It was now Tuesday. I’m not fully convinced on what it was that did it. It may have been that I watched the Brad Pitt special of Oprah the day before (conceding to a brand of American television and culture that I try not to think about on a daily basis), or if it was the need to actually know how much money I owed the credit card company. Shame and financial worry aside, I somehow rolled my lazy ass out of my wonderfully comfortable bed and down the steep hills to downtown Wellington once again.
By the time I neared the library, laptop in hand, I was feeling pretty good about my decision. I had forgotten about Brad’s home life, and was looking forward to checking up on things back home as well as conducting a little bit of business for my return. I grabbed the usual obnoxiously large International Law book that I always intended to read more of, and signed into the Internet, immediately rendering any intentions of furthering my self-attained law knowledge a thing of the past.
While the once painfully expensive book gained dust behind the screen, I began to feel bits of hunger coming on. Nearly six o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was my routine breakfast of European-style bread with Brie. I let the taste buds wander in thought as to what they desired most in this culinary paradise; Irish food needed a break, Korean was done, Indian was eaten the last visit. I considered the Lebanese restaurant again when it suddenly flashed back to my memory. Yes! Down on the corner near the top of pedestrian Cuba Street; a modest looking French bistro. That settled it. I may have been conversing with friends 16,000 miles away, but there is no time for shenanigans; this man is hungry.
A short walk away and I’m greeted by a French-speaking maître de inside Le Metropolitain. Promptly seated, I’m given a drink menu. I thought to myself, I’ve been fiscally responsible lately, I believe a little binge on “class” is in order. I saw an unfamiliar drink at the top of the “aperitifs” section and felt obligated to order it. The Rinquinequine was delivered with bread and olive oil in tow. It was described in the menu as a the “perfect drink to start off a meal.” The only item I would add would be the words “during summer.” It maintained the personality of a light white wine, but contained a timid peach taste that really seemed perfect for a summer meal eaten on a warm sunny day. Served over ice, it really was the perfect afore-meal indulgence.
After I came to the conclusion that the lemon peel in the drink was just for show, I ordered the braised lamb as the main course. I’m in New Zealand. I feel it would be wrong not to try lamb at least once on the trip (or twice for those actually keeping count). The lamb shank arrived, beautifully displayed, among carrots and potatoes, sitting in a paper-thin pool of dark brown sauce. The sauce itself was ever so slightly sweet, not overpowering the taste of the lamb, but complimenting it perfectly: adding flavor, yet keeping the lamb’s inimitable taste the main event on the plate. It was prepared flawlessly- cooked the whole way through yet juicy and tender enough to cut with a fork (even if cutting is actually mashing).
The accompaniments to the generous portion of meat were equally enjoyable. The seasoned baby potatoes were a perfect side with the sauce, the carrots were cooked, yet maintained the perfect amount of crunch. Two cloves of roasted garlic also sat among the vegetables. I must have had it written on my face my philosophy that garlic is something of which there can never be too much. However, after sampling all the parts of the meal, I had no use for it. Everything was perfect the way it had been prepared.
I still had room after the main plate, and my “class” binge could still go on. Tort de jour it was. A plum tort with French vanilla ice cream on the side was to be the finale of the meal. A work of art was placed before me. A yellow cake with a reserved amount of a deep purple filling and topped with chopped almonds, flanked by a lone scoop of ice cream, sitting among a river of plum sauce, all lightly dusted with powdered sugar. After the first bite, I was completely content paying a lot for this meal. Hell, I would have paid at least fifteen bucks just for the dessert alone! The buttery tort was so moist it nearly melted in the mouth, and the plum filling was brilliantly sweet, but tasted wholly natural, adding a pang of guiltlessness to the undeniably diet-crushing dessert.
I left the defeated dessert along with the paid check sitting on the mahogany table, and headed home. I was the perfect kind of full and couldn’t help reminiscing over the event that had just occurred. A meal of such proportions isn’t just a meal, after all, and its not just due to the food-It’s everything in the restaurant. It was the maitre de asking me, “how many?” in French, it was the glass walls overlooking the streets, it was the close proximity seating, and it was the dining room that proclaimed loudly, “Yes, I am inadequate to suite large groups of evening guests, but this is all I need.” Because what that says to me is, what I have to serve you is well worth the wait and the little inconveniences.
If you were to ask me why French cuisine is my favorite to cook, or why it is one of the few I will consistently enjoy at a slow pace, my answer will mirror some of their most phenomenal dishes. I heard it said once that the Scottish eat to live, and the French live to eat. If a culture can find a sure-fire, flawless way to make something taste inconceivably delicious from less than five simple ingredients, ingredients that can be found in virtually any kitchen at any time, they are most assuredly masters of the art. I give the French a lot of shit, and on a fairly consistent basis, but I am near the point where I may take offense if you insult their cooking. Credit is given to the Italians for their renaissance art; the Greeks, basic philosophy and mathematics. So why not give credit where it is undoubtedly due?
