Little shop of ...

With time, that most delicious of luxuries, on their hands, the Bandit and the beautiful Distraction head slowly north over the Hennops River on the R511 towards Hartbeespoort Dam.

Monday, mid-morning, and traffic is a far cry from the weekend bully-boy roar of 4x4s dicing howling motorbikes.

But for the potholes, the crumbling shoulder, the burnt, bleached winter landscape, and Pelindaba, which rises, stark and menacingly nuclear from the hills to the south, the drive to the Jasmyn Plaasprodukte could almost be described as pleasant. (Must have been the company.)

The giant, thatched farm stall, where much of the produce is bought directly from farmers in the district, is loudly announced by the huge faux Dutch-style windmill, visible for miles around, at its entrance.

The hungry crew cases the farm stall - good cheap vegetables, great jams, pickles and conserves, and alluring aniseed rusks. Bric-a-brac from crafty farmers' wives, a coffee shop and a deluge of reading material for the district's devoted God-botherers.

Heeding the Bandit's first law of shopping - never on an empty stomach - the crew leaves the stall and heads to the Windmill restaurant. Where things get off on the wrong wooden clog.

Two signs either side of a front desk staffed by a jumped-up wannabe economy airline steward busily pretending to manage announce that patrons must "be nice or leave".

How about "make nice or we won't pay" - just for starters?

But the crew ignores the warning cowbell and settles at a table that boasts a grime-encrusted electronic device to facilitate easy communication with the waiting staff.

At a glance, only two menu items reflect the architecture. Well, when in . Except that the Distraction, mostly happy to go Dutch, has no interest in ordering the pickled herring. Leaving the Bandit obliged to order the kroketten (beef croquettes).

The crew watches as the barman fails in his non-electronic bid to get the shiny trousered manager to abandon his very important filing and take the crew's drinks to the table.

The leaden kroketten, which have all the chemical charm of a Toppers meal, could make someone a fortune - if their potential for use as truncheons for townhouse security guards was recognised. Wilted side salad. Dressing in the ubiquitous Grolsch bottle: cheap mayo thinned with even cheaper vinegar.

The Distraction's rump is overcooked. And the roast vegetables are yesterday's, she informs the waiter. No they're just steamed, he says. He also doesn't like them, but it's not his business to tell the owners how to cook vegetables, he adds.

"Was everything fine?" the manager asks.

When "fine" is the furthest point to which descriptions of this little shop of Holland's fare can be stretched, the only option is to request a vierljeppin* pole with which to make a swift getaway across the polders.

*Vierljeppin (literally far-leaping) is a Dutch sport not dissimilar to pole vaulting - although distance, not height, is the objective. Originally, farmers used poles to vault across the irrigation and land reclamation ditches surrounding their fields.

THE SCORE:

• Kroketten: *
• Rump: **
• Attitude: 0
• Damage: It's going to hurt - even if you go Dutch