"No matter where you decide to party, every night here comes to the same, delicious end—and that end has a scent. And no, I don't mean dagga (weed). I mean smoke, and spice, which we follow to any of the chatty men busy behind their nondescript street carts, braaing up piping-hot boerewors for people craving a late-night bite beneath the elegantly latticed balconies of a once-glorious stretch of Victorian buildings on Long Street."
