Kiwi Konexions: I 'Ate Cooking
In this delcious slice of prose Glen Taylor tells of a birthday meal prepared by a young chef who 'ates cooking.
We had been off on one of our wanders. I think it was the day we were sandblasted on Wharariki beach by a force eight gale. My husband had dragged me there, protesting, so that he could get a photo he had missed last year, with a view to painting it. I demanded a cup of coffee, I felt I had earned it, so we called in at The Olde Schoolhouse restaurant, at Pakawau.
This place has a bit of a history so I suppose I had better tell you about it. It has changed hands three times since we have been visiting the area. The first owners were a charming couple who really knew the hospitality trade. The old school house kept its charm with desks now polished and arranged as tables and the old blackboard used as the menu. The man or maitre d’, dressed smartly with a large apron around his middle, escorted us to our flower-decked table, draping us with large linen napkins before leaving us to peruse the menu and sip our aperitifs. The food was perfect, the service second to none and Baroque music played softly in the background. We were very impressed.
Owner number two appeared. We thought we would check out the menu before booking. A rather large lady, with long red finger nails and a cigarette dangling form her lips, informed us that she was the cook and, with much coughing and spluttering and ash falling around her, told us it “was chips with everything.” A juke box blared out and a snooker table took up most of the room. We didn’t stop to eat.
And so to owners number three. The place was in a state of flux and on the market, in the meantime two young boys on a work scheme seemed to be running it. The