The Philosophy of Milk Tart

There is something quietly philosophical about a Melktert. Perhaps it is because it asks so little of us. Milk, eggs, sugar, pastry, ordinary things brought together patiently, transformed not by extravagance but by care. In a world that constantly celebrates excess, milk tart remains modest. It does not announce itself loudly. It waits on the table, dusted with cinnamon, asking only that we slow down long enough to enjoy it.

Food has always carried memory, but milk tart carries something more delicate: continuity. Recipes survive grandparents, old kitchens, changing towns, and difficult years. One generation folds cinnamon into warm milk; the next does the same almost without thinking. The tart becomes less about dessert and more about inheritance, proof that comfort can survive history.

There is also something deeply South African about it. Not polished or complicated, but generous. A tart made to be shared. One slice cut for a guest who arrived unexpectedly, another for someone staying too long at the kitchen table while the tea grows cold. It belongs to the kind of hospitality that asks for nothing in return.

And perhaps that is why milk tart endures. Not because it is impressive, but because it reminds us that the simplest things are often the ones that anchor us most firmly to one another: sweetness, warmth, conversation, and the familiar smell of cinnamon drifting through a house.

Milk tart (melktert) is a quintessential South African comfort food. Known for its delicate, milky custard and generous dusting of cinnamon, this classic treat connects generations through nostalgia, reminding one of family gatherings, Sunday teas, or church bazaars.

There are few things more comforting than a homemade Melktert cooling on the kitchen counter. Soft custard, a dusting of cinnamon, and a cup of tea, or coffee nearby, it is the sort of tart that belongs to slow afternoons and family tables. At Towerwater, like in many South African homes, milk tart is not saved for special occasions, it is simply part of life.

If one does not bake milk tart yourself there will be a bakery, supermarket or home industry store nearby that will have a milk tart on the shelf.

When Laurens van der Post reminisced about milk tart in his book First Catch your Eland published in 1977, he captured the essence of what milk tart is for South Africans. He wrote,

” The melk-tert in South Africa is not so much a dish as a national institution, almost a fundamental prop of such democratic constitution as we have left in the land. It is to us what apple-pie appears to have been and remains to America. It is produced without apology at all hours of the day and night. Wherever one travelled when I was a child, some house on the road would produce the melktert it always had ready for any guest who might appear. Every housewife had her own recipe and would have been insulted if she did not have a fresh melktert handy for the most distinguished occasions. In the ample and uncomplicated days before politicians became the demi-gods they are today, one of the greatest of these occasions was the visit by the local priests, or the dominies as ministers of the Dutch Reformed Church are known, so that the melktert from early on acquired the nickname of dominie's tert, not to be confused with the more pompous Predikant's tart. No politician who valued his career would risk declining a portion of the melktert offered to him during electioneering by the wife of a potential voter any more than he would have dared to refuse kissing their babies. To this day I think that melktert carries a grave responsibility for the tendency of politicians in southern Africa to run to fat. However, all these considerations apart, there is no doubt that the melktert of the interior is as good a long distance tart, cake or sweet, eaten hot or cold, as a kitchen could produce.

It was made in the proportions of one pint of milk to two table- spoons of sugar, a tablespoon of finest maizina, two eggs, a stick of cinnamon and a tablespoon of butter. The milk was boiled with the sugar and the cinnamon, a roux made of the butter and the maizina and a little milk added, to make it liquid before it was joined by the boiling milk. It was then boiled for about five minutes before being poured into a basin and, when cold, the two eggs, well whisked, were folded into it. It was then poured into a tart dish lined with pastry made as thin as possible and baked for twenty minutes, to be served with a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar on top. It could be eaten hot or left to cool.”
Source: L. van der Post, First Catch Your Eland: A Taste of Africa, Page 203 and 204.

Serving meltert was also a measure of moral standing if one takes the anecdote about milk tart recorded by Hastings Beck, in his book Meet the Cape Food, 1956,

“During the war a general who is, in the grand phrase of Izaak Walton, now with God, visited a school in the Cape, somewhat suspect of subversive activities. On his return he declared, 'There is absolutely nothing wrong with that school. Why! they entertained me with milk tart!'
This, said in all seriousness, indicates the symbolic significance of the milk tart in the Cape cuisine. Milk tart is more than a pastry. It is a gesture, like the breaking of bread or the offering of salt in other times and places. When judges go to circuit or Important Persons open bazaars, they must be served milk tart. To fail to do so would be social solecism if not an actual affront.”  Source:  H. Beck, Meet the Cape Food, page 47.

