BDO

BY AMBER EASBY

We made it to the stadium in good time. We arrived a little before 4pm, having missed the traffic and spent $20 on a car park close to the front gate. The security was more relaxed than I remembered – a quick glance in the bag, no physical pat down. As a teen, I hid a cask of wine in my underwear to avoid confiscation. My brother once went to the grounds a week in advance to bury a bag of weed and a bottle of Jack Daniels. This time, I was happy to make it through with my water bottle.

Dizzee Rascal had just started in the Boiler Room. The tent was packed and like stepping into a steamy shower of sweat. For the first time, those bikinis and bare chests made sense to me. I was expecting to see a skinny little kid but Dizzee was totally buff! It was a fun show and overall, the best sounding performance of the day.

We queued for the next 45minutes for the Immortals Lounge. It was only worth the wait for the use of clean, flushing toilets. You could also drink beer from a bottle. I tried Steinlager Pure for the first time and was disappointed. Sure – it’s natural but so is urine.

If I see a band I like at a festival, it usually makes me wish I were seeing them at their own (indoor) show. This was particularly true of Arcade Fire. The barricading of the main stage floor made it impossible to see or hear anything, unless you were the die-hard Rage Against the Machine fans who staked their claim (I am watching a lot of Deadwood) early on. I have seen this system work well overseas but here, it was poorly implemented. Long lines and confused security guards meant the flow of the crowd was heavily restricted. I was stuck on the periphery and might as well have been listening to the radio.

We ditched Arcade Fire to see Battles. They were a little too techy for me but Henry loved them. Maybe it is a dude thing. Gemma and I sat at the back and were still able to hear well. I had hot dogs and chips with the good tomato sauce - delicious! Henry sent me text message that I got four hours later, saying “Believe it or not, this is their hit song."

Determined for a more satisfactory main stage experience, we made our way to Bjork a little early. We caught the end of Shihad, a band that must organise their entire year/career around playing the Big Day Out. We managed to secure a slightly better spot. I stood on my tiptoes for as much as I could for Bjork. The marching band of Icelandic teenagers, the costumes, Bjork’s spidey hands – it was an amazing show. Unfortunately the creep factor was growing in anticipation for ‘Rage’. One guy was yelling, “You suck” throughout. I was stuck behind a loud stoner couple who thought they had lost their weed. If I had been at the movies, I would have ssshed them. When they finally found it (in their pocket), they started to roll a joint. One dude wedged himself between Gemma and me, hoping to catch the joint as it was passed back. Another apologized for pushing in with a slow, inappropriate rub of my arms and a “sorry babe”.

We made our way back to the Boiler Rom for LCD Soundsystem, which was everything you would hope. T O T A L D A N C E P A R T Y. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about the muddy ground ruining my shoes or the young girls wearing t-shirts that said, “I am with the band”. During North American Scum, a sixteen year old pushed me out of the way in excitement and I realised, I no longer have the ability to enjoy the festival for what it is. We skipped The Clean to avoid the traffic and were in bed by midnight.



***

Shaky Isles

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

Kingsland does not want for good eateries - it has always been over-subscribed in that department. I noticed a new Mexican place has opened in Kalaloo’s place to join Canton, Mekong Nuea, Bouchon, Taboo, Roasted Addiction, Handmade Burgers and The Fridge in the ongoing tussle for our patronage.

When I first moved to the area The Fridge was something of a revelation - with its bountiful deli selection, homemade hot pies and endearing barrista/owner, I was a frequent customer. However general consensus is that since a change in ownership (I can’t think of a cafÈ for which this has been a good thing?) that saw an extension and staff shuffle, it has been on the decline.

Hence my delight when, in the garage-like space that has housed a number of transient ventures, (directly opposite The Fridge) a new cafÈ called Shaky Isles opened its fashionably-unkempt doors.

My first visit was with my father, his partner, my sister, Debi and Harry. A tough crowd to be sure - with an ex-high-country farmer, a winemaker, a vegetarian and a chap that just got back from touring the States frequenting diners - we had most culinary bases and persuasions covered.

