Sunday Brunch, But Make It Marble

There’s something about the word “event” in Cape Town. Mention it, and suddenly everyone is ready to leave the house. Personally? You’re going to have to do better than that. Mention a 10 km hike and you’ll lose me immediately. Mention brunch, though, and you have my full attention. It’s essentially the human equivalent of opening a tin of tuna for your cat. 

So when an invitation to Marble Cape Town’s Seven Colours Sunday Brunch landed in my inbox, I was sold. A rainy winter Sunday, one of Cape Town’s most celebrated restaurants and a menu inspired by one of my favourite things in the world: a proper South African Sunday table? Say less.

The idea behind Seven Colours is simple in the best possible way. Each brunch takes inspiration from a different colour and spotlights a local artisan from The Watershed, bringing great food and local creativity together around one table. It’s proudly local, and rooted in something South Africans understand instinctively: food has never just been food. It’s how we gather, celebrate, grieve, gossip and make room for one more person at the table.

As luck would have it, mine was the green edition, which felt suspiciously appropriate. Being a Green girl, I added a few subtle green touches to my outfit. The theme said green, I said understood.

“Sunday brunch had simply grown up, put on a good outfit and ordered another bottle.” 

First Impressions Matter

Even the lift ride up to Marble feels like the beginning of an occasion. Maybe it’s knowing what awaits at the top, or perhaps the journey simply adds a little… elevation. I’ll let you decide.

The warmth began before I reached the table, and not only because Marble’s open-fire kitchen was already glowing in the background. The hostess welcomed me with the kind of warmth that immediately lowers your shoulders. No stiffness, no standing around wondering where to go, just the feeling that they were genuinely pleased you had arrived.

Bubbles Before Brunch

Before brunch, we gathered in the bar overlooking the harbour. Grey skies outside, a glass of MCC Brut in hand and Marble glowing around us; winter suddenly seemed far less offensive. The crisp bubbles against the warmth of the room were exactly right.

The space reminded me of one of those impossibly glamorous first-class airport lounges you only ever see in films. One day, hopefully, in real life. For now, Marble was doing a very convincing job of filling the role.

After one… or perhaps ten photographs for the vision board, we made our way into the dining room. I arrived knowing almost nobody around the table. At that point, we were still pretending to remember each other’s names. Give us bubbles, shared plates and a little time.

The Table Begins to Fill

A Crumpet Worth Talking About

Marble has a habit of taking familiar flavours, giving them a glow-up and introducing them to caviar. Our first bite set the tone: a freshly baked crumpet topped with tartare sauce, a perfectly jammy egg and a generous spoonful of caviar. I could get used to Sundays beginning this way.

I’m going to become oddly specific about the crumpet because it deserves the attention. It wasn’t light and fluffy. Instead, it had a beautifully springy, aerated texture: enough structure to hold its own, but porous enough to catch every bit of creamy tartare sauce and runny egg yolk. The caviar arrived in salty little bursts, cutting through the richness without hijacking the bite. It was rich, salty and surprisingly balanced. Not a bad way to start brunch.

Calling These “Snacks” Is Wild

As the saying goes, when one door closes, another opens. Or, in my world, when one plate leaves, another arrives. I much prefer my version. Next came what Marble called the chef’s snacks. Snacks?

I don’t know who was placed in charge of determining what qualifies as a snack, but I suspect it’s the same person writing serving suggestions on cereal boxes. “Serving size: one-quarter of a cup.” Absolutely not. My bowl decides the serving size, thank you very much. Right, back to the food.

Our “snacks” arrived, and there was absolutely nothing snack-sized about them. Spread across the table was silky labneh with charred flatbread, smoky shakshuka, confit duck and brie waffles and, because apparently restraint had left the building, a baked oyster with prawn butter and bone marrow. Everything looked as vibrant and diverse as South Africa itself. It felt proudly Mzansi, Fo' Sho. 