The author presents the act of serving Melktert as warm, trustworthy, respectable, and deeply hospitable. In the anecdote, the general immediately assumes that a school capable of serving milk tart could not possibly be “subversive” or dangerous. This suggests that milk tart symbolizes decency, tradition, and social respectability.

 
The author goes further by saying that milk tart is “more than a pastry”, it is “a gesture.” By comparing it to “the breaking of bread or the offering of salt,” the author gives the act of serving milk tart a ceremonial and almost sacred quality. The baker or host therefore becomes someone who welcomes others, honours guests, and upholds community values and social harmony.

Overall, the character associated with serving milk tart is one of kindness, cultural pride, generosity, and moral respectability.

In her poem “Familieverse” Antjie Krog writes the following verse,

“wat was daar in die hand van my оuma
wat pasteikorse eierwitlig kon vou
melkterte kon vul met die heilgenot van manna
wat brode oornag smuls kon laat uitboud uit haar vaal panne”
Source: A. Krog, Otters in Bronslaai, page 37.

“What dwelled within my grandmother’s hands
that folded pastry crusts light as beaten egg white,
that filled milk tarts with the sacred sweetness of manna,
that through the night could coax rich loaves to rise
from her pale and weathered pans?

In this verse by Antjie Krog, the philosophy lies in the admiration of the grandmother’s ordinary domestic work, which is elevated into something almost sacred. The speaker is essentially asking: what was there in my grandmother’s hands that made them so special? Her hands could transform simple ingredients into food filled with comfort, love, and meaning.

The image of “pastry crusts folded light as egg white” and “milk tarts filled with the holy delight of manna” turns everyday baking into something spiritual. The reference to “manna”, the heavenly food from the Bible, suggests that the grandmother’s cooking nourished not only the body, but also the soul. Her hands create more than food; they create warmth, belonging, and emotional security.

The bread that could rise overnight “out of her pale pans” also symbolizes patience and creation. Through time, care, and quiet labour, something living and sustaining comes into being. The grandmother becomes a symbol of feminine creative power, someone who makes life possible and meaningful through humble acts of care.

The deeper philosophy of the verse is that true value does not lie in grand achievements, but in love, nurture, tradition, and the ability to sustain others both physically and spiritually.

Across these writers, Melktert becomes far more than a simple dessert, it becomes a way of thinking about belonging itself. In Laurens van der Post’s account, it is elevated to the level of a national institution, something woven into the fabric of social and even democratic life, present in roadside homes, political encounters, and everyday acts of hospitality. It is offered without ceremony yet carries the weight of ceremony, a quiet requirement of welcome that no guest, whether priest or politician, could easily refuse. In Antjie Krog’s family verses, it turns inward, becoming intimate and ancestral, the food of grandmothers whose hands transform ordinary ingredients into something that feels almost sacred. And in the Cape anecdote, it becomes a social language of trust, where serving milk tart signals decency, warmth, and cultural belonging.

Taken together, these perspectives suggest that milk tart lives in the space between the personal and the collective. It is at once recipe and ritual, memory and message. To serve it is to extend more than food, it is to extend recognition, of history, of home, of shared humanity. Its simplicity is precisely what allows it to carry such weight across generations and contexts.

Ultimately, milk tart endures not because it is elaborate, but because it is foundational. It speaks to a quiet philosophy shared across these writers: that culture is not only preserved in monuments or institutions, but also in the everyday gestures of care that repeat themselves in kitchens, in passing visits, and in the gentle act of offering something sweet to another person.

There are things that do not ask to be explained, only noticed. A bowl left to cool on a kitchen table. The soft settling of cinnamon on pale custard. The quiet certainty of something made, not performed. Melktert belongs to this category of things, ordinary at first glance, but persistent in the way it stays with you long after the last slice is gone.

The Provenance of a B W van Dyk Chair

This is the story of Burger Wynand van Dyk, the carpenter of Barry Street in Robertson, the Western Cape of South Africa. His craft reflects a legacy stretching back more than two centuries to the earliest days of European settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. He was the great-great-great-great-grandson of Joost Pietersz van Dyk (1666–1718).

The familiar stamp of BW van Dyk on one of his stinkwood chairs

Joost Pietersz van Dyk and his brother Burgert Pietersz van Dyk (1665-1720) left their home in Izenberg, Netherlands, to serve the Dutch East India Company at the distant Cape of Good Hope in 1686. Joost and his brother Burgert, sailed aboard the Huis te Zilverstein¹, trading the familiar landscapes of Europe for the rugged, unfamiliar coasts beneath Table Mountain. Together they would lay the foundations of a family whose name and its trades, would persist for centuries. Though both arrived as soldiers, the harsh realities and opportunities of the Cape soon drew them into civilian life.