And despite my initial reservations that it might be a bit ‘kooky’ (sparked by the wall mural that unhappily resembles a vodafone billboard) I was reassured by the casualness of the order-at-counter service and the great hanging lightbulbs that remind me of the Jeff Wall photograph based on Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. Whether that association was intentional or not, it worked for me.

I think what Shaky Isles does superbly well is keep it simple. There is not a blue cheese soufflÈ or hollandaise drenched crouton in sight. You can order ‘Good Stuff in a Bun’ or, if you were so inclined, ‘Pig in a Bun.’ They also do some swell pikelets with Raspberry Jam and Marscapone, a very tasty Breakfast Bruschetta and Whittaker’s Hot Chocolate. Everyone was happy with their food and coffee, the only quibble was that Dad's meal was a bit light on the bacon and Harry commented that Petit Bouchon (when it existed) did a better Croque Madame... but c'est la vie.

It is also surprisingly, refreshingly cheap. You’d struggle to spend over $12 on a main, and most of them hover around the $8 mark. Sure, the portions are smaller and the fare simpler but you leave satisfied. I struggle with rich breakfasts anyway and usually opt for a slither of hot buttered toast and a poached egg, especially after drinking too well the night before, so I was certainly not becrying the lack of hollandaise sauce.

I have now been to Shaky Isles three times. All of them good experiences. Always found a table but never found it empty. I now think the honeymoon period is over and we will settle into a comfortable relationship of mutual understanding.



***

The Green Crocodile Sandwich Bar, Darby St, Auckland City

BY SALLY CONOR

Working in the city sometimes feels a bit like an episode of Survivor; every lunch-break is like an immunity challenge and the race is on to find sustenance lest you perish or get voted off. Locating a simple sandwich can be as difficult as canoeing all the way around the island with a dead boar tied to your oar and sometimes you will end up eating something that resembles fermented yak’s testicles anyway. If, like me, you work in the city, you have probably scouted out most of the sweet lunch spots in town, and stick to your favourite haunts day after day, partly out of laziness and partly out of a fear that if you deviate from the tried-and-true, you might accidentally find yourself at McDonald’s eating pureed chicken gizzards cut with asbestos (otherwise known as Chicken McNuggets).

The discovery of a new lunch place is akin to finding fifty bucks in your old jeans pocket. The possibility! All of a sudden, one’s options are blown wide open. I recently received a tip-off about a sandwich place in town, down that sidestreet by The Body Shop and opposite The Recycle Boutique. I could hardly believe my ears! A place that makes ordinary sandwiches? In TOWN?? And what was more it had a cool name, dripping with exotic associations: The Green Crocodile.

I promptly went in search of this fabled food oasis. Now, I know of other places in town where you can get a regular sandwich made: there’s one in the SkyCity cinema complex and one in the Downtown foodcourt. However. These sandwich joints are in horrible neon MALLS. The very experience of visiting them is so unpleasant as to cancel out any pleasure, financial or gastronomic, incurred from getting a sandwich made to your tastes (NB Subway definitely doesn’t count because going in there is like visiting a mall anyway in its revolting same-ness, and all its branches smell of old meat and empty promises of ‘freshly baked’ bread… freshly defrosted blobs of stodge more like). The Green Crocodile is a regular shop on an actual street that catches real daylight and is staffed by real business-owners, not mall drones.

My first impression of The Green Crocodile was that half the title does not lie. It’s painted completely green on the inside! Cool! However, there was no evidence of a crocodile anywhere which was a little disappointing. I was at least hoping to be served by a person in a crocodile suit. Or maybe someone dressed like Steve Irwin. But in this case, reality was better than my imagination because I was served by possibly the nicest lady in the whole world. She called me ‘love’. She listened to my sandwich order like she really cared about me and my nutrition. And she wore beautiful shiny lavender eye shadow. A glance at the health certificate told me that this was Lesley. Lesley is my new favourite Auckland Personality. I am intrigued by her perennially cheery manner and dangly earrings. Her middle name is Pearl!