The Great Sharing-Plate Mathematics

The only problem was deciding where to begin. Well… not before doing the maths. Anyone raised in a food-loving family understands that sharing plates involves a very precise science. You must never take more than your fair share, but heaven forbid you accidentally take less. So, before tasting anything, I divided every DIY dish with mathematical precision. Not for greed, purely for survival. Once all portions had been safely allocated, we could eat.

Small Plates, Big Personalities

The Labneh That Didn’t Need to Show Off

I began with the labneh. One swipe of warm, lightly charred flatbread collected the silky labneh, smoky chilli oil, sweet caramelised onions and a few salty olives along the way. It was cool, creamy, smoky, sweet, sharp… the contrast was spot-on. It wasn’t a dish that needed to make a scene. No fuss, just really, really good.

My Shakshuka Standards Are Unreasonably High

Moving on to the shakshuka. Now, hear me out. I love shakshuka, but I cannot stand a bad one. I’ve eaten the good, the bad and the ugly around Cape Town, and few things disappoint me more than a version tasting as though somebody opened a tin of tomatoes, stirred it once and hoped for personal growth. Thankfully, this was absolutely not that.

The tomatoes had been cooked down until their harsh acidity disappeared, while harissa added a smoky depth that felt especially welcome on a rainy Sunday. In place of traditional eggs, Marble added generous dollops of goat’s cheese, slowly softening into the sauce and leaving tangy little pockets throughout. Scooped onto crisp, garlicky bread, it was one of my favourite bites of this entire shared spread.

Christmas Arrived Early

I wasn’t entirely sold on the confit duck and brie waffle. I have never fully understood the chicken-and-waffles phenomenon, so duck and waffles sounded equally suspicious in my head. Then I tasted it.

Christmas.

Rich confit duck, creamy Brie and sweet tomato chutney instantly recalled those combinations of duck, cranberry and cheese that simply belong together during the festive season. It felt as though somebody looked at a cheeseboard and said, “Let’s add duck.” Excellent decision. I support the movement.

Oyster Negotiations

Last, but certainly not least, the baked oyster with prawn butter and bone marrow, which is honestly one of the best combinations of words I’ve ever read. It was rich, buttery and deeply savoury, yet the oyster remained unmistakably the star rather than disappearing beneath its luxurious co-stars.

My only question: does anybody know how to eat an oyster attractively? After all these years, I still look as though I’m entering negotiations with it. Fortunately, oysters are delicious enough that I have accepted dignity is not included.

Somewhere Between the Shakshuka and the Oysters

By this point, live music had filled the restaurant, glasses were clinking more frequently and conversations had moved well beyond polite introductions. Somewhere between the shakshuka and the oyster negotiations, strangers had become tablemates.

It took me back to Christmas lunches at my aunt’s house. There was never only family around the table. There were family friends, friends who had long since become family and usually at least one person I had never met before. Nobody remained a stranger for very long. Food has a way of sorting that out.

Earlier that afternoon, I had arrived knowing almost nobody. Now we were passing plates, topping up glasses and talking across the table as though we had been doing it for years. It felt oddly familiar in a way I hadn’t expected.

Sunday Lunch, Reimagined

Forty-Seven Photos Later…

Then the mains arrived, and the resemblance became impossible to miss. Once all the plates covered the white tablecloth, Marble had recreated the Christmas lunches of my childhood: generous cuts of meat, colourful vegetables, serving dishes travelling in every direction and everybody taking a little bit of everything. Or, in my case, quite a lot a bit of everything.

I loved how the brunchified starters had naturally given way to lunchified mains. Sunday brunch had simply grown up, put on a good outfit and ordered another bottle. After everybody took approximately forty-seven photographs, we finally granted ourselves permission to eat.

The Sides Stole the Show

The beef-fat roast potatoes were exactly what every roast potato hopes to become. They were deeply golden and audibly crisp outside, impossibly fluffy within. The harissa pumpkin was another standout. I am firmly team pumpkin over butternut, so admittedly it began with an advantage. Still, it justified my bias: soft and naturally sweet, with enough smoky harissa warmth to stop the dish becoming one-note.