222: Record of Joost Pieterzs in the Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein', in 1686

The brothers Joost and Burgert van Dyk arrived at a Cape Colony still raw and precarious, bound by the discipline of the VOC yet granted the freedom to carve out a life on foreign soil. Joost would marry and settle as a free burgher, while Burgert, though often recorded as a woodcutter, left behind an estate inventory filled with carpenter’s tools², revealing a skill that would echo down the centuries. Their children and grandchildren and their descendants in turn, inherited both the family names and the practical knowledge of woodworking, establishing a tradition in which trade and lineage were inseparable.

223: Record of Burgert Pieterzs in the Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein', in 1686

Over the generations, the van Dyks spread inland, moving from the timber and tools of Cape Town into farms around Robertson, Caledon, and beyond. Names repeated across decades, Joost, Burgert, Wessel, Burger Wynand, each carrying the weight of heritage, each learning, teaching, and adapting the skills of their forebears. By the time Burger Wynand van Dyk (1867–1938) took up the carpenter’s tools in Barry Street, the rhythm of wood and handwork was not merely a trade, but a living testament to a family story begun 250 years earlier, linking soldiers, settlers, and craftsmen across the generations. His work, careful, deliberate, and rooted in tradition, reminded all who saw it, that family craft is more than skill. It is memory, identity, and legacy both in wood and hand.

A drawing of a BW van Dyk stinkwood carver chair

By 1690, after completing his military service, Joost chose to remain as a free burgher, marrying Helena Siebers and beginning a family that would carry the van Dyk name forward. That same spirit of independence and resourcefulness extended to Burgert, who, while often recorded as a woodcutter, clearly possessed the skills of a carpenter. A fact underscored by the list of carpenter's tools in the inventory of his estate in 1721, as referenced above. In 1691, the VOC officially permitted the brothers to cut timber for the purposes of re-sale, a rare opportunity that allowed them to build not only livelihoods but a lasting presence in the Cape Colony³. For a time, the two families lived together on property located in what is now St. George’s Street, Cape Town, expanding their holdings as their households grew.

A drawing of BW van Dyk dining chairs

From these humble beginnings, the van Dyk’s established a pattern that would echo for generations. Names and skills passed from father to son, uncle to nephew, each learning the trades of their forebears. Carpentry, woodworking, and later farming became part of the family’s identity, handed down alongside family names like Joost, Burgert, and Wessel. This continuity of skill and tradition would eventually be inherited by Burger Wynand van Dyk, the carpenter of Barry Street. Whose work not only reflected inherited craftsmanship but preserved a living connection to the ingenuity and resilience of the men who first arrived at the Cape over 250 years earlier.

Front and side view of a BW van Dyk carver, and dining chair

Joost Pietersz van Dyk and Helena Siebers raised several children, embedding the family in the growing settlement at the Cape. Among them was Andries van Dyk (1714–1782), who married Elisabeth Radÿn, and continued the family’s tradition of resilience and enterprise. Their children bore the familiar names of the family, Joost, Burgert, and Andries, many facing the harsh realities of colonial life, disease and hardship claiming several in infancy. Yet the surviving children, including Burgert van Dyk (1756–1842) and Petrus Johannes van Dyk (1758–1835), carried forward both the family name and practical skills, cementing the van Dyk’s as part of the fabric of the Cape’s settler society.

Traditional carpentry tools, Drostdy museum, Swellendam

Burgert van Dyk married Maria Margaretha Wessels, and their children, Wessel Jurie (1790–1832) and others, expanded the family further into the interior, farming in districts like Caledon and Robertson. The pattern of repeating names and trades continued. Sons learned the work of their fathers, whether farming or woodworking, and the skills of early settlers adapted to new landscapes. Wessel Jurie’s son, Burgert Wynand van Dyk (1822–1892), would farm at Klaasvoogdsrivier near Robertson and later at Kloppersbosch near Nuy, bridging the rural and artisanal traditions of the family. His marriage to Anna Catharina Johanna van Graan, produced children who grew up immersed in both the land and the legacy of craftsmanship.

