Crazy Crust

BY NICK AUSTIN

It used to be Friends Kebabs and they made a beetroot dip I hadn't seen anywhere else, but now it's Crazy Crust, just close to Brazil, or where Brazil was, on Karangahape Rd. I predict that Brazil will become a Burger Fuel. Crazy Crust has really cheap pizza. You can get a 12 inch Margarita for 6.50 or 6.95 but when I ate there quite a lot last week I think I only munched on someone else's Margarita. I didn't have the Bacon and Chips pizza either but I think Sriwhana Spong did so you'll have to ask her about that. The bases are more like something thinner, a flat bread, and I don't think there's a proper oven, just a grill. I had a really nice cottage cheese pizza, there's definitely something Indian about the place and it's not just the turban. For dessert I had the garlic cheesy bites. That's some garlic and mega cheese and they call it bites because instead of segments, like a pizza, it's cut into a grid. God, they put so much cheese on those pizzas, so much cheeeeese. Someone found a hair on the pizza and they only have a B hygeine rating but it's so cheap and cheesy, it's Crazy Crust! There is also a range of muffins available for purchase. They are like Hany Armanious's muffin sculptures disguised as real muffins. Go see them, they're still there.



***

Beef, Bird and Bag

BY AMBER EASBY

While living in New York, I became a fan of the early dinner. There were two French restaurants in my neighbourhood, both of which had early bird specials. At Robin De Bois, Henry and I would order our own early bird - a roast chicken for two. It was served on a wooden board with green beans and mash. With two glasses of wine, the meal would cost $30 plus tip. At Tabac (not to be confused with the bar on Mills Lane or any store licensed to sell tobacco products in France), I could order an Organic Strip Steak with sautéed spinach and pommes frites for $13.

I was excited when I saw the ‘Early Bird’ sign in the window of Tony’s on Lorne Street. It was 6.30pm – the perfect time for a steak dinner. On a closer look, the discount was nothing to get worked up about: $35 for your entrée and main. Depending on whether you ordered, say, the Shrimp Cocktail ($12) or Crumbed Camembert ($15) to start - it was a $5 saving at best. There was also a review in the window. The writer had taken her hippie/previously vegetarian friend to Tony’s for her first steak in ten years. Maybe it was the review (I love any story about a vegetarian gone bad) or maybe it was the first day of my period, but I wanted a big juicy steak. I convinced Henry we should give it a go, agreeing to his condition of ‘no appetizers’ to keep it cheap. I have been known to over order.

The place was packed and we were the only patrons under the age of sixty. I was surprised that the ‘Early Bird’ special had drawn such a crowd. Then I realised, they all had tickets to the 7.30pm showing of We Will Rock You. The host/proprietor was doing his best to charm the oldies calling them ‘darling’ or ‘young man’. When he took an order, he would ask ‘Rock and Roll for dessert?’

Tony’s on Lorne Street is independently owned and is no longer apart of the John Bank’s affiliated Tony’s Restaurant Group. I got the feeling it was a touchy subject with the proprietor. Like the Tony’s on Wellesley and Lord Nelson on Victoria, this restaurant favours the traditional English pub fittings – leadlight, wrought iron and brass. There were a` lot of lamps, none of which were turned on because it was still light outside. There was a standup piano that hadn’t been used in years. Instead, instrumental versions of songs by Robbie Williams played at a low volume. It was a little creepy.

The waitress came quickly to take our order – we were taking up valuable real estate. We didn’t get much time to peruse the menu and there was a lot to take in. We had to choose our cut, weight (standard or GIANT) and condiment. We also had the choice of baked potato or fries, salad or grilled vegetables.

I have yet to appreciate the Steak/Seafood combo that is kind of joint is known for. I was tempted to give it a whirl until I saw the ‘Carpet Bag’, a tenderloin stuffed with oysters. Repulsed by the name alone, I thought of Tabac and ordered the cut of Prime Scotch Fillet Rib Eye with béarnaise sauce, fries and vegetables ($28.50). Henry ordered the standard Prime Sirloin Striploin with mushroom sauce, baked potato and vegetables ($28.50). We both ordered our steaks medium rare. I caved after a disapproving look from our waitresses and ordered garlic bread to start ($3.00).

I was instantly won over when our steaks were served on hotplates. I love a meal that sizzles! The first bite was a little rare but the steak continued to cook to perfection. The standard size cuts were impressive and the sides were surprisingly tasty. My béarnaise melted into the steak beautifully and had just the right amount of tarragon. Henry said his mushroom sauce was good, not excellent – maybe a 6/10. We both cleaned our plates.

