every detail of the conversation you “accidentally” eavesdropped about the latest in the ongoing Kommetjie baboon standoff – a territorial dispute that makes your family’s last holiday argument about US politics seem positively civilised in comparison.

Windmill Beach, Simon’s Town

That once-secret sanctuary where one could commune with marine life – just you, the ocean and some of your existential great white shark-adjacent thoughts. Then Craig Foster went and got emotionally involved with an octopus, and suddenly everyone’s at Windmill with their GoPros looking for their own eight-legged therapist. The octopus now has a talent agent, three book deals and a reality show, while I’m still trying to explain to German tourists that no, I cannot direct them to “the famous octopus’s house”, while dodging influencers trying to recreate that scene where the octopus high-fives him. Thanks Craig. Really. Thanks.

Rocklands Goat Farm, Simon’s Town

Nothing says “I’m overwhelmed by humanity” quite like fleeing to a place where the most judgmental creatures are goats – and let me tell you, those rectangular-pupiled critics have opinions about everyone who walks in. One goat in particular, I call him Shlomo, stares at me like he knows all about the time I exploited his Afrikaans cousin Stoffel as a marketing assistant for my 2006 Grahamstown Arts festival show One Man One Goat.

On cold Grahamstown nights, I used to workshop material in front of Stoffel, which basically felt like performing to the comedy equivalent of a Russian Olympic gymnastics judge. Not a single laugh – just a lot of chewing and what I’m pretty sure was the goat version of heckling. “Your joke about sangomas slaughtering goats lacks nuance,” his eyes seemed to say while eating his way through the hessian puppet goat my friend Janni had made for me.

The Scone Shack, Cape Point

Cape Point’s premiere exercise in testing the human capacity for delayed gratification under the guise of serving baked goods. It’s where time goes to die, but in a quirky way that makes you question if you’re annoyed or having a meaningful experience.

The small black pigs that roam the property are basically psychological warfare in cute animal form. They’re there to distract you from how long you’ve been waiting, a fluffy version of the spinning wheel on your computer that says “Don’t worry, something’s happening!” except nothing is happening aside from your children ageing visibly while waiting for food. I’ve watched my kids go through entire developmental stages during a single visit. My son arrived as a carefree 8-year-old and left with stubble and existential questions about which university protests look more attractive.

When your order finally arrives – delivered by a barefoot hippie an hour late because he’s in the middle of crocheting a giant facecloth for his grade 12 Waldorf project – there’s this collective Stockholm syndrome that sweeps through the waiting customers. “These are THE BEST SCONES I’VE EVER HAD,” you’ll hear people declaring with the fervent conviction of cult members, and you’ll find yourself nodding along because after investing half of your remaining life expectancy waiting for them, they’d better be transformative.

The truly insane part is that despite this, despite all of this, I still go back. After each visit, I swear “never again”, and then six months later, I’m telling friends, “You have to experience The Scone Shack”, like a survivor of some cult trying to recruit new members.

Because the scones? They actually are that good. Or maybe that’s just what happens when hunger meets psychological manipulation meets homemade organic Deep South jam. Either way, it’s worth the drive – just bring provisions.

Café Roux, Noordhoek

Aside from great pizzas and other things, this is most likely my favourite Cape Town comedy room. The low ceilings create this perfect pressure-cooker environment where laughter has nowhere to go but directly into your fragile comedian ego. It’s the comedy equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel, except sometimes the fish are high-functioning Noordhoekers who want to debate your punchlines about leopard toads, climate change and Karoline banning eco-bricks from the Kakapo (not the wreck, the wire whale). Café Roux (and me and Karoline) host the annual Project Noordhoeked auction (look out for it on 19 August), where you can bid for uniquely Deep South lots like a half-day fishing trip off Cape Point with a guy named Kobus who, and I quote, “sometimes catches fish”. (Rather go with my chiropractor, who “murders them”.)

South Yeaster Bakery, Hout Bay

A great post-Sandy Bay snorkel spot, delivering phenomenal breads and unbelievable pastries (the cheese croissants are insane). Also, the backyard doubles up as a canine fight club. Nothing enhances the flavour profile of a cortado quite like the sound of a Golden Doodle and a Bouvier settling a territorial dispute in the kids’ sand pit.

Okja, Camps Bay

Perched on the edge of Camps Bay like an oasis in a desert of overpriced cocktails, what I love most about Okja are the faux-salmon grated-carrot bagels, the Oat Milk, and my mate Dovvie (the founder) who over the last 40 years transformed from a bucked-toothed opening bowler into a vegan café owner.

Aside from the oat milk (which is so creamy it makes actual dairy seem like a cruel joke perpetrated by Big Cow), what really makes Okja special is the magnificent collision of humanity – midlife crisis chicks with their fresh divorces and freshly injected lips discussing their spiritual awakenings after reading exactly one chapter of Eckhart Tolle’s new book, alongside German cold-water grannies in their sequinned gowns with non-gravity-defying boobs and fluffy slippers.

Obi Sushi, CBD

Best sushi in town, run by the original Mr Douglas Green, who I’m pretty sure is neither Douglas nor Green. Makes you temporarily forget you’re in Cape Town and not Tokyo, until someone at the table next to you starts complaining about load-shedding and how they hired a drummer so they could put music on their son’s CV to get him into Bishops and then he didn’t get in, so now he has to go to Pinelands.

The Electric Café, District Six

Renowned for its raw juices and mind-expanding edibles, The Electric Café is tucked away in District 6 like a guilty pleasure hiding in your underwear drawer, one of those Cape Town spots that still feels genuinely alternative, but not “alternative” in the Woodstock sense where it means “We’ve gentrified this building but kept one graffiti wall for authenticity”. Also a great spot for material-testing, though it’s sometimes hard to gauge the success of the jokes when your audience is a mix of genuine laughers and individuals staring at their hands because they’ve just discovered “The Universe is, like, in there, man”.

The Black Sheep, Gardens

Run by Chef Jonny Japha who at the age of 13 introduced me to Chinese 5-spice-hoisin Pork Belly, Peter Stuyvesant Blue, and Jimi Hendrix (which I was certain should have been spelt “Hendrikse”). While the rest of us were still figuring out how to microwave two-minute noodles without creating a small fire, Johnny was cooking us gourmet lunches. Whenever I take friends to The Black Sheep I casually drop: “Oh, I’ve known the chef since childhood”, as if our shared history of minor delinquency makes me cooler by association. Jonny still gives me that look from the kitchen – the one that says: “I remember when you ate cow poo to get high,” which keeps me humble.

Catch Nik performing his smash-hit show, Pension Killer, at Die Koelkamers Teater in Paternoster on 29 March, followed by the show’s final run at The Baxter, 27 – 31 May 2025.
Book Die Koelkamers
Book The Baxter

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