What It’s Really Like Being the Only Vegan at a Braai

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Let me paint you a picture: the fire is crackling, the tongs are clinking, someone’s dad is wearing Crocs with socks and aggressively guarding the wors—and there I am, clutching a Tupperware of marinated mushrooms like it’s a sacred artefact. Being the only vegan at a braai is not for the faint-hearted. It’s like walking into a meat cult dressed as tofu.

You arrive full of hope, armed with aubergine skewers and cruelty-free hummus, ready to dazzle the crowd with your smoky chickpea brilliance. Instead, you’re met with confusion, mild alarm, and the inevitable joke: “You know plants have feelings too, right?” Every time. Without fail. There’s always one.

The moment you ask where you can pop your foil-wrapped sweet potato, silence falls. Braais are sacred rituals—a language of flame and fat—and daring to suggest anything that didn’t once have a face feels like vegan heresy. The host stares at you like you’ve insulted both his mother and his Weber. “But what do you eat?” he asks, bewildered, while flipping a steak the size of a car tyre. You point weakly at your corn on the cob, which now seems utterly pathetic in the shadow of a boerie roll.

There’s usually a cousin who gets excited. “Oh, I went vegan for like three hours after that documentary,” he says, recounting how he almost gave up meat until he remembered biltong existed. He means well. Sort of. Then comes the Auntie who thinks fish is vegan. “Shame, man,” she says, patting your shoulder like you’ve just been through trauma. “Can’t you just take the chicken off the salad?”

Children stare. One asks if your lettuce is still alive. Another tries to feed you a sausage out of kindness. Chaos. Meanwhile, your mushrooms—lovingly basted in soy sauce, garlic, and hope—await their fate. But the gridmaster refuses to let you near the sacred flame. “Cross-contamination,” he warns, not realising your vegan options are probably the cleanest thing in the yard.

Eventually, you beg for a corner of the grill untouched by meat. He offers the section where chicken livers were just sizzling. You consider launching a tofu skewer at his head but instead smile politely like the diplomatic heretic you are. You place your tofu at the far edge of the fire like a shunned outcast, watching the greasy runoff from twenty lamb chops threaten its existence. It’s at this point you begin to feel like the villain in a meat-based horror film.

Someone yells, “The chops are burning!” and in the chaos, your butternut gets booted off the braai. Nobody notices. You eat it anyway.

The salad table becomes your sanctuary. There’s bean salad, potato salad, and a couscous that’s suspiciously creamy. “Is there mayo in this?” you ask the hostess, who looks personally offended. “It’s just eggs, my love,” she says sweetly, stabbing your protein dreams through the heart. You start rationing your hummus like wartime rations, clutching carrot sticks like lifeboats on the Titanic.

Your partner, if you’ve brought one, is either smugly devouring a lamb chop or nervously whispering, “Do you want to go soon?” You consider it. You really do.

But then—something magical happens.

Someone tastes your mushrooms. Just one person. Maybe it’s the cousin who used to be in a band or the one with the nose ring. “These are actually lekker,” they say, and your soul lights up like a solar-powered fairy.

Then someone else tries your aubergine. “Didn’t know vegan stuff could taste like this.” You beam. They start dipping their boerie rolls into your cashew dip. Someone asks for the recipe. You cry a little. Not visibly, of course—but inside, gentle tears of vindication.

And just when you feel a spark of acceptance, someone walks past and mutters, “Shame, I could never go vegan. I like food too much.” You inhale. Smile. Say something vaguely charming about cholesterol and compassion. But inside? You’re planning your exit.

As the fire dies down, you pack your empty Tupperware like little trophies. Your tofu was a hit. The couscous betrayal is behind you. You made it. Another braai survived.

Being the only vegan at a braai is a test of patience, diplomacy, and creative protein strategies. It’s like attending a United Nations summit of dietary politics—where you’re the underfunded delegate from Plant-Basedia. But every now and then, someone gets it. Someone sees past the stereotypes and realises there’s more to life than meat. And that tiny win? That’s enough to make you come back next time—armed with extra mushrooms and double the hummus.