Browns Bay

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

Browns Bay quietly muddles along in its sunny corner of the North Shore unbeknownst (or purposefully ignored) by the majority of Auckland city dwellers. Ostensibly it boasts no glittering attractions; the beach is ok, the sights mediocre, it is very middle-class but not entirely without charm. Elderly drivers congest traffic, sidewalks are roamed by bored youths that haunt the $2 dollar shop and messily eat ice creams on the promenade. Yet to be railroaded by malls, the main street is peppered with the family businesses and boutiques usually confined to small towns and yester-year; including a knitting store (not the trendy type), a Christian book store, pet and pie shops. It is very white, noticeably so. High percentages of British and South African immigrants frequent multiple nationally themed stores such as ‘The British Shop’ (where you can buy those delicious marmite flavoured crisps) and a traditional South African butcher (for the boerworst connoisseurs). On Sunday mornings there is a market where you can select form a vast array of succulents for not much more than 50c each. All in all Browns Bay is a friendly place, perhaps a little backward, familiar and a touch unsettling.

The suburb also boasts a large elderly population and, despite the ghoulish implications, there isn’t a surer signpost for good opportunity shopping. The solid good taste and practicality of our grandparent’s generation, coupled with do-gooder middle-class-ness makes Browns Bay a kind of second-hand store haven. To my knowledge, as well as several furniture outlets, there are 4 stores that stock chiefly clothes and bric-a-brac. It is for these shops that I frequently take the trip to the Shore.

For me good thrift-ing is all about the ratio, you see. For example, a Savemart can be disheartening because the bad monstrously outweighs the good. An inner-city vintage store on the other hand can be too easy; the scales are purposefully tipped in the good’s favour. Browns Bay strikes a near perfect balance: it is hard work but it pays dividends. It offers the thrill of the chase. In Browns Bay, among the usual garish floral synthetic full-length dresses, dime novels and old misshapen men’s shoes that clutter second-hand stores, the discerning eye can find treasures of insurmountable quality. The pure lambs wool cardigans, tapered well-cut trousers and linen sundresses of my Antonioni-inspired dreams, have all been spotted here. I once bought a Harris Tweed, not dissimilar from one my grandmother owns (and probably purchased on from some discerning stockist on Bond St or the like) for the price of Sunday brunch. (I often equate op shop spends with food; the mental use/exchange value comparison is very rewarding.) This I added to a long list of acquisitions that includes everything from sturdy hand-knitted woollen hot water bottle covers to an alcohol cabinet with mirrored shelves and martini glass hooks.

However, it saddens me to say that while the treasures at Browns Bay have never, by any stretch of the imagination, been in abundance there has been a perceptible downturn in the last year. I am not sure whether my tastes have changed, some astute businessperson has cottoned on or simply that the generation that supplied the stores is slowly dwindling. Perhaps all of the above. In saying that it remains a worthwhile trip, if only to take half a day off, cross the bridge, chat to the lovely volunteer ladies, eat a tasty beef and mushroom homemade pie from the local French Café, and immerse yourself for a moment in sunny suburban stupor.


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Fair Go

BY AMBER EASBY

The Auckland Vinyl Record Collectors Fair took place at the Polish House, Morningside on Saturday November 3rd. The fair ran from 10am to 3pm. Henry and I were driving down McDonald Street at 10.05am, when I saw a fat, bald, middle-age man running to his car with a stash of records. We had arrived.

There was a $2 entry fee into the hall. The doorman asked if we were looking for anything in particular. We answered, hoping he might point out a few sellers. Nothing. He asked how regularly we bought records. We answered and he responded. “Really?” The $2 token was also a raffle ticket. “Make sure you hold onto that. There are some good prizes.”

The Polish House is a small hall but there was a decent amount to look through. I was surprised at how many people there were, though I was only one of three women. I saw a friend flicking through some magazines. “Its all fucking junk. Same shit as last year” he said. I asked what he had looked through. “Nothing. I can’t fucking be bothered.”