To the French, I salute you. Because, lets be honest, god-dammit, you know what you’re doing in the kitchen, and I cant think of many things more respectable and honorable than that. A votre santé les recettes Francais, a votre santé.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Welcome Return
This should have been posted two days ago. No internet
It’s finally here. After two years of waiting, labor, and pining, I’ve made my imminent return to the capital of New Zealand: Wellington. As the plane began its descent the surrounding mountains and crystal waters began to refinish and restore the mental image I had kept stored in my mind for so long, too long. Just like a carpenter to an antique table, the perfect flawless image was whole and beautiful once again, no longer handicapped by the jading effects of photographs. Everything looked just how I had left it. But how did I leave it, really?
My previous visit left me a menial two days of life in the kiwi capital, so really, how much was there for me to remember? I remembered the views, of course; the museum, Nomad’s Capital hostel, the “movie-trailer” experience I had of Cuba Street, as well as the ferry. That’s about it. As the wonderfully friendly shuttle driver made his way to the hostel, I truly began to realize that I had no idea who this mysterious Wellington really was. Suddenly, I was stricken with a quick burst of nervousness. Where was I? My god, this place IS actually foreign to me!
This changed everything. My original plan had been to spend a day in Wellington to get acclimated to the time difference, then trek a quick and recklessly planned path stretching 260 miles toward the town of Rotorua. It would have been a fantastic tribute to Christopher McCandless (a personal role model of mine), as well as been fairly humbling (side effects including significant weight loss and wanting to eat every little thing that breathes). Philosophical revelations aside, I began to entertain the idea that I should begin an immediate affair with this unknown city to which I had previously pronounced my love. What did I miss? What am I missing now? What could I have done that I was too naively touristy to do? Anthony Bourdain forgive me!
I’m now worried, self-conscious of my life’s travel track record, and ashamed of my cautious 18 year old, inexperienced choices. What else is there to do but to throw back a few of the Old Reliable? Definition: Guinness draught. I roughly recalled a fun Irish pub on Cuba Street, and made my way through the breezy streets, quite proud of my recollection of the city layout after two years time. The brick walkway appeared, and I knew I was in the right. Suddenly the sounds of the Pogues/Dubliners collaboration single “The Irish Rover” flowed gently to my ears. “Every little memory has a song,” sang Ted Leo, and this memory was of good friends, good times, and home. God bless the Irish culture.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, confirming the pub as a legitimate Irish product. “A Guinness, please,” I say to the barkeep.
“Sorry, no Guinness here.”
Legitimate? Perhaps I spoke too soon.
“An Irish pub with no Guinness? What is this?”
After a brief explanation I was informed that the manager didn’t believe in sporting Guinness that was made in New Zealand, it wasn’t fair. It was like lying to the customer, he preached. Brawn be gone-That is a man among men! So Murphy’s Stout, he said, “is made in New Zealand and its like Guinness, its also cheaper.” I appreciate a man looking after my wallet, and so I obliged.
Murphy’s Irish stout, what is there to say? Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness, therefore must be Guinness right? I won’t play anyone, nor can I lie about it due to my drinking history starting on Ireland’s pride. One can definitely tell Murphy’s is not Guinness, but being $1.50 cheaper per pint, I was strangely alright with it. Murphy’s still gave me the thick, filling, homey taste of Guinness that makes one feel like you just finished a meal. I seemed to have found a fine replacement, at least while in New Zealand.
As I’m enjoying my new Irish friend in a glass, the bartender inquires if I will be playing poker. A brief exchange, and I can’t refuse the offer. Buy a beer get $250 worth of poker credit, $1000 credit gets you $1000 in chips, play until you’re out, no real money gambled. I decided to give the game another go, even though the last time I took part in a friendly poker game my inner card shark seemed to be off devouring some helpless white trash beach bum to the sounds of John Williams.
When you’re hungry, you tend to not think as clearly, and since intense cards, breeds intense appetite, I was pretty much destined to make a fool of myself. Irish pub? Shepherds pie is the hunger medicine of choice. After a few bites into the delicious classic I heard a fellow player say, “you’re up Shepherd.” Problem#1- I actually responded to him. Problem #2- sixteen hours into my five month stay in New Zealand and already I am, once again, being affiliated with the wool-laden mammals. Not just by my friends anymore, but by strangers, New Zealand strangers at that. Being half Scottish and obsessed with the little country down under, one can imagine, and expect, the sheep jokes that arise. But come on, give me a chance to escape, just for while? Please??
Regardless of bestiality jokes, I redeemed myself by placing 5th in the National Pub Poker League preliminaries. Don’t applaud me just yet; it’s not that big of a deal. The word “national” has a way of making things sound big, important, and commendable. In this case, “national” means the inclusion of the entire country, but no one knows about it except for a few pubs in one city. So come the following Monday, I’m off to the big boy tables to prove my worth against the other card playing beer lovers. And thus begins the series of events that eventually snowballs into a chaotic maelstrom of people, places, and even a smidge of drama. Ah, it’s just like home. Only ten times more beautiful, and this time I can actually enjoy my drinks at restaurants.