Granted, I could have done without the garlic bread but I left the restaurant feeling invigorated. A meal high in B vitamins and deliciousness was exactly what I needed. The best thing was that we had the rest of the night free - to digest the meaty meal or maybe, take in a show.



***

Auckland Hospital

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

My first piece of advice to you, if experiencing an allergic reaction that appears to be rapidly advancing, is to call an ambulance. After having a lie down to see if it would pass, I called my mum (who lives in another city). This wasn’t an altogether bad start, as she does suffer from a deadly allergy to most antibiotics, but I foolishly downplayed it on the phone. Having not eaten or touched anything untoward or out of the ordinary, and being a generally healthy person, I didn’t want to seem like a hypochondriac. By this stage my face had swollen and turned a frightful shade of red, as had my hand, arms, feet (all itchy) and, I am sure if I had thought to look, most of my body. Mind you, this was far less disconcerting than the throbbing in my ears and tightening in my chest and throat. Both dithering and unnecessary modesty can be dispensed with - it is very unhelpful in such situations.

After checking the house was locked, I decided to walk down the road to such the local doctors. Again, not a great idea but the cool breeze was nice on my Violet Beauregarde-style skin. Family medical centres are fine, great for colds and immunising babies, but can be also by-passed in emergencies. The nurse who took my blood pressure did her best to hide her panic but I could see she was rattled, the fear was palpable. What followed was a flurry of action, a shot of adrenaline was stuck in my thigh (no magic marker like Pulp Fiction unfortunately) and an ambulance called and told ‘to hurry.’ All most unsettling. It was about this time that I began to wonder if I should call my lawyer (any lawyer) and dictate a will to ensure all of my not-very valuable possessions were looked after in the even of an untimely departure. It was also about this time, as I was being carried out to the ambulance, that the GP asked if I could pop in tomorrow and pay my bill. A bit on the nose I thought.

Adrenaline is fun. As you would imagine, 0.5 ml of it straight into the muscle is an instensification of the rush you get when excited or in danger or after you have an intense argument with someone. It makes you shake uncontrollably, which, when you are not cold, is a quite peculiar sensation. This aside, St Johns Ambulance staff - I can’t say enough good things. So calm and collected! Drips, ECG machine, oxygen: the work of a moment. A strapping tattooed ambulance driver recorded my personal details, completed my ACC form (wishful thinking) and finally, on arrival, hefted my gurney with consummate ease and skill that comes of much practice.

Emergency rooms are pretty bleak as a rule, full of worried people and flustered nurses. Optimised for efficency and practicality, these are not the most relaxing of locales. Not that you really care when you arrive - what you care about is that this place and these people have the ability to make you better, or at least bear witness to your demise. In my case, thankfully, they performed the former task sterlingly and by the time I was moved off the main floor and into an observation ward I was feeling fine, the shakes had receded to mere tremors, and I began to take stock of the surrounds.

Hospitals in general, but Emergency rooms in particular, provide one of those strange situations were all claims to privacy dramtaically fall away - it is no longer of any relevance or consequence. So, despite not being curious in the least, it did not take long for me to realise I was, happily, in far better shape than most of my invalid companions. A few minutes after my arrival a generously proportioned chap was rolled in with both legs in full cast. From the conversation that took place between his family and unfortunate friend who had witnessed the accident, I managed to glean (or actually couldn't avoid learning) that he had jumped of something for fun and broken both his legs: one shin, one ankle. His parents seemed very put-out about this and proceeded, in loud English accents, to tell the lad just how stupid he was. When he went to sleep they referred to him as the ‘silly stoner’ (he was pretty whacked out on Kedamine), and discussed his relegation to their garage for 6 weeks. Perish the thought. I began to empathise with his reckless antics.

This is certainly not a complaint, as it is of course necessary and unavoidable, but the noise in these places is quite remarkable. When recovering from a not-insignificant shock to the system, hearing a nurse loudly explain, over the cacophony of beeps from all manner of machines, to a diabetic chap over-the-way how his cathater and diaper works, is not the most soothing to the ear. Nor is the muffled snoring of said dare-devil neighbour, or the middle-age Remuera lady telling her elderly mother (whom she calls Mummy in a baby-voice) not to worry about ruining the cashmere sweater as they have a MILLION more at home. And I swear I heard a staff member use the expression 'shit the bed-pan'. Maybe I was just hyped up on meds, getting my colloquialisms and contexts twisted.