Henry and I split up - Henry was on LPs, I was on 45s. My first purchase was a lot of fifteen singles – mostly Motown and Disco, all in good condition - for $20. The seller was eating a sandwich and took a good ten minutes before he noticed me. I later saw him staring into the distance, picking his nose, while another customer waited to pay.

My next purchase was from a nice elderly man. His singles were expensive but when I showed him what I wanted, he cut the price in half. I bought six 45s for $10, including a great Marlene Dietrich E.P and a Dolly Parton/Porter Wagoner (R.I.P) duet.

The proceedings were interrupted by the first, probably last, competition of the day. There was a small stage and the doorman had a microphone. If you guessed the record playing, you won a $5 lunch voucher. Not a single person tried. I could hear my friend calling “turn it off” until the song finally ended.

My third transaction was a mistake. Riding high from my previous scores, I hastily chose some 45s from the stack. I misheard the seller and ended paying twice as much as I wanted. I was too shy to say anything, having just been introduced to the seller by another friend. I am still suffering from post-purchase remorse after spending $20 on three singles I wasn’t even that excited about.

I bought another sixteen singles in my fourth and final acquisition. 1960s Beat, Rock and Pop – all for a buck apiece. Three grumpy men sat behind the table. They were like Statler and Waldorf, the guys who heckle form the balcony in the Muppets. I overheard them critiquing my browsing technique. “At that rate, she is going to be there all day.“ Annoyed, I called for back up. Henry checked the condition of each record as I flicked though more.

I was down $66 but had nearly forty good records to show for it. Henry found five LPs he considered to be a bargain. In true Henry fashion, he spent $40 dollars but saw a $50 return on an HDU album he sold on TradeMe later that day. Maybe we should have stayed for the raffle. GRADE: G+/VG



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My Review of O’Connell Street Bistro (Alternative Title: Why You Should Never Date Outside Your Comfort Zone)

BY KELLY GIBNEY

I went to O’Connell Street Bistro on a date.

As a result of the evening, I have a little advice for the lads. Do not under any circumstance, mention that drunken foursome you had while on holiday in Mexico years ago and do not ask your date to rate from one to ten how attractive she thinks she is. Trust me, neither topic is charming. That out of the way, I may be in love.

Located at number 3 O’Connell Street and housed in a former bank vault, the restaurant feels like old Europe. High windows and thick walls with strong artwork. The dining room has just 12 tables so reservations are essential.

Our table isn’t ready when we arrive so a drink at the bar is in order. The bartender is friendly and offers us olives to snack on since our table will be another twenty minutes. I should have gone with my first instinct to cancel tonight. At least the wait is a good opportunity to enjoy the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach. From the bar I check out the other patrons. This Friday night it’s filled with small groups of older well-to-do types and some younger couples. I lose myself in the people watching while my date points out how lavish he is, ordering the $25 a glass Veuve Cliquot. The waiter comes to let us know our table is ready. We are lead into the dining room and seated at a street-side table for two. The dining room is smugly refined but cosy. I love this. I feel like a proper grown up just being here.

I read over the wine list to keep focused on what lies ahead. O’Connell Street Bistro is well known for its superb wine selection. Cuisine Magazine awarded them ‘Best Wine Experience’ in its recent restaurant awards. They have a large selection of New Zealand wines as well as plenty of French and Italian drops to choose from. All styles and varieties are well represented. The wine list is well laid out and with bottles starting at $40 it’s not at all intimidating. Champagne born sommelier William Morvan is on hand to make suggestions and guide you through food and wine pairings. Our waitress encourages us to seek his advice.

My date scoffs at the idea of needing any help choosing and selects a bottle of Ch de la Cour Grand Cru (St Emilion). He makes a joke about how lucky I am to be out to dinner with him. I think he is joking. I hope so. There is apparently a crowd of females who would like to be where I am right now. I would like them to be here too.

William delivers the wine and enthuses in a charming French accent about the choice. He has a warm manner and a contagious energy as he speaks. He stays just long enough for us to feel pampered by the attention. Our wine is delicious. I have to give my dinner mate full credit here. It was an excellent choice and worthy of the $120 price tag.