The Best Cauliflower Bake I’ve Ever Had

My favourite side, though? No contest. The cauliflower and broccoli bake. Oh. My. Word. I don’t know whether there was a touch of nutmeg hiding beneath the Parmesan or whether it was simply kitchen magic, but this was hands down the best version I have eaten. Creamy, deeply savoury and generously bronzed with cheese, yet never becoming stodgy or overly heavy. I could have eaten the entire dish alone and gone home a very happy woman.

Fire, Meat and Chimichurri

Marble and fire are practically synonymous, so the meat had expectations to meet. The sirloin was beautifully pink, with enough marbling to keep every slice tender and full of flavour. The chimichurri was properly herbaceous rather than oily, bringing freshness, acidity and just enough bite to cut through the richness of the beef. A classic pairing, exactly as it should be.

The Braai Nostalgia

Finally, the baby-chicken skewers, and they immediately reminded me of the chicken kebabs no proper family braai should be without. The meat was juicy and tender, with caramelised edges and the unmistakable smokiness of the fire. It tasted like the dish you secretly hope somebody competent has volunteered to bring.

Looking down at my plate, I realised that if somebody had asked me to build my perfect Sunday lunch, it would have looked remarkably like this.

Dessert Was Never Up for Debate

Team Malva, Every Time

As much as I had enjoyed sharing all afternoon, dessert reminded me that certain things are simply better when they are entirely your own. I grew up in a slightly confusing situation. I was an only child, then I wasn’t, then I was an only child again. Long story. The relevant point is that I became extremely comfortable not sharing.

Conveniently, the brunch followed a similar timeline. We began with our own arrival bites and bubbles, became beautifully communal through the savoury courses and then returned to individual desserts. I quite liked that.

Faced with a choice between peppermint crisp and malva pudding, there was never really a choice. Give me the malva. Every. Single. Time. Peppermint crisp is perfectly lovely, but when malva enters the conversation, I suddenly have no further questions.

Amarula Makes Everything Better

The malva arrived in its own little cast-iron pan, which felt like a final nod to Marble’s open-fire philosophy. Beside it was vanilla ice cream and a jug of Amarula anglaise. Now we were talking!

I have a serious soft spot for the bush. How could one not? Early game drives, cold mornings and coffee with a generous splash of Amarula somehow just tasted better. That flavour immediately takes me back there. Naturally, I poured every last drop of the anglaise over the pudding. Restraint had played very little role in the afternoon thus far, so, there was no reason to introduce it now. Better never than late. 

The edges had developed a sticky, almost toffee-like caramelisation, while the centre remained soft. Every so often, subtle pockets of cooked apricot appeared. It was somewhere between marmalade and jam, gently fruity rather than aggressively sweet. The cold vanilla ice cream melted into the warm pudding, while the Amarula anglaise soaked into every available bite. I had become very quiet, which is usually the clearest possible review.

One Last Bite

Tiny Green Cream Puffs

As though dessert wasn’t enough, the afternoon ended with tiny pistachio cream puffs. Feather-light and filled with smooth, nutty cream and finished in the prettiest shade of green. No, not me. The colour. Sorry. Terrible joke. These were a completely necessary reason to continue eating. Not that I required much persuasion.

More Than Just Brunch

Walking out of Marble, I realised ordinary Sunday brunches had just become a lot harder to impress me. Yes, there had been caviar, open-fire sirloin, enough side dishes to require strategic planning and a malva pudding I had absolutely no intention of sharing. But the part that stayed with me was the table itself.

I had arrived knowing almost nobody. A few hours later, we were passing plates, filling glasses, laughing over one another and stretching Sunday lunch for as long as socially acceptable. The food gave us plenty to talk about, but it was Marble’s hospitality that made us feel as though we belonged there.



Marble might be famous for cooking over fire, but the real warmth came from the table itself.

Book one of the remaining Seven Colours Sunday Brunches while you can. Arrive hungry, leave enough time for forty-seven photographs and do not underestimate the sharing-plate mathematics. You may arrive among strangers. You probably won’t leave that way.

Until next time!