Under the circumstances I had a pretty good time, a little unsettling, kind of novel, mostly just boring. I was treated efficently, kept informed of my condition and discharged promptly (after the 6 hour observation period). I mean, I don't really need to sell the Emergency Room - it is not like you have a choice - if you are going there, you need to be there and that is where you will stay until the threat to your person recedes. Noone feels 'at home' here and the percentage of the population that enjoy their visits must be slim. Strange warped-floral curtains and uncomfortable beds aside, who wants to be confronted with the fragility and inevitable mortality of the human race on a regular basis? The ugliness and despair of the sick - not so fun.

And of course in this context details that one might usually fuss over, or discuss in a 'review' seem awfully insignifcant - I mean, I can mention the shy-making size of my gown (which did nothing to conceal any of my underclothing until Debi helped me wrap it around twice), or the fact that the food was gross, or even that the printed label on the brown paper bag that carried my belongings should've had an apostrophe (it read 'patients property' - which would've usually got me very worked up). But who cares? Emergency Wards aren't supposed to be appealing - they provide the minimum comfort to ensure your recovery, and recover I did. Constantly bombarded with new lives to save they hardly want people hanging out, taking up room and distracting their already over-worked staff. So, sure I will try and steer clear, but until the time they discover what substance actually caused my anaphylactic shock (and eating stops being like a game of Russian Roulette) I will continue to feel confident that in case of an emergency, with the help of St Johns and Auckland Hospital Emergency staff - I will be in capable hands.



***

Three Liam Finn Shows and a Baby

BY SALLY CONOR

Before I begin, let me get one thing straight: I am not stalking Liam Finn. The fact that I went to all three of his Auckland shows recently is not testament to any slavish fandom, unlike the fact that I attended both Ryan Adams shows in August, which sprang from my abiding obsession with and slightly scary infatuation with said musician. Don’t get me wrong. I like Liam’s music a lot and I really enjoy his gigs. But I don’t want any of you getting the wrong idea. Having said that, I found myself showing up to all three shows. Mostly coz my friends did. But it turned out to be a very interesting exercise in how live music can be transformed by surroundings, audience and the relative drunkenness of the performers and punters alike.

Thursday 8th November, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Newton
The only dry show of the three, and boy was the lack noticeable. The audience were all weirdly respectful and quiet. Almost too quiet because in between songs where there is usually the din of conversation and bar-fights and shouting, there fell an expectant silence. As the applause died from the previous song, the audience seemed to collectively say “That was nice, now what are you going to play next? Huh? HUH??!” Enjoyably for us, the result was BANTER. With the musicians also stone-cold sober, the on-stage banter was of varying quality, but most of it was very funny. The best call of the night was when Liam’s tour partner EJ Barnes told him his face “looks like a vagina”. We all cheered and clapped whilst wondering, are you allowed to say ‘vagina’ in church?
The show itself was awesome. The acoustics of the church really did the music justice and when things got noisy and experimental, our enjoyment was enhanced by feelings of delicious guilt brought on by listening to crazy rock ‘n’ roll music in a house of God. When our eyes wandered from the antics of our hosts, the church provided gorgeous architectural eye-candy of jewel-bright stained glass, warm polished wood and pleasing proportions and shapes. And down the front, the cutest baby in the world was running riot clad in little yellow headphones. It was really funny. And all of this was made possible as a result of the gig being held at a church. The family-friendly atmos, lack of mood-altering beverages and beauty of the room really made the music the focus of the night and I left feeling as if I had just worshipped at the altar of sweet riffs and loop-pedals.
(NB Me and my companion for the night enjoyed the evening so much that we resolved to attend an actual service at the church the following Sunday. We showed up but pathetically wussed out in favour of worshipping the divine Coffee and Croissant at Benediction. At least the café had a religious name.)