Now for the really fun part. I turn my full attention to the menu. I easily choose my entree: Seared Scallops on grilled black pudding with frisee lettuce, garlic crisps and champagne vanilla syrup ($24.50). As a recovering long-time vegetarian, I’m perpetually seduced by mixing meats. The combo of scallops and black pudding sounds divine. For my main course I’m tempted by both the Roasted Duck Breast with chestnut tortellini, orange, micro watercress and apple cider buerre blance ($35.50) and Pappardelle of Braised Rabbit with rimu-smoked bacon, walnut watercress pesto and parmigiano reggiano ($32.50)

My date is English and conservative about flavors. Yawn. He has decided on a risotto entrée with seared prawns, broad beans, pine nuts, basil and pecorino. His main course will be Oven Roasted Cambrian Beef Sirloin on confit potatoes with wilted kale, bordelaise butter and red wine jus ($34.50).

Our waitress returns and I ask her advice about choosing between the Rabbit or Duck dishes. She absolutely suggests the rabbit. It is the restaurant’s signature dish. She commends my choice of the scallops and black pudding, her favourite. We also order sides of Pommes Dauphinoise ($8.00) (Englishman needs more potatoes) and Roasted Root Vegetables with saporoso balsamic.

Our entrees arrive promptly. My scallops are excellent. The creamy scallop pairs perfectly with the slightly crunchy, rich, salty black pudding. The champagne vanilla syrup ties the whole dish together beautifully. I inwardly high five myself for my choice. Across the table, the risotto is great but after the flavour revelation on my plate, it’s hard to get excited about rice, no matter how good. Date won’t try my entrée (doesn’t like scallops). Another high five.

Between courses we enjoy awkward conversation. I will spare you the details.

Main courses arrive. My pappardelle looks delicious. Wide ribbons of homemade pasta with a rich glossy sauce. Our waitress grates Parmigi Reggiano over my meal as well as cracked pepper. I’m very excited. The portions of the mains and sides are generous. No tiny art food here. My meal is absolutely sublime. Its incredibly rich but the flavours are well balanced. The smoky bacon, braised rabbit and the salty walnut pesto are a heady combination. Bliss.

Back to reality and my date is enjoying his sirloin. Though he doesn’t think it’s as good as the beef he had at Clooney’s last week, I throw out the idea that perhaps he could one day order something aside from beef and potatoes. He might be pleasantly surprised. He laughs. I think that means he doesn’t agree. The Pommes Dauphinoise and Roasted Root Vegetables are excellent. I wish I had room to eat more. I sincerely don’t know the last time I enjoyed a single dish more. I’m thrilled with my meal. Again my date won’t try my dish. What a curse it must be to have a conservative palate. I feel some sympathy for him.

Our waitress checks in on us and I resist hugging her. Instead I thank her for the nudge in the right direction. The wait staff is friendly but polished and professional about everything they do. I have enjoyed every interaction with them. I had read that during the Cuisine magazine restaurant award judging, that this Rabbit Pappardelle was the dish enjoyed the most by the judges. No surprise.

I am so full after dinner that dessert is out of the question. I check out the menu though and am drawn to the baked Tahitian Vanilla crème brulee with macadamia sable biscuit ($14.50). Also stand out is the Vairhona Dark Chocolate fondant with nougat ice cream ($15.00). All desserts are helpfully listed with wine pairings. There is a selection of cheeses and plenty of port and sherry to choose from.

It’s time to wrap things up date-wise. He suggests a drink somewhere else. I make noises about a long day tomorrow and how tired I am. Part of me hopes he sees through this and I can avoid awkward talks at a later stage. We pay our bill and part ways.