The sandwich itself was really yum: vogels with nice ordinary cheese, tomato and lettuce. I have simple tastes and am mostly a vegetarian but for everyone else there is a dizzying array of sandwich options for your eating pleasure. Lots of different breads, meats, salads, cheese, pineapple, pickle, condiments, cottage cheese… it was almost enough to make me order a double meat French roll with everything including two types of mustard. AND they do toasted sandwiches and burgers and milkshakes too! You can even buy yummy baked goods for one dollar. Just one dollar! NOTHING costs one dollar anymore. If this is the last bastion of the one dollar sweet in the whole of Auckland I wouldn’t be surprised. If only there was a booth and a jukebox I would make The Green Crocodile my new hang out à la The Peach Pit.

It seems like The Green Crocodile is one of a dying breed. I just heard last week about the imminent closure of another of my favourite lunch joints: Ima on Shortland St. Yael who owns and runs and cooks at Ima has been driven out by the exorbitant rent in central Auckland. She and Lesley operate at opposite ends of the lunch spectrum in terms of cost and ingredients (I like a delicious $8 Moroccan Tuna pie from Ima just as much as a $4.50 cheese sarnie) but they have one thing in common: they make their food with love and understand that lunch is a time to feed more than the coffers of the fast-food chain conglomerates. It’s about eating something that was made just for you with real food value and actually enjoying it. It’s about being able to zone out and drop fresh lettuce and chutney on your lap while you check your facebook page. It’s about somebody calling you ‘love’ even though they don’t know you.

Finding The Green Crocodile is another one of those Auckland moments for me – when you discover a new gem sparkling in amongst the dusty old scoria. A gem staffed by genuine people unaffected by both overpriced High St wankery and the mass-market sterilisation of the city. I intend to make Lesley my friend and enjoy many a chocolate milkshake whilst reading New Idea at the little table in The Green Crocodile. Ronald McDonald can go fuck himself.



***

The Trough

BY ASH KILMARTIN

University - a term which conjures images of quiet leafy avenues, tweed blazers with leather elbow-patches, and dusty shelves of well-thumbed copies of the great works of world literature. The reality, as many of us know, is a far cry from such picturesque notions of Academia. Nothing has proved this to me more, than my experience at the Trough.

The Trough, known properly as the General Staff Morning Tea, is the stuff of snacking legend. Now, every school and every department within the University have some form of Christmas party (or, should I say, 'end-of-year party' - on that note, has anyone else noticed the non-denominational nature of the festive decorations on Queen St?). But The Trough is the mother of all paid-for spreads. Being a young Library Assistant - just a juniorburger - the walk from Fort Fine Arts down to Old Government House for my first Trough was one of high anticipation. I'd been told about the jabbing elbows, the viscious use of sensible shoes, and the napkins-full of booty being ferried back to offices. And I was not disappointed.

From across the rose garden, I could hear the din coming from the usually genteel, hallowed halls of the OGH common rooms. The slurps of tea from polystyrene cups, the satisfied laughter of successful hunters and gatherers, and the occasional gasps when a fresh platter of those prized asparagus rolls arrived at table.

The Dining Hall, to the left of the foyer, held the biggest spread. Three tables of various platters, plus juice and a tea table. The Common Room, to the right, held only one large banquet table and (the result of ill-timed speeches, and the presence of the VC) fewer hungry public servants. However, both rooms were packed, as was the patio outside. Attendees were staff of all descriptions. Academic staff, library slaves, admin bullies and those jovial property services gents. Some looked as though this was their one big outing of the year; others appeared to have "eyes bigger than their stomachs", as my Dad would say. The strangest aspect was that, despite the massive and enthusiastic turnout, I only spotted three people I have met before. Sure, it's a big institution, but having studied across departments and visited every building on the campus in my recent quest to photograph the University's art collection, I expected to recognise a few more faces. Alas, only Doug (who delivers our Interloans crates), Kelly (from behind the desk at NICAI reception), and the Russian lady from the School of European Languages and Literature, who had given me the master key for all the rooms in her deparment (only one painting spotted).

