KOOL KAFE: Customers at Miss K, owned and managed by the inimitable Kirsten Zschokke

A trawl through a little black book lodged firmly in the memory bank triggers a flashback to a surprise check-up on two trainee chefs deputised to manage the late-movie coffee, cake and snack crowd and then close the kitchen of a high-pressure mall restaurant.

"Jackson! If you send out a dessert looking like that again, I'm going to have to break your legs."

"Kirsten! This is a Zschokke!"

Much mirth and oh-God-we're-so-sick-of-that-lame-joke groaning from the crew, which has just been instructed to vala kitchen, the nightly reprieve.

But the broad grin on Jackson's face vanishes as the chef walks quietly into the kitchen through the back door.

"Sour," he quietly announces. "Sour right through."

Silence falls over the crew, but the two merry pranksters carry on nattering, blissfully unaware.

"And then old Krusty the Clown will say ."

"And what, exactly, will he say?"

Shrieks of mock horror.

Reduced by a couple of whippersnappers to Herschel Shmoikel Pinchas Yerucham Krustofski of The Simpsons, who is, says Wikipedia, "a burnt out, addiction-riddled smoker who is made miserable by show business but continues on anyway".

The Bandit indulges in an extensive makeover in preparation for a solo raid on Miss K Food Café in Green Point, Cape Town. A R40 No 3 from the garrulous barber at Salon Harry in Dorp Street is all it takes. Krusty indeed.

The raid on Miss K, all brushed grey metal and creamy crete-stone coolth - kicks off with a disappointingly fine double espresso topped with an annoyingly smooth, dense crema redolent of fecund cacao plantations and the rich smoulder of burning hardwood.

Infuriatingly, the seasonal fruit smoothie, which is mounted with a spoonful of darkly caramelised, liberally almond-studded granola, stands more than a clown's coiffure and shoulders above any criticism.

The immaculately plated eggs Benedict, served with baby rocket leaves, has the Bandit vainly trying to tear out what little is left of his hair.

The almost cadmium-yellow-yolked eggs are beyond repoach, as is the lightly toasted English muffin.

Despite the menu's claim that the gammon is thinly sliced, the dish is far better served by the thick, sweet-salty slices of deliciousness that feature in the incarnation presented to the Bandit. The gammon harmonises perfectly with the trademark chewiness of the muffin to offer a pleasingly resilient counterpoint to the textural monotones of the poached eggs and the Hollandaise.

Ah, the Hollandaise . drapes the dish like the lightest, softest mohair shawl but - hooray - the sauce needs a little more vinegar and mustard oomph ... and the smallest pinch more of salt.

The take-home goods on offer - a slow, baked up storm of cumulus pistachio meringues, a tray of robustly golden scones that look like the best batch ever baked by your grandmother, ripe tomato couples doing the salsa on sprung floors of puff pastry, moist pound cakes and cupcake fairy dreams - serve as further, frustratingly incontrovertible evidence that when it comes to food, Miss K doesn't clown about.

Looks like the joke, as ever, is on the Bandit. Gnash, grrrr and harrumph!