I’m in love. If the O’Connell Street Bistro was a man, I would have slipped my number into his pocket and suggested we get together really soon. Instead I’m already planning my next visit, this time with some friends. I want to show off my new crush. 9/10



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Burger Report (after Meltzer): The Cheeseburger Vol. I

BY HENRY OLIVER

N.B. The Burger Report uses the burger rating system of music critic Richard Meltzer. In addition to his prolific musings on rock music, aesthetics, golf and Los Angeles ugliest buildings, Meltzer reviews burgers using a self-devised rating system. The over-all quality of the burger is shown by the amount of letters it achieves from B to B U R G E R. B being a terrible burger, B U R G E R being an amazing burger, and B U R somewhere in between. Got it? Great. Moving on...


McDonald’s (260 Queen St, Auckland City. $2.00)

Pure nostalgia! The McDonald’s Cheeseburger must be a founding nutritional document of any child not raised by hippies. I certainly remember many a friend’s 7th birthday party and a sympathetic McDonald’s treat after I ran right into a wasp’s nest when I was a youngster. But since taking up meat again after an eight-year absence I haven’t been too impressed with McDonalds. Despite changing to a make-it-as-you-order system (not to mention the options of bacon and avocado) their burgers remained soggy and flat. The fries tended to overshadow the burger most visits.
Why I think the Cheeseburger excels where other McDonald’s burgers often fall flat is simple ambition. The Cheeseburger knows what it is, knows what it is capable of, and does it well. Nothing more.
The bun was light, sweet and fluffy. The ketchup and mustard well proportioned, the pickle an acidic surprise and that finely cut onion topped the whole thing off.
While almost too sweet to be considered a savory food; this Cheeseburger was everything I remembered it to be. Nothing more, but thankfully nothing less.

B U R


Wendy’s Old-Fashioned Hamburgers (290 Queen St, Auckland City. $2.20)

The Wendy’s Cheeseburger was definitely not the freshest, but certainly the hottest. It made it’s way from the ‘kitchen’, to the tray, to my table, and to my mouth so quickly that it verged on burning my tongue.
The bun was sweet, but not too sweet. A little doughy though.
The beef patty tasted beefy enough to avoid complete flavorlessness, without the chemical sting of that ‘flame-grilled’ approach.
What I love most about Wendy’s Burgers is the mustard: tangy and pungent without over-powering the other flavors.
And the onion! I love Wendy’s onions. Thin, crisp, and crunchy. And in rings! Basically I would order this burger again for the onions and mustard alone.
What gets me though is all this trademarked square-patty business. Sure, in theory it works great; the corners spill over the side and you get both a better looking burger and more beef. More beef! And who doesn’t want that? But what you end up getting is a scrawny patty that doesn’t quite cover the bun and the inevitably disappointing last bit of dry, sugared bread. A bad finish to a merely decent burger.

B U



Burger Wisconsin (453 Mt. Eden Rd, Mt. Eden. $8.40)

This burger was definitively the best of the lot:
The beef (AngusPure no less) was well seasoned and perfectly proportioned.
The cheese was generous enough to retain a strong cheddar flavor without being too thick as to not melt sufficiently.
The bun a light sourdough that was light enough to avoid doughy-ness while still remaining a stable platform for the sauces and beef.
The lettuce was fresh, crisp and ample.
The burger struck a great balance between the components and was generous in its flavors and proportions without falling apart on itself in an excess of sauces and toppings.
A complete meal in itself.
So good, I have nothing more to say about it.

B U R G E



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The Benefits of Looking Up (The Secret Observation Deck on Wakefield St)

BY SALLY CONOR

Cities are prismatic. They change with the light and reflect new qualities from every angle. Auckland is a city of hidden surfaces - at times it can seem dull and grainy, with its character leached and corroded by commerce, sprawl and the blight of apartment buildings like limescale on the surface of some bright blade. But at other times, and with the right guide, it is radiant and crystalline. Those of us who love Auckland know its freckles and foibles: we know its crannies and sparkling moments; we seek out the sides of the prism that reflect the best light. And we know that there will always be new discoveries to make us fall in love with it all over again.

