Noshingrog

by Tums

A guide to eating and drinking in Wellington

Sometimes I am asked by an Intourist from overseas where in the hell can one get food which is cooked well, is interesting, and is served by someone other than a snarling waitress or a lip-hungry waiter.

Alad and alack there is a paucity of such places in Wellington, only one, the Coachman.

When I first heard of this place I was unable to conceal a smirk, as I had purchance also heard that Des Britten ("hi there, you there") was the Cook.

I take it all back. Whatever Swingin' D. lacked as a disc jockey he has it all as a chef, and I mean chef, not Cook.

Everything is good, but the onion soup is superb. Light guitar music in the background, pleasant service, no sense of hurry. And the funny thing is that Des has discovered the secret of high profit.

Charging reasonable prices and not milking the public per the wine collar gets full houses. These are the cheapest wine prices at a class restaurant in town.

••••• and if I could award more, I would.

* * *

I Think I would like to be a regular at the Clyde Quay Hotel. I don't know for sure, but there seems to be a wonderful hospitality shown to regulars—your own mug, discussions where everyone is au fait with the subject—which the outsider is obviously, but not discourteously, made to feel.

The decor is not much, the beer ordinary. Yet this is about the only pub in Wellington which is like an English country pub. Things should be done with it, but the wrong things done would he disastrous. At very worst this pub has interest value.

• • •

* * *

Steak bars I can normally do without. The sight of a mass of people seated at counter dribbling their food and the aurol assaulty of the rhythmic chomping tends to put a block off his tuckerbag.

And generally the meat tends to be more than a little tough. It is the exception what proves the rule as my mate Fred is Fond of saying again and again and I suppose the Horse-shoe Steak Bar in Lower Hutt is the exception.

Still the revolting eating and slurping, hut the meal I ale was good. A shiskebab full of onions and tomatoes and peppers and lender meat. A somewhat antiseptic atmosphere did not help mastication, but if the Cook headed elsewhere I would follow.

••• all for the food.

* * *

I might as well get it off my chest now. After considerable research into food quality and quantity for price I have reached the horrific but unalterable conclusion that the Caf—that's right. Maison Fritz—is the best value in town. I, who complained so bitterly about cold pies and stringy roast beef! But if only those whipping away my saucer while my cup is at my lips. Don't smile too much, Fritz. Still only •••

* * *

"Double 'ski, fella? "The Red Rooster gripped my arm. I pretended not to hear. "What, is your friend a foreigner is he, man?" he enquired of my mate. Shrugging hopelessly I allowed another double to inveigle itself into my bloodstream. Thank Gad for the padded walls and subdued lighting.

"Chalk it up on the slate, Marc." The Pavilon bar is definitely a great place to get drunk in. But, I still can't understand how my watch said 2 a.m. when I left. Coppers, do read. ••••