A carpenter's tools and toolbox, Drostdy museum, Swellendam

Among these children was Wessel Jurie van Dyk (1843–1890), who maintained the family’s connection to woodworking while managing farms near Robertson. He married Elsje Catharina Petronella Fouché, linking two established settler families, and their children included Burger Wynand van Dyk (1867–1938), the carpenter of Barry Street. It was Burger Wynand who most fully embodied the enduring craft of the van Dyks. Though by his time the family had spread across the Western Cape, and many had turned to farming or other trades, Burger Wynand preserved the hands-on skill that had begun with Burgert Pietersz van Dyk centuries earlier.

A collection of saws, Drostdy museum, Swellendam 

Burger Wynand’s life was defined by his workbench, planes, and chisels, tools that represented not only his livelihood but a connection to his forebears, Joost and Burgert, soldiers turned settlers, who first brought timber and skill to the Cape. In 1934, he made a careful will to ensure that his carpenter’s tools would pass to his son and grandson, specifying that they could not be sold and would remain in the family. In doing so, he safeguarded a tangible piece of heritage, echoing the generations of van Dyks who had learned, adapted, and passed down both names and skills.

Excerpt from the will of Burger Wynand van Dyk, 8 September 1934

Though Burger Wynand’s son, Burger Wynand van Dyk (1908–1966), chose the trade of butchery, the story of the van Dyks’ craft lives on in the chairs he made and, in the tools, quietly awaiting a future generation. From soldiers of the VOC to free burghers, farmers, and carpenters, the van Dyk family exemplifies the enduring power of familial skill, memory, and legacy, each generation shaping the land and the craft of their ancestors into a living history.

Traditional glues, stains, and carpenter's tools, Drostdy museum, Swellendam 

Today, in the rooms of Towerwater, a collection of eight BW van Dyk chairs, two carvers and six dining chairs, stand not merely as furnishings, but as quiet custodians of this long and unbroken lineage. Their worn arms and steady frames carry the imprint of Burger Wynand’s hand, itself guided by generations before him, from the timber yards of early Cape Town to the farms and workshops of Robertson. 

Set of the eight BW van Dyk chairs in the Towerwater collection

In their presence, the past is neither distant nor abstract, but intimately felt, a continuity of craft, of family, and of place. These chairs gather more than people around a table, they gather stories, binding the present to a heritage shaped in wood, patience, and memory, echoing the enduring traditions that define both the van Dyk name and the spirit of Towerwater itself.

Reference:

¹ Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein,
   https://www.nationaalarchief.nl/onderzoeken/archief/1.04.02/invnr/5342
² MOOC8/4.59, Inventaris der goederen van Burgert Pietersz: van Dijk, 17 Januarij 1721
³ Resolutions of the Council of Policy of the Cape of Good Hope between 1651 and 1795,
  C. 21, pp. 17-23. 3 April 1691

Sources:

Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein - National Archives Netherlands
Information regarding the ship 'Huis te Silwerstein' - The VOCsite
VOC Employment Record - National Archives Netherlands
Van Dyk genealogy - Familysearch.org
VOC Resolutions of the Council of Policy of the Cape of Good Hope between 1651 and 1795
VOC Master of the Orphan Chamber (MOOC) Inventories
First Fifty Years - a project collating Cape of Good Hope records

Click on the link to read the related posts:

BW van Dyk - 19th Century furniture maker, Robertson

The anatomy of a BW van Dyk dining chair

The anatomy of a BW van Dyk dining carver

Finding Cape Country chairs in Pretoria

The BW van Dyk chairs that found us

The lure of danger in the Towerwater kitchen

With an abundant harvest of sun-ripened apricots from the Towerwater orchard, not even the December heat could deter us from making our 100-apricot chutney. Looking at the bowl of apricot pits, I decided to find out how one can use the apricot pits instead of just throwing them away.

De White Industries in Montagu, where we buy our broken apricot pits for surfacing our pathways, must produce large quantities of apricot kernels, and I am sure that it does not go to waste.

Broken apricot pits at De White Industries in Montagu

The kernels from broken pits can be repurposed into high-value products rather than wasted. They can be processed to create oils for cosmetics and cooking and used as a marzipan-like flavouring in liqueurs.

A marzipan-flavoured liqueur is what attracted my attention. I discovered that liqueur made from apricot kernels is called Noyaux (pronounced nwoy-oh), and the word comes from the French term for “kernel” or “pit.”

Crème de Noyaux is a traditional French liqueur where fruit pits impart a distinctive almond-like flavour to the alcohol due to compounds also found in bitter almonds. Even though it comes from fruit pits, noyaux tastes like almond. This is because both contain benzaldehyde, the compound responsible for that flavour.