I have a friend whose great talent is for seeking out these ways to see the ordinary through entirely new eyes – when you spend time with her, you find life takes on new urgency and lustre, possibilities open up before you where you thought there were only blank walls. One day recently, she took me on a serpentine walk through town, promising to reveal a great new secret of Auckland. Like Alice’s white rabbit, she led me through a doorway and a tunnel of sorts (in this case, an upward journey through a lift-shaft to the seventeenth floor) and out onto a deserted rooftop Wonderland of mouldering turf, weird box gardens of aloes, and an unexpectedly bright panorama of our city. She had brought me to an observation deck, poorly disguised a pseudo-garden of the lowest possible maintenance, with seating and places to walk, sheltered areas for viewing and… that is all. No one else was there, and it felt dreamlike, nonsensical… a place straight out of Lewis Carroll in fact, verging on pointlessness in its under-use, if it weren’t for the quite extraordinary perspective of Auckland that it offered.

From the skytower, Auckland becomes a flat mosaic crawling with puny movement. From this angle, Auckland retains its dimensions but presents a weathered, weary face of lumpen rooftops, back alleys, silence and assorted architectural triumph and shame. The encroachment of the new is all too depressingly obvious from the seventeenth floor, with cranes infesting the skyline like wiry harbingers of the beige mediocrity soon to follow. Gems like St Matthew’s cathedral and the Smith & Caughey building defiantly jostle for light among the encroaching apartments and badly thought-out office spaces (does anyone else think that new skyscraper going up on lower Queen St looks exactly like a cheese grater?) and their beauty is all the more poignant for it. Anyone who loves Auckland can surely feel their heart breaking for our city’s slow, aesthetic death.

Anyway, the point is that despite the dawning horror of being able to see clearly what is happening to the architectural character of central Auckland, viewing the whole patchwork from up here is exhilarating and newly inspiring. The glow of light and life from the ocean and Gulf islands shines greenly over the entire panorama. Advertising is remarkably absent this high up – no billboards are visible, no tagging or postering has ascended, even music and the constant burble of imperatives to buy buy buy are lost in the altitude. The only iconography that survives the climb are the neon beacons atop our tallest towers: ANZ, ASB, VERO… and the City Mission cross (God is fighting a daily battle for skyline dominance with the fallen angels of finance). Also pleasing is the surprising amount of green clustered between the building blocks of civilisation… Albert Park and the Domain provide the velvety, shadowed places that are such cool refuges from the reflected glare of thousands of CBD windows. This green frequently inhabits the non-spaces – the redundant bits of air between buildings that contain defiant patches of weeds, hardy trees reaching for life, or the small victory of grass in the cracks of our paved-over land.

Perhaps what one sees most clearly from up here is the unused concrete expanse of all the nearby rooftops – one can’t help but wonder, what if all those roofs contained gardens like this one, but with real grass and leafy trees, flowers and ferns, moist earth and teeming life? What if Auckland had a whole secret world seventeen floors up? What if we blanketed our coarse but necessary commercial lives with a tapestry of nature between us and our atmosphere, or perhaps more crucially, protected our atmosphere from us? What would it do for our carbon emissions? For our quality of life? It’s just a nice thought.

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The other extraordinary thing about my friend who brought me to this place is that her fiancé is a ninja. I’m not even kidding. He has a black belt in ninjitsu. Not only is this fun fact testament to her unique quality, it also informed the way she presented this garden to me. She passed on a story he told her about how people hardly ever bother to look upwards in their everyday lives. Apparently ninjas are taught to be ultra-aware in three dimensions, and to frequently use the spaces above them to hide from their enemies who are unlikely to look beyond what is right in front of them. Those of us without ninja powers are so often guilty of viewing our world with a lazily shallow gaze, and it is so simple to just glance upwards every now and again, to see things differently, discover our habitat anew and appreciate the entirety of what surrounds us. I like to think of my visit to this rooftop garden as an extreme expression of that idea: I looked up, all the way up to the seventeenth floor, and what I found there was an entirely new way of seeing my world, of seeing Auckland.




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The Search For Fabric of Newmarket. Or Any Jeans.