Let the journey commence
It’s finally here. After two years of waiting, labor, and pining, I’ve made my imminent return to the capital of New Zealand: Wellington. As the plane began its descent the surrounding mountains and crystal waters began to refinish and restore the mental image I had kept stored in my mind for so long, too long. Just like a carpenter to an antique table, the perfect flawless image was whole and beautiful once again, no longer handicapped by the jading effects of photographs. Everything looked just how I had left it. But how did I leave it, really?
My previous visit left me a menial two days of life in the kiwi capital, so really, how much was there for me to remember? I remembered the views, of course; the museum, Nomad’s Capital hostel, the “movie-trailer” experience I had of Cuba Street, as well as the ferry. That’s about it. As the wonderfully friendly shuttle driver made his way to the hostel, I truly began to realize that I had no idea who this mysterious Wellington really was. Suddenly, I was stricken with a quick burst of nervousness. Where was I? My god, this place IS actually foreign to me!
This changed everything. My original plan had been to spend a day in Wellington to get acclimated to the time difference, then trek a quick and recklessly planned path stretching 260 miles toward the town of Rotorua. It would have been a fantastic tribute to Christopher McCandless (a personal role model of mine), as well as been fairly humbling (side effects including significant weight loss and wanting to eat every little thing that breathes). Philosophical revelations aside, I began to entertain the idea that I should begin an immediate affair with this unknown city to which I had previously pronounced my love. What did I miss? What am I missing now? What could I have done that I was too naively touristy to do? Anthony Bourdain forgive me!
I’m now worried, self-conscious of my life’s travel track record, and ashamed of my cautious 18 year old, inexperienced choices. What else is there to do but to throw back a few of the Old Reliable? Definition: Guinness draught. I roughly recalled a fun Irish pub on Cuba Street, and made my way through the breezy streets, quite proud of my recollection of the city layout after two years time. The brick walkway appeared, and I knew I was in the right. Suddenly the sounds of the Pogues/Dubliners collaboration single “The Irish Rover” flowed gently to my ears. “Every little memory has a song,” sang Ted Leo, and this memory was of good friends, good times, and home. God bless the Irish culture.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, confirming the pub as a legitimate Irish product. “A Guinness, please,” I say to the barkeep.
“Sorry, no Guinness here.”
Legitimate? Perhaps I spoke too soon.
“An Irish pub with no Guinness? What is this?”
After a brief explanation I was informed that the manager didn’t believe in sporting Guinness that was made in New Zealand, it wasn’t fair. It was like lying to the customer, he preached. Brawn be gone-That is a man among men! So Murphy’s Stout, he said, “is made in New Zealand and its like Guinness, its also cheaper.” I appreciate a man looking after my wallet, and so I obliged.
Murphy’s Irish stout, what is there to say? Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness, therefore must be Guinness right? I won’t play anyone, nor can I lie about it due to my drinking history starting on Ireland’s pride. One can definitely tell Murphy’s is not Guinness, but being $1.50 cheaper per pint, I was strangely alright with it. Murphy’s still gave me the thick, filling, homey taste of Guinness that makes one feel like you just finished a meal. I seemed to have found a fine replacement, at least while in New Zealand.
As I’m enjoying my new Irish friend in a glass, the bartender inquires if I will be playing poker. A brief exchange, and I can’t refuse the offer. Buy a beer get $250 worth of poker credit, $1000 credit gets you $1000 in chips, play until you’re out, no real money gambled. I decided to give the game another go, even though the last time I took part in a friendly poker game my inner card shark seemed to be off devouring some helpless white trash beach bum to the sounds of John Williams.
When you’re hungry, you tend to not think as clearly, and since intense cards, breeds intense appetite, I was pretty much destined to make a fool of myself. Irish pub? Shepherds pie is the hunger medicine of choice. After a few bites into the delicious classic I heard a fellow player say, “you’re up Shepherd.” Problem#1- I actually responded to him. Problem #2- sixteen hours into my five month stay in New Zealand and already I am, once again, being affiliated with the wool-laden mammals. Not just by my friends anymore, but by strangers, New Zealand strangers at that. Being half Scottish and obsessed with the little country down under, one can imagine, and expect, the sheep jokes that arise. But come on, give me a chance to escape, just for while? Please??
Regardless of bestiality jokes, I redeemed myself by placing 5th in the National Pub Poker League preliminaries. Don’t applaud me just yet; it’s not that big of a deal. The word “national” has a way of making things sound big, important, and commendable. In this case, “national” means the inclusion of the entire country, but no one knows about it except for a few pubs in one city. So come the following Monday, I’m off to the big boy tables to prove my worth against the other card playing beer lovers. And thus begins the series of events that eventually snowballs into a chaotic maelstrom of people, places, and even a smidge of drama. Ah, it’s just like home. Only ten times more beautiful, and this time I can actually enjoy my drinks at restaurants.
Let the journey commence
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