It seems that throughout the centuries, we humans lived a dangerous and experimental life, discovering what can be eaten and what should be avoided. I prefer to learn from other people's mistakes where dangerous foods are concerned. Apricot kernels can be dangerous because they naturally contain compounds that can release cyanide in one’s body. Apricot kernels contain a substance called amygdalin. When you chew or digest the kernel, your body breaks down the amygdalin and produces hydrogen cyanide, a highly toxic chemical.

This process is a classic example of a natural plant defence mechanism. Inside an apricot kernel lies a quiet but powerful defence. The seed stores amygdalin and enzymes separately, harmless on their own. But when an animal bites into the kernel, these components mix and trigger a reaction that releases hydrogen cyanide. This toxin quickly interferes with the body’s ability to use oxygen, discouraging the predator from eating more. This clever system, known as cyanogenic glycoside defence, allows the plant to protect its seed only when it is under threat, ensuring its survival in the next generation.

The rule is that one never consumes Noyaux or Crème de Noyaux in large quantities. Always use it sparingly to add that seductive almond-like marzipan flavour to cocktails, drizzle over vanilla ice cream, add to whipped cream, or incorporate a small amount into custards, panna cotta, or almond-flavoured pastries for added depth.

To add to the living-on-the-edge feel of making noyaux, it was historically coloured pink with cochineal, a natural red dye derived from the dried bodies of female scale insects that live on prickly pear cacti in South and North America. The insects produce carminic acid to deter predators, which is harvested to create brilliant red, crimson, or scarlet shades for food, cosmetics, and textiles.

One would think that if plants and insects produce toxins to deter predators, humans will take notice and say, “Thanks, we got the memo; we will leave you in peace.” Instead, we rush to make extracts and liqueurs containing cyanide-producing kernels and then look around for some other deterrent to colour the liqueur with.

Finding a reliable recipe for noyaux was not easy. It seems everyone uses a recipe that suits their available number of apricot kernels. After cracking the 100 pips, I had the generous amount of 100 apricot kernels. The kernels did not look dangerous at all, but being forewarned is to be forearmed, I believe, and I needed to find the right ratio of pips to alcohol.

Most recipes I found used 80-proof alcohol. Proof is calculated as exactly double the alcohol by volume (ABV) percentage (e.g., 40 x 2 = 80). I decided to use a local witblits with 55% alcohol by volume; 55% alcohol by volume (ABV) is 110 proof in the United States. Apparently, using 110-proof (55% ABV) alcohol to make noyaux (apricot kernel liqueur) can produce a better, more robust extract compared to standard 80-proof (40% ABV) vodka, as it is a more effective solvent for extracting the essential oils, aroma, and volatile compounds from the kernels.

The charm of traditional French homemade noyaux lies in its "snout-to-tail," no-waste philosophy, transforming discarded stone fruit pits (apricot, peach, or cherry) into a sophisticated, almond-scented liqueur. This old-fashioned, rustic process evokes a sense of country living, where patience, foraging, and artisan techniques create a deeply fragrant product far superior to commercial alternatives.

A popular, charming method in French households was not just to make one batch, but to keep a jar of alcohol on the counter, adding fresh kernels as they became available throughout the season, creating a continuous supply of liqueur.

Despite noyaux being made in households all over the world for centuries without recorded fatalities, modern food safety authorities advise extreme caution. Because the concentration of amygdalin varies significantly between different fruits and even individual pits, it is difficult to ensure safety in a home kitchen environment.

Scared half to death by visions of my homemade noyaux dispatching most of my family and friends and, on the other hand, seduced by the nostalgia and tradition of this loved ingredient for food and drinks, I allowed myself to be seduced by the prospect of the flavour of almonds and marzipan filling the Towerwater kitchen.

 

Towerwater Crème de Noyaux or (Nou-ja laat ek maar die kans vat)

Ingredients:
80 apricot kernels (the inside of the pips)
750 ml witblits (55% alcohol by volume)
1/2 to 1 cup simple syrup, to taste.

Instructions:

Crack open the hard outer shells of the stone fruit pits to remove the soft inner seed (the kernel). I also crushed some of the kernels, as suggested by some recipes.

Some recipes also recommend roasting the kernels to reduce the amygdalin. You can give the kernels a light to medium roasting (300°F–350°F / 150°C–180°C) for 10–15 minutes to avoid burning.

Place the crushed/whole kernels in a large, clean glass jar and cover with the witblits or vodka. Seal the jar tightly and store in a cool, dark place for 2 to 3 months. Shake the jar every few days.

