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Salient: Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Vol. 32, No. 9. 1969.

Noshingrog by Tums

Noshingrog by Tums

A guide to eating and drinking in Wellington

If Perchance you should be wandering down Stout Street in the small hours of the morning you will most probably have to run the gauntlet of a small horde of leather jacketed youths who are apparently trying to conceal something. A closer perusal leaves one with the thought that these youths may be deployed by the Wellington City Corporation Public Relations Office for the precise purpose of concealing the object that is revealed to the gaze—to wit, the Kiwi Piecart. My considered advice to the student is to steer well clear of this place.

Item: a large bottle of soft drink purchased at 12.30 a.m. one week ago cost 30 cents. The vendor suggested, upon my complaint, that I try one of his competitors. Like where, at that hour?

Item: a meat pie bought from the same establishment cost 20 cents. The pie was cold and the meat content, to say the least, was not high.

Item for the piecart: You get no points from me, baby.

* * * * * *

The Duke of Edinburgh must be doing a very slick trade as a tourist attraction these days. By this I mean that 40% of the people go there to drink and the other 60% attend either in the hope of seeing a drug addict or in the hope of Wing seen and thought to be a drug addict. The drug addicts, needless to say, don't drink there. The end result is an uncomfortable feeling of being stared at all the time. Apart from this, there is a reasonable sort of atmosphere, fairly good beer and very good barmen. One of them actually shouted one or two drinks on a crowded Friday evening. 3½ points.

* * * * * *

Nothing puts me off my food more than an antiseptic restaurant. The food is ordinary, but probably quite well cooked; yet the taste seems to disappear as if soaked up into the decor. The Chez Lilly in Dixon Street is just such a place. One feels a desire to hunch over one's food to protect it from the predatory waitresses. The soup plate is whisked away while the soup spoon is in mid air and the main course slapped in front of one. At any moment one expects a neon light to appear on the wall urging one to stop smoking and finish up quickly for the next wave of diners. Super-efficiency ain't for me. One point.

* * * * * *

Just as the Chez Lilly is an antiseptic restaurant, so is the Gresham Hotel its equivalent in bars. 'Downstairs things are perhaps passable with one or two barmaids who are able to say something other than [unclear: l] "Luvlydaythatllbethirtysevencentsthanksluv", but upstairs is what I think the Licensing Control Commission means when it asks for more imagination in bar decor. The emphasis here is on boredom. The barman looks as if he couldn't care less whether you got served or not and as a result you couldn't care less whether you have another drink or not. Mind you, I may have been getting a bad trot because my mate insisted on asking every woman who came near our table (which was next to the convenience) whether she went off or not. But I don't think so. One point.

* * * * * *

My, My! I was looking for the Bistro the other night and being slightly befuddled I took a left turn instead of a right turn and ended up in the most darling little bar. It was called the Corner Bar, I think; in the Royal Oak anyway, and I'd describe the atmosphere as comfy. I would. The sweetest wee fellow served me a pink gin, and as Clem The Mad Barber had just done my hair it was no wonder that I was the centre of attraction. A lovely chap in purple trousers and frilly blouse sat down next to me and we talked about all sorts of things. I had a really gay time. Super place dear. Five points and a kiss.

* * * * * *

Normally I am not at my best in the morning. My eyes take a good deal of time to accustom themselves to the harsh light of day. And again. I rarely breakfast anywhere but the cold confines of my flat. But on the rare occasions I do venture out I find myself involved in some Kafkaesque nightmare, was seated in The Cellar looking calmly at the wall on which there appeared a picture of the Confederate charge at Bull Run which slowly dissolved into an enormous blue and grey breast. I chewed my bacon carefully and looked back at the wall. The breast had now changed into a flying saucer and a group of underfed Martians. Gurgling and frothing I rushed out. I don't know what the place was like. But any place where the walls behave like that makes me suspicious.