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Salient. Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Vol. 32, No. 21 September 10, 1969

Noshingrog

Noshingrog

A guide to eating and drinking in Wellington

Much ill as it becomes me to start the festive season (i.e. third term) on a sour note, I have herein to award the Fartface McGurk prize for the worst barman in Wellington. Unfortunately I was unable to procure the cognomen of the surly recipient, but he is employed upstairs at the Western Park and he looks like a pensioned-off milk bar cowboy.

Although there were any number of entries for the McGurk prize, our hero won it hands down with the following display:

Scene Upstairs at the W.P. Chairs, tables, a bar, general hubbub. Enter Tums, stage left.

Tums A pint please.

Barman duly pours pint with one and three quarter inches of froth, takes money, turns to other customers.

Tums (looking significantly at beer) Excuse me, my friend, but I don't think you're quite finished.

Barman Whassamatter?

Tums (looking at beer very signiñcantly indeed) I mean ... this.

Barman Wait till' I've finished with these others.

Ten minutes elapse. Turns waits, determined not to be outdone. By this time the one and three quarter inches of froth have evaporated. Barman returns.

Tums (abandoning his natural politesse) Fill it.

Barman I can't fill it. How do I know you haven't had a drink out of it while I was away?

Tums (mentally, because the barman is bigger than he, pouring the remains of pint over the churl) Pray to have a drink on me, fellow.

Curtain

You're falling into your old bad habits, W.P.

* * *

I have, in my days as a cub reporter on the Brazzaville Dispatch, often enjoyed a steak at the Lasso Steak Bar. The other night I was in no mood to trifle over my dinner, however, and I resolved to avail myself of the takeaway facilities at the self-same restaurant. I ordered an eggburger.

Readers, do not make the same mistake as I. What I received lasted exactly like seven week old bubble and squeak. A horrible, boiled taste. No points for the burgers; three points for the steaks.

* * *

In Cuba Street did Noshingrog
Still questing for the perfect bar
Stumble through a bottle store
And up a flight of stairs.
Had scarcely thought th' Imperial
Bequeathed a beery paradise
Of pints at only thirty cents

Of architecture so divine
And heaven from the jukebox played
Amidst the darking full subdued.
The chairs did lack in comfort, still
At ten no bells or sirens rang
And not at ten fifteen.

Twenty past the stroke of ten
The barman whispered in my ear
Time flies, time flies, o prithee sir
Godspeed and welladay.
For Tums has drunk the heady brew
And five points show his gratitude.

* * *

My first impression on entering the Vienna Restaurant in Manners Street was of an enormous belly protruding from the end of the hallway which leads into the dining area. The belly's owner came into view some moments later. He was not a sight conducive to beneficial digestion.

My promptly served spaghetti bolognaise entrée was followed by a twenty-eight minute interval before my nasi goring arrived. During this time I ascertained the function of my rotund friend. He busied himself adjusting the volume control on the tape recorder. Viennese waltzes received full volume honours. Other music was scaled down proportionately. It was quite an experience. One was alternately lulled into a spororific reverie by the subdued clatter of kitchen noises and blasted into remembering that the dinner had not yet arrived by the Strauss schmaltz.

The prices charged for the food quality (which was reasonable) are highish. Hardly gourmet fare. Two points.