After maceration, strain the liquid through a coffee filter or fine muslin (chinois). Add simple syrup (sugar dissolved in water) to reach the desired sweetness.

Bottle the strained liqueur and let it rest for another month before use to allow the flavors to mellow.

Note: To make a simple syrup, mix 1 cup of water and 1 cup of granulated white sugar in a small saucepan. Heat over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar completely dissolves. You do not need to bring it to a rolling boil; just make sure the liquid is clear. Remove from heat and allow it to cool before adding it to the noyaux.

If it seems as if I like living dangerously by venturing into making potions containing cyanide, rest assured that I have done extensive research about the safety of homemade noyaux. I would probably not recommend it to an overcautious food lover, but the secret is to use it moderately; a small amount of homemade noyaux can go a long way.

After waiting three months for the kernels to macerate in the witblits, I could bottle my own Towerwater Noyaux, or as I would say in Afrikaans, Nou-ja, laat ek maar die kans vat. The homemade noyaux possesses a seductive, complex flavour profile often described as a "forgotten" luxury, balancing intense sweetness with a sophisticated bitter edge. It is characterized by an intoxicating marzipan aroma and a rich, velvety texture, making it an essential, yet assertive, addition to cocktails and desserts.

Now I only need to let it rest for a month before using it, and it is killing me not to use it immediately (nudge-nudge, wink-wink).

Towerwater and the art of Cooperage

Old houses often reveal their histories in small and unexpected ways. Sometimes it is not the grand architectural features that speak the loudest, but rather the quiet details that have survived the passing of time.

During a family visit one weekend, such a detail revealed itself on the kitchen door at Towerwater. Beneath several layers of old paint, an oval brass plaque slowly emerged. Its inscription was simple: “FB Bruwer Maker.”

The plaque was left exactly where it was found. It had clearly been there for many years, quietly witnessing the daily rhythms of the kitchen. Yet the identity of the man behind the name remained a mystery.

The answer would only appear many years later.

The "FB Bruwer waterbalie" on auction 

Nearly twenty-five years passed before another reference to the name surfaced. At the October 2016 auction of Strauss & Co, lot number 351 caught my attention. The catalogue described it as “A Cape teak brass-bound waterbalie and stand, F B Bruwer, Robertson, late 19th/early 20th century.”

Another example of a FB Bruwer made "waterbalie" with his name plaque on the front

In that moment, the small brass plaque on the Towerwater kitchen door began to make sense.

For the first time we knew what F.B. Bruwer had made. He was a cooper from Robertson — a craftsman whose trade was to shape wood into the barrels, tubs and vessels essential to daily life in the Breede River valley.

A collection of antique brass bound containers made by a cooper

The discovery raised another question: why would a cooper’s maker’s plaque appear on the kitchen door at Towerwater? Was there perhaps a deeper historical connection between F.B. Bruwer and the property?

To explore that possibility, I turned to the genealogy of Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer.

 A Dutch ship entering Table Bay circa 1700

The Bruwer story in South Africa reaches back to the late seventeenth century. The family’s progenitor, Estienne Bruere, boarded the VOC ship Voorschoten on 31 December 1687 at Delftshaven in the Netherlands. The vessel reached Saldanha Bay on 13 April 1688, after which the Huguenot settlers were escorted to Table Bay by the ship Jupiter.

Estienne was originally a wagon-maker by trade but, like many Huguenot arrivals encouraged by the Dutch East India Company, he soon turned to farming. In 1692 he was granted the loan farm Rust-en-Werk in Daljosafat in the Drakenstein valley. By 1712 he had moved his family to the farm Voorkeyker near present-day Wolseley in the Land van Waveren region.

A water brass bound water container made for wagons

Over time the family also received grazing licences along the Breede River, firmly linking the Bruwers to the region that would eventually include Robertson.

The generations that followed continued this agricultural tradition. Johannes (Jean) Bruire, later known as Bruwer (1722–1767), settled in the Drakenstein region and married Johanna Maria van der Merwe. Their son Daniel Bruwer (1765–1852) lived during a formative period in the Cape Colony as the descendants of the Huguenots gradually integrated into Dutch colonial society.

From this lineage came Herculaas Philippus Johannes Bruwer (1824–1898) and eventually Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer (1856–1932).

On his marriage record, Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer is described as a “Kuiper” — the Dutch word for cooper. A cooper was a highly skilled woodworker who crafted staved wooden vessels bound with iron or wooden hoops so that they remained tight and durable. In rural agricultural communities these containers were indispensable. Wine, brandy, grain, water and dairy products all relied on barrels and tubs for storage and transport.