Thursday 15th November, The King’s Arms Tavern
I think most people have experienced a night at the King’s Arms when it is sold out - shoulder-to-shoulder packed, hot, smelly and often unpleasant. Feeling unwilling to tackle the mosh, my friend and I stayed down the back most of the night which I later regretted as it was probably the finest show of the tour. Liam was in fine voice and at his daring best in terms of pushing the boat out with experimentation. He played an incredibly gnarly drum-fill at one point. EJ was wearing a really beautiful velvet mermaid dress and was forced to sing one of her own songs by Liam which actually provided a really nice change of pace. Everyone sang along to the big numbers, especially ‘Gather To The Chapel’. Are these things possibly due to the fact that everyone was lubricated by alcohol? Probably. I think it is no accident that drugs and alcohol are so indelibly associated with music. They really do seem to facilitate risk-taking and freedom of expression and awesome drum fills. The crowd was a lot noisier than at the church but then the response to the music was also a lot more enthusiastic.
The King’s Arms isn’t the most inspiring of venues but the way it compresses people into a narrow space seems to create a special kind of atmosphere and focus of collective energy which may have something to do with its longevity as a venue. I wish I’d been right up the front in the thick of it.

Saturday 17th November, The Leigh Sawmill Cafe
On arriving, the first thing we heard was that the musicians had all gotten completely wasted in Wellington the night before and hadn’t been to sleep. Support act Dictaphone Blues appeared wearing a scarf around his head which he said was “holding my brains in”. Our expectations for the show dropped a bit. Then we found out that we weren’t allowed to order food so started drinking on empty stomachs which raised our expectations again (hurrah!). I found scotch and soda to be a very agreeable alternative to dinner. One of my favourite things about the Leigh Sawmill is the way people seated upstairs can peer down at the stage from behind the musicians. With the stage surrounded by expectant punters, the room starts to feel a bit like a coliseum (Which way will it go?? Thumbs up?? Or thumbs down??!!). Watching how performers react to scrutiny is always sadistically fun. Tonight, they responded with alacrity. Liam and EJ were definitely a bit quiet on the banter front (which was a shame as they’re so good at it) but otherwise showed no signs of party fatigue on stage, playing a blistering set that included a tremendous Neil Young cover. You know a musician is good when every time he starts a new song, you say to the person beside you ‘oh THIS is my favourite’ which is more or less what I did. But the highlight was the final song, ‘Wide Awake On The Voyage Home’. A beautiful, elegiac sprawling thing that was the perfect send-off and the enthusiastic country crowd sang along and provided thunderous applause.

Three different nights, three different venues, three different levels of inebriation all made for three incredibly varied but similarly awesome musical experiences. I think the church gig was my favourite for the sheer beauty of the building and the way the unusual circumstances produced a really enjoyable variant of the normal rock ‘n’ roll show, what with vagina talk and cute rampant babies and all. When musicians get creative with venues like this it really pays off for everyone involved and with our already dire number of venues for gigs and the rumoured imminent demise of several other key sites, experimentation like this ought to be encouraged, nay, ought to become the norm. Now if only we can find a way to convince the Church that whiskey and soda promotes holiness in heathens…



***

Standard Jeans Theory

BY TAHI MOORE

DRESSMART

CARPARKS

I went to Dessmart in Onehunga to find the real Levi's. The parking's really busy in the weekends here so I just took a ten minute car park just outside on the street. This has got the advantage of not being able to spend long enough in Dressmart to get run down, which usually takes me about twenty minutes. There are so many promises of bargains and things that are almost okay but not quite, that it can get epic in the search for something, anything, which must be around somewhere.

STRAIGHT TO THE SHOP
LEVIS--> FRENCH STYLE 00 JAPANESE STYLE 90 AMERICAN STYLE 80

The outlet store is at the northwest corner of the enclosed area. Okay it is a shop full of Levi's, BUT. I saw these things that are plain, but they're copying french jeans. They've got the same kind overdone back arseband labels as August 77 jeans, except in a slightly more everyman style, you know, goes to the gym or something.

Nearly everything else was a copy of japanese jeans. I've been told that Uniqlo is the Japanese version of Hallensteins. They sell japan made selvedge denim with exactly the right thread and no bum pocket art for real cheap. You can buy them online from their site if you live in Japan or certain parts of the UK. If you happen to be in NY, you can pick up a pair for 40 dollars rrp. Anyway the online shop only sold them in size 30 and 38.

Levis have that nice number code but you can't wear numbers no matter how hard you try.

STONEWASH

In the far corner was the closest thing to actual Levi's. They had been through a process called stone wash that gives the material this flecked feature feature. You can't wear jeans and this is true because everyone buys style everyone who goes into a shop wants style because style is all there is if you want plain denim well you won't buy it not because you want it you secretly know that style is the only things to be to get, jeans is not the thing and in this knowledge the special jeans people only provide special jeans because nobody buys normal jeans you can't find them in shops anyway and no one makes them so that proves it.

