Eat more atchar for atomic orange epicurean empowerment

Daily Maverick

a day ago

In 'atchar alley', it's all about spiced green mango preserve. This is Station Road, Lenasia, which plays host to at least 30 atchar shops, all next door to each other.
The term 'achar' is derived from the Hindi language word for spice-preserved fruit and/or vegetables. In KwaZulu-Natal and the Western Cape, achar often retains its traditional Indian spelling and ingredient diversity in condiments such as kumquat achar, carrot achar and wedding achar. In the northern provinces, this definition no longer applies. When black South Africans from Limpopo, North West, Gauteng or Mpumalanga refer to atchar/ atchaar/ achaar (the spelling has mutated in multiple ways) they mean only the fabulously fiery, Afro-Indian relish made from green mangos topped with atomic orange-coloured oil.
From henceforth let us call this fusion form 'Limpopo atchar' because this is probably where it was born and where most of the mangos used to make it grow. Somehow my fingers are most comfortable typing atchar with a 't', so Limpopo atchar it is.
It is seldom if ever eaten with Indian or Indian diaspora cuisine, but is rather a staple of black South African street food. Soweto starches and proteins pop in the presence of Limpopo atchar. No plate of pap or kota-style sandwich is complete without this finger- and shirt-staining delicacy. Every corner café sells little red lid tubs at the till. Commuter hub vendors serving snacks from buckets offer it as an accompaniment. It is impossible to imagine mogodu Monday without this startlingly strong pick-me-up.
I suspect that it is a mid-20th century culinary co-creation of Northern Transvaal Indian traders, Venda and Pedi people. Modern mangos of the kind sold in supermarkets have been selectively bred to be string-free, soft and super-sweet with a long shelf life. They are visually flawless but frequently fall flat in flavour. Many trees grown from seed over multiple generations by African subsistence farmers are the descendants of heritage cultivars. They are small and sometimes their skins are mottled. Their stringy texture makes them unsuitable for fruit salad, but these drawbacks are irrelevant when grated or chopped fine for atchar. Their ebullient combination of acidity, sweetness and subtle bitterness is magnificent when processed into pickles.
The basic recipe for Limpopo atchar contains green mangos, white vinegar, garlic, chillies, mustard seeds or powder, sunflower oil and atchar masala. This sounds simple but actually every individual maker has their own masala mix.
In 1950 the apartheid regime's Group Areas Act designated Lenasia, southwest of Johannesburg, for occupation by those they classified as Indian. These days the area is occupied by all sorts of South Africans.
Station Road, Lenasia (aka 'atchar alley') plays host to at least 30 atchar shops, all next door to each other. They all sell the component parts for atchar makers to combine at home into their own secret sauce. It is like Build a Bear but oily and intensely aromatic. In a country where almost all royal coronations are contested, it should come as no surprise that there are two, independently owned Atchar Kings trading mere metres apart. Actually, it is one Achaar King (three As and no T) and one Atchar King (two As, one T) but there is definitely a gourmet game of thrones meets Zulu monarch succession dispute vibe.
Huge plastic bags filled with pre-grated green mango (with and without garlic) are piled high. Thousands of different mango masalas compete for customer attention with row upon row of vibrant colourants and oils. Some of the more vibrant red colourants seem deeply dodgy. Every trader tells you that only his spice blends will hit the hotspot.
Desperate for old-school Limpopo atchar but too lazy to make it yourself or even walk to the corner café? Order online from Lelo's Tasty Foods. This chunky textured, orange and oily atchar is made in the Motherland (Giyani) and is eat-with-a spoon straight-out-of-the-bucket brilliant. It costs R80 for 360g and comes in three flavours: Super-hot, hot and mild.
Feeling fancy? The inverted snob in me wanted to dislike Nayi Le Achaar. The label describes the product as 'atchar paté' which irritated me. Well, actually, it says patè with the accent incorrectly pointing in the grave direction rather than in the acute line, which irritated me some more. For a while, I really enjoyed myself being simultaneously regular snob and inverted snob, but then I was forced to eat my (many, many) snotty comments because this smooth textured condiment tastes great. Despite coming in jalapeño, piquanté, feta, garlic and ginger, rosemary and olive and lemon flavours it somehow manages to retain a Limpopo-ish essence. It costs between R80 and R100 for 440g at Johannesburg's supersmart Prison Break Market, via the website and at Makro.
What about the widely held anxiety that eating it makes for smelly armpits? Scientists say that all atchar (whether super smart or corner café classic) will be excreted through sweat glands, but no more than any other garlic- and spice-containing condiment. So, what are you waiting for?
Eating atchar tastes great and supports local livelihoods. There are no statistics on the social and economic impact of small-scale atchar sales, but my guess is that they are second only to scones and magwinya as a method of raising money to put the children of single mothers through school and university.