The marriage record of FB Bruwer recording his profession as cooper

In wine-producing districts such as Robertson, coopers played an important role in the rural economy. A cooper’s workshop in the late nineteenth century would have produced a wide range of vessels: wine barrels for fermentation and storage, large casks for shipping, smaller kegs for spirits, buckets and pails for water, washing tubs and troughs, butter churns and the sturdy waterbalies used in households and on farms.

Making wine barrels - David Teniers the Younger (1610–90), The Wine Harvest

It is one of these waterbalies that appeared in the 2016 Strauss & Co auction catalogue. The vessel was made in Robertson and carried the brass maker’s plaque of F.B. Bruwer — a later example of the one discovered on the Towerwater kitchen door.

The remaining question was how his name became attached to Towerwater.

The answer may lie in the intertwined histories of local families. The first clear references to buildings on the property appear in the title deeds of the farm Bosjesmansdrift. On 13 June 1873 the six portions of the farm were finally transferred in full and freehold title. Portion 4 — the section that includes the core of the farm and its cluster of buildings — was transferred to the Steyn brothers on 30 June 1873.

An 18th century "teebalie", brass bound water bucket and a pickle barrel

Although it might seem modest on paper, the property measured an impressive 1290 morgen and 211 square roods. Interestingly, the deed specifically excluded two houses that remained in the possession of Jacobus Le Roux.

The Le Roux connection becomes significant when the family history is considered.

A member of the Le Roux family had already held a portion of the farm under perpetual quitrent lease in 1843. After several subdivisions, the land eventually became Lot 75 and was transferred in 1928 from the church council to Gabriel Petrus Jacobus le Roux as Erf 608 — land that today forms part of Towerwater.

Gabriël Petrus Jacobus le Roux, born in 1872 in the Robertson district, was himself a wagon-maker — a respected rural craft at the turn of the twentieth century. He married Anna Elizabet le Roux and lived most of his life in the area, passing away in 1962.

"Botterkarrings"or brass bound butter churns

His older sister, Aletta Johanna le Roux, born around 1860, married Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer on 18 October 1881.

Through this marriage two long-established Breede River families became linked — the Le Roux wagon-makers and the Bruwer coopers. In a rural economy shaped by farming and craft, these trades were closely connected.

It is therefore quite possible that Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer was already associated with the Le Roux household before the marriage in 1881. A vessel he produced — perhaps a water barrel or waterbalie — may have found its way onto the property. The small brass maker’s plaque attached to it may later have been fixed to the kitchen door, where successive coats of paint quietly preserved it for more than a century.

In this way, a modest oval plaque connects Towerwater not only to a local craftsman but also to the intertwined histories of families, trades and farms along the Breede River. The mystery of the words “FB Bruwer Maker” was finally resolved.

The buyer of the waterbalie at Strauss & Co in 2016 acquired not only a fine piece of Cape craftsmanship, but a piece of provenance that reaches back through generations to the Breede River valley.

The Kitchen door at Towerwater and the plaque seen through an original screen door

And so the brass nameplate on our kitchen door, once a gentle mystery, now speaks of continuity: of Huguenot roots, of skilled hands shaping wood and metal, and of the quiet ways families and trades wove themselves into the fabric of this old place.

Note: Some images of cooperage sourced online as examples of Cape Cooperage 

Related blogpost: Listening to Buildings 

The Cape teak peg top table

In the 18th-century Cape, small rectangular tables were a staple in households, gracing both the opulent townhouses of wealthy free-burghers as well as the modest homes of trekboers in remote regions. Known as tea-tables, these pieces appear in household inventories as early as the 1670s (Woodward, 1982: p133). They were typically placed in the voorkamer- the main parlour, where Cape families welcomed guests and hosted social gatherings.

The Cape teak peg top table with the top subsequently fixed to the base

In the simpler, often single-roomed homes of inland farmers, these tables were positioned under a window near the front door, with one short side against the wall.  In the inventories of two neighbouring farms of Aan de Breede Rivier, namely Sahras Rivier en Boesmans Rivier we also find tea-tables listed. MOOC8/7.63: Henderina Steevensz, 24 September 1753, the farm Saraasrivier, 1 thee tafel, and MOOC8/44.52 Gabruel Jakobus Leroe, Johanna Aletta Sanneberg, 2 Januarij 1828, the farm Bosjemans Rievier in the voorkamer 2 teetavels.

