Stop where the truckers are stopped. They are not there just for the diesel.

And although George's Supermarket and Take Aways is on bleak and dusty Summit Road and not on the autostrada in Tuscany, it has attracted by far the highest truck count in Midrand's "last bid to be a small-scale poultry farmer" badlands.

Just a turn to the left and a step to the right and the Bandit's doing the time warp. East Rand, mid-70s style.

When the opening of a new corner cafe, complete with fish and chips shop, fresh oil for at least the first week and a new babe to be lit up with stainless steel balls under the spotless glass of a new pinball table was guaranteed to draw a crowd.

When bread cost 11-and-a-half cents and change was gruffly and non-negotiably issued in the form of a piece of bubblegum wrapped in three quite dispensable bits of "did you know" information.

When Tessa magazine could be ogled for a few cents more.

And when the cafe owner, who volubly warned potential shoplifters or anyone looking even remotely shifty that he was by no means nearly as green as he was cabbage-looking, didn't peel his potatoes twice. Never ever, my charna.

All of which was immortalised by that most lovable lurcher James Phillips in his 80s classic Toasted Take Aways, one of many highlights on the long-player (remember those?) Live at Jamesons by the Cherry Faced Lurchers.

Gems like: "Where is your mother, she must look after you/ Because you come to make trouble, not to buy food;

"Get out my shop, you break the machine", and "Why you give me R50 note? You know I got no change".

Lunch time and George's take-away section is doing a brisk trade in vetkoek and stew. Combinations of fish, Russians, polony and Viennas with vinegar-steaming slap chips accompanied by door-stopper slices of white bread, make up the balance of trade.

The display fridge is spotless and the pyramid of light-golden vetkoek is a sure sign that the oil in which they have been fried is fresh.

And reassuringly, unlike the cafe clients described by Phillips, no one is looking in the grease-proof packets that contain their lunch and exclaiming: "But hey, what is this?"

The Bandit's steaming slap chips are all they ever were or could be. The raw, cheap vinegar brings a tear to the eye and a sneeze to the nose.

Now for a perfect chip butty with the "two slices white" side order.

The bread, fresh as it is, holds much promise. But hey, what is this? Margarine? Nooit ekse. Nooit, nooit, nooit.

The Bandit knows enough to know that an inquiry in tones aghast is unlikely at best to right the course of contemporary fish and chip shop cuisine. Next time out he will simply prepare accordingly: a plastic knife and a little container of butter.

Smaak it stukkend, my charna. Stukkend.

THE SCORE:

Appearance: *

Texture: ** Taste: **

Damage: Undone by the Bandit's smoortjie

Groenkloof Slaghuis/(Butchery if you insist)