Paris, pastrami and the one rugby nation that gets under my skin

If it wasn't for a pastrami sandwich and a cold beer to swallow it down with, Ireland would have ruined Paris for me.

The City of Lights is on many people's bucket list to visit — the history, the landmarks, the food … it's all so romantic. With the Seine river cutting through its centre, world-famous monuments stand proudly overlooking the city. It makes for spectacular views and vistas.

The French, so the saying goes, can live without the world, but the world cannot live without the French.

On its outskirts, in Saint-Denis, and dominating the skyline there, stands the Stade de France — an 80 000-seater behemoth of a stadium that has seen some truly remarkable South African achievements. In September 2023, it hosted a Rugby World Cup group game between the defending world champions, the Springboks, and a fervent and hopeful Ireland.

We South Africans were heavily outnumbered that day, the Irish dominating the stands and the noise. During the week leading up to teh game, at every turn, it was near impossible not to bump into a smiling Irishman or woman. Pleasantries would follow, of course, but there was always a sense that the Irish believed they had our number.

So, while we bunkered down in one bar in the Latin Quarter the night before, commandeering the sound system to play South African treffers, the Irish ruled the streets in the build-up to the match.

And who could blame them for their optimism at that point?

After all, they were Six Nations champions and one of the favourites to lift the Webb Ellis Cup. That conviction only increased after they beat us 13–6 in a scrappy game in Saint-Denis.

Thoroughly deflated, most South Africans disappeared into the Parisian night to drink their woes away, waking the next morning bleary-eyed and worried. It was then, in my hour of need, that we stumbled upon an unlikely hero — a grilled pastrami sandwich that I still dream of to this day.

After such a concerning defeat, Schwartz Deli, near Place du Trocadéro, offered relief and retrospection for our small knot of South Africans. Despite the loss, and the road to the final now much more complicated, there was still hope that the Boks could engineer triumph. Strange how good food can uplift the mood in such a fashion.

A few weeks later, Ireland were knocked out of the tournament by New Zealand in the quarter-finals, and the Boks went on to defend the World Cup by marching past France, England and the All Blacks – at the Stade de France – in dramatic fashion.

Over the past decade, Ireland are the one rugby nation that has really irked me.

Even now, with Saturday’s game in Dublin in sight (kick-off 7.40pm), I can feel a vein throbbing in the corner of my forehead. There is a strange dichotomy in me as my Afrikaans heritage grapples with my Irish descent.

I love it when the Irish beat their British Isle counterparts, and have revelled in their recent run against New Zealand. In 2009, I might even have shed a tear after they won the Six Nations for the first time in 24 years.

That was then … right now, I can only look at them through squinting eyes, always suspicious of their ability to beat us. As South Africans, we can only respect them — whether begrudgingly or with a nod of approval — for the truth is that the Irish have had our number for over two decades now.

We’ve played them 30 times since 1906, of which they have won 10 Tests, with a draw for good measure. Their 9–6 victory in 1965 is an outlier in that statistic, as the other nine victories against the Boks have come in the 16 matches played since 2004.

I suppose it’s the gnawing fear that has wormed its way into the narrative, a worry that every time we now play Ireland, defeat is more than just a possibility. In their 2016 tour of South Africa, it took a barging, hard-line run from wing Ruan Combrinck in the second Test — which rallied his teammates from the 55th minute onwards — to deny them a series win.

Last year, when they beat us on home soil at Kings Park in the second Test of the series, the nation’s blood boiled. We haven’t beaten them in Ireland since 2012.

In the greater scheme of things, this weekend’s match means very little from a mathematical standpoint. On an emotional level, however, I think we can safely say South Africans want the Boks to crush them, like I crushed that sandwich in Paris — greedily, moreishly and without prejudice.