The Cape teak peg top table with the top secured to the base with four pegs

These tables, often called stretcher or peg-top tables, were crafted from materials like imported teak, local stinkwood, yellowwood, or cedarwood in the Sandveld region. Their design features baluster-turned legs, a simple stretcher, and peg-runners to secure the top and base.

Detail of the peg-runners securing the top to the base

While researching the old inventories of deceased estates at the Cape, 1692 to 1834, I learned a lot about the layout of the old Cape houses in the descriptions of the rooms and its contents. I discovered that there would almost always be a table or two with a konfoor in the voorhuis (reception room), for receiving guests.

The Boer's Voorhuis by Charles Bell, 1850

After restoring the original front of the Towerwater main house and reinstating the voorhuis, we decided to introduce furniture that most likely would have been found there originally. The table of choice was a Cape teak side table with a wavey stretcher. Stretcher tables, together with the gate-leg variety are the earliest of the Cape-made tables.

17th Century table, G. E. Pearce, Eighteenth Century Furniture in South Africa, 1960 

As Cape teak tables with wavey stretchers date from the 17^th and 18^th century, the decision to buy one was easier to make than to find one to buy. Our first Cape teak table we bought in Pretoria in 2014. The teak that was used for furniture making in the 17^th and 18^th century at the Cape came mostly from the East. The VOC (Dutch East India Company) used teak for the crates that they used to ship produce in, sometimes the teak from these crates was used to make fine furniture.

Peg, thumbnail edge and rounded corners, drawer pull and leg detail of the peg top table

Stretcher detail of the peg top table

According to Hans Fransen, these tables in the baroque style, usually have baluster or occasionally barley-sugar twisted legs, always with H- or X-shaped stretchers. The tops are rectangular and often have slightly set-back quadrant-shaped corners. This small 'occasional' table on four legs sometimes has a removable top attached by pegs to a batten on the side of the frame.

Leg, drawer pull, Thumbnail edge and rounded corners detail of the fixed top table

Stretcher detail of the fixed top table

In his book Cape Furniture, published in 1960, M.G. Atmore describes the tables as Peg Top Turned Leg Style. Atmore used the leg shape of the table as the chief characteristic feature for categorising tables into different styles.

Examples of table legs, M.G.Atmore, Cape Furniture, 1965

The tables had 3 types of stretchers, the box, H and X.   The box is known to feature from the 16th century, the H type and plain X from the first half of the 17th century, and the shaped X from the early 18th century.  

Examples of strechers, M.G.Atmore, Cape Furniture, 1965

In Cape Country Furniture, M Baraitser and A Obholzer, 1971, the tables are described as stretcher tables. They maintained that the term peg-top is a rather confusing one as it was formerly used to describe the shape of the leg.  In fact, most of these tables have tops that are pegged to the under-carriage, and the term peg-top came to denote the method of construction rather than a specific style of leg.

Our second Cape teak table was bought at a wine farm in Somerset West. This was a true peg top table with the top still being secured to the base with four pegs. The one table has a full width drawer, and the other has a central drawer. One table has a single plank teak top, and the other has a two-plank teak top, both with a thumbnail edge and rounded corners. Each table has turned baluster legs terminating in flattened bun feet with a wavey cross stretcher between the four legs. Both the brass lion head ring handle and the rosette plate ring handle date from the last quarter of the 18^th century. 

These tables add the correct historical detail to the voorkamer at Towerwater. Brassware from Robertson craftsmen and ceramics from Olifantsfontein complete the celebration of traditional South African craftsmanship.

Sources:

Cape Antique Furniture, Lennox van Onselen, 1959

Cape Furniture, M.G.Atmore, 1965

Eighteenth Century Furniture in South Africa, G. E. Pearce ,1960

Cape Country Furniture, M Baraitser and A Obholzer, 1971

The Interior of the Cape House 1670 – 1740, CS Woodward, 1982

Three Centuries of South African Art, Hans Fransen, 1982

Town Furniture of the Cape, M Baraitser and A Obholzer, 1987

Cape Furniture and Metalware, Deon Viljoen and Piér Rabe, 2001

Domestic Interiors at the Cape and in Batavia 1602-1795, Various Contributers, 2002

Furniture from European trading posts at the Cape of Good Hope and in South-East Asia 17^th – 19^th Centuries, Deon Viljoen, 2003

Cape Antique Furniture, Michael Baraitser and Anton Obholzer, 2004

Ou-Kaapse Meubels, Studies in Style, Matilda Burden, 2013