BY TAHI MOORE

Sure, it's been a long time since the cut of jeans have decided to become bored. Jeans themselves might begin to cease to be clothes at all. Everyone will carry on wearing them, but there is something inherently evil in the whole situation. It's not even primarily to do with the way they get made. It's got a lot more to with pockets.

I've been asking people what the best jeans are. And the consensus is Levi's. But try to find a plain pair. I saw someone wearing some the other day. I really don't know where he got them from.

I went on a journey, searching for the fabled Fabric branch in Newmarket. It's like searching for a good pair of Levis, except I still believe the Levis are out there. Every shop had a wall mounted shelving unit full of jeans with the back pockets facing up and they all had back pocket art work. Along with the intricate detailing, patinas, shine, studs, coloured thread, selvidge, the pockets make jeans the most elaborate item of clothing you can own. Sure you can get a ten dollar t shirt with a white silkscreen floral pattern and a roughly sewn on logo, but it's just as easy to get Bonds and American Apparel.

In the whole of Newmarket the only pair of jeans that might pass for actual jeans were the last Chloés in the women's section of Workshop. There might have been more, but I doubt it.

So what do you do? Trousers? I think so.

Anyway, since it was raining, and since I had on a Swandry, I went into said shop and the Classic reissues are on sale until they run out. They're cut a bit large, but the one that fit snug just looked like a shirt.

And tip? Tried on some super-crafted jeans and the pockets were really BIG, and I don't have an arse. I actually need braces. But it looked like I was really fat, which just adds to the evil jeans pockets theory.




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High Noon

BY AMBER EASBY

I may enjoy a late breakfast or early lunch during the week, but ‘brunch’ is reserved for the weekend. Last Sunday, I read a review of the Richmond Rd Café. While the term ‘hot spot’ left a bad taste in my mouth, I knew exactly what I wanted to eat when I woke up this morning: Lemon Ricotta Pancakes served with blueberry compote, lavender syrup and mascarpone.

We arrived at the café just before noon. A waitress greeted us outside and said there was a ten-minute wait. Another couple arrived. They smelled like weed and subsequently, were distressed by the delay. I consoled them with the estimated table time. I offered the same information to a middle age woman, as she arrived with her young daughter. “There is always a wait.” The woman pushed through to the inside waiting area – apparently, reserved for the regular.

Had this been a weekday, I might have considered a boozy breakfast of Spiced Banana and Rum Porridge with cream and coconut ($10.50). Henry was similarly tempted by the Asparagus Omelette ($14.50). I stayed true to my original craving and ordered the pancakes ($13.50). I declined the option of bacon, reluctant to spend the extra $4 and knowing I could steal from Henry, who splurged on the Mixed Grill ($19.50).

The Richmond Rd Café looks expensive - a lot of leather and glass. Badly laser-copied menus are the only chink in its armour. The overused café colour scheme of coffee and cream is also favoured here. The vibe was a little adult- contemporary for my liking but the crowd seemed to dig it. The ratepayers of Grey Lynn looked comfortable here. Our stoners, now seated and waiting for their order, happily passed the time playing with their Blackberry Smartphones.

We were ecstatic when our meals arrived. Henry’s Mixed Grill was a great twist on a traditional fry-up – poached eggs, bacon, kumara rosti, portabella mushrooms, black pudding, slow roasted vine tomatoes and five-grain toast. The bacon was cooked to crispy perfection. I regretted not ordering my own. Traumatised by my very English grandparents’ love of offal, I was hesitant to try the black pudding. I was surprised by its spice and overall deliciousness. Henry cleaned the plate.

My pancakes arrived steaming, the mascarpone just starting to melt. Initially, I thought there was too much compote but every mouthful was put to good use. The lemon cut though the ricotta nicely and the consistency reminded me of American-style flapjacks. My only criticism is that I could not taste the lavender. I appreciate there is a fine line before lavender turns to potpourri in your mouth but unfortunately, the syrup could not be distinguished once it had melted into the blueberries. That said, I would order these pancakes for brunch tomorrow.




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