But - to the important part: the food. After all, that's what everyone was there for.

Asparagus rolls (x3)
Fair. Both white and wheatmeal bread, no sign of butter/margarine. Not too dry, in fact, a little soggy. Asparagus of tinned variety, should have been better drained.

Chicken tortilla rolls (x2)
Fair. Very dry and quite salty with small amout of shaved roast chook. However, a good balance to the sweet snacks.

Chocolate almond tarts (x1)
Good. Probably the most sophisticated snack available. Chocolate, cakey outer with almond filling and slivers of almond atop. Perfect size, about the same at base as a 50c coin. Dee-lish.

Christmas mince pies (x1)
Couldn't fit any in whilst on site, but reports were good. Disappointed when tried leter in the day, faint taste of vomit(!). Would not trade again.

Club snadwiches (x3)
Fair. All white bread, with thin fillings. No good egg versions, disappointing. Again, good savoury balance for all the sweets, and the shadows of tomatoes constituted my "5 plus a day".

Cinnamon Brioche
Did not try. Too sickly-looking and big enough to prevent hoarding other snacks.

Cupcakes (4 varieties: mauve-iced, mint-iced, white-iced, double chocolate) (x1)
Again, had to take off-site. Chose the white iced (passionfruit), badly disappointed. Too dense and cakey, icing not tangy enough (more lemon icing, please. On everything).

Custard tarts (x1)
Good. Classic sweet tart, with star-shaped squeeze of bright yellow faux-custard and chocolate-lined pastry base. Substantial slices of strawberry (x4) and the obligatry gelatinous glaze.

Orange juice (x1)
Arano, from bottle. Good tartness and perfect pulp:liquid ratio.

Sausage Rolls (x5)
Good. Optimum temperature - warm, but not burney-hot at sausage centre. Tomato sauce was provided, but these rolls needed no additives. Would trade again.

Savoury muffins (2 varieties)
Did not try. Looked dry and gross.

Tea
Make-you-own, Twinings English Breakfast. But who has time to brew when there are asparagus rolls to be stock-piled?

All under the watch of Goldie's potrait of some-academic/politician-or-other, so began my weekend of snacks. After this, an exhibition opening and a sock hop provided all necessary snack-action, then a day's rest before the next Christmas do: this time with architects and much Belgian beer. My congratulations to the organiser of the sock hop, whose asparagus rolls topped the Trough's, and deserve a full review themselves.



***

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.



***

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.



***

Savour and Devour - 478 Richmond Rd, Grey Lynn

BY AMBER EASBY

Admittedly, I was in a bad mood when I arrived - deathly hung over after two bottles of vino and a marathon Scrabble sesh the night before. I was hoping for a quiet brunch, ideally at an outdoor table. I wanted food that would heal me. I guess it was the wrong morning to try somewhere new.

First sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They were playing Massive Attack. The last time I enjoyed Massive Attack was in 1994 and I was on magic mushrooms.

Second sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The outdoor ‘garden’ was completely covered. It was a beautiful day and it was fucking freezing out there. I opted to sit inside.

Third sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They use swivel chairs. It felt like Monday morning and I was eating breakfast at my desk.

Fourth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The café was full of parents ignoring their screaming children. One eight year-old boy was talking on his cell phone while his folks sat at ANOTHER TABLE!

Fifth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The menu was a little too ‘funky’. Normally, I am a fan of the twist-on-an-old-favourite but not this morning. I ordered Baked Eggs with bacon and creamed spinach ($14.50). The meal was nicely presented – a small fry pan, containing the said ingredients, and two slices of toast. Unfortunately, the spinach ‘creamed’ the rest of the dish. It was like eating a bowl of chunky Carbonara sauce. Gross.

The one redeeming element: counter service. As soon as I was done with my meal, I was able to leave. Not even the selection of baked goods could tempt me to return.



***

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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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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