Tried on close to normal stone wash darkish blue denim jeans. They came in size 30 and size 31. They were stretch denim. Since I am size 32 it was a lost cause. The lower leg was too wide anyway.

I also went to Just Jeans. They had some similar jeans in sizes 35 to 38.

Outlet store usually mens there's good chance that if you find what you want, then they won't quite have it in your size. I'd have to say it's a trawling mission on a similar scale to op shopping for something in particular. Ten minutes is up.

OP SHOP

One pair of NZ made pre worn jeans that need a resew. I think they were faded buy actual use, but fades are fades are fades. The only thing you could fit through the belt loops would be piece of string, not rope. Nice job though.

ST LUKES

ANOTHER MALL MORE SIZES

I tried K-Mart, which has Bonds t-shirts, possibly the poor cousin of American Apparel. They say made in Australia and come in all the colours. white black grey navy. There were jeans, which all had the advantage of being able to double as marquee tents. I got a grey Bonds t-shirt.

Hallensteins had jeans, just, no I can't remember.

FRUIT SALAD

Just jeans had a whole wall of Levi's, honestly. More like a whole wall of fruit. Tried the closest to normal pair, the only ones with plain yellow thread. One size too small on the waist and twentythree sizes to big on the legs, honestly. I should have bought them because I could have made three pairs and a dinner suit out of one pair of too small 607's I think they were. So I didn't try on my size.

Farmers had a whole bunch of 607's and some maybe fitting jeans, but by this time the stone wash effect that covered everything was starting to make me feel too ill to continue.

THESIS

Standard jeans don't exist, they're all playing off the idea of jeans
When standard jeans did exist they were just bad
In the end you just have to give up on the idea of it and shop around for something wrong that just works anyway.

MORE

I think people wear what they do because that's what's in the shops when it comes to shopping time.

SOMETHING LIKE THE REAL DEAL

After the short search for Uniqlo jeans and a discovery that the online Levi's shop only ships to the bay area, except when Paul is sick or his scooter breaks down. maybe they assume that everyone will just go to Amazon by default.

Apparently Levi's used to make shrink to fit jeans that came in 3 sizes. Levi's claim to make originals 501's shrink to fit no fades etc. These things are meant to shrink ten per cent and you have to jump in a creek or a water hole. Next week I'll be reviewing a water hole and the difficulties of swimming in wet jeans.




***

Raw Power

BY DAVID LEVINSON

Raw Power is a food café located on Vulcan Street, and which specialises in salads and other vegetarian dishes (such as falafel,tofu sandwiches, etc.). Each Saturday a friend and I would meet there for lunch, and did so for a total of about 4 months earlier this year.
Now while these lunches began as relatively innocuous affairs, consisting of not much more than polite conversation and maybe an occasional browsing of the newspaper (the entertainment section, mainly), one day something switched. When, exactly, it would be hard to say. What was engendered was more a gradual shift in feeling that, maybe due our mutual tendency to become uncertain around those who express affection towards us – in this case, said person being the café proprietor who had taken a great and obvious liking to both of us – on some subconscious level caused us to sabotage the blissful idyll we had discovered.
Our chosen accessory for what would eventual result in us no longer being welcome at the Raw Power food establishment became the bowl of mints they kept beside the cash register – well not the bowl itself, really, but what was inside it, i.e. the mints. So, while the second person was paying for their order, the first would move round the side of the counter and, in some pantomime of searching through magazines, grab as many as several handfuls of mints and place these in their pocket, before we would both convene at our usual table by the window. Then we would place the mints in a small mound on the window sill and cover it with a newspaper, while we politely waited for our orders.
Once the waiter was clearly out of sight, and counter person happily occupied, we would proceed to flick mints out of the window at passersby. Now, three times as a result of this we received verbal threats, but more often than not people would stop momentarily to try and ascertain the source of the threat, before awkwardly moving on. Sometimes when there was a surfeit of mints, we would flick as many as three as a time over the sill. Overall, I would argue that this was not a very productive but overall very pleasurable time in my life.
I can't recall anything being out of the ordinary the day our little pastime finally met its demise - only that there was a deep mixture of sadness and disappointment in the waiter's eyes when he informed us that people had been complaining about us. Since then, all my mint-throwing has been put to a halt but I can't promise that this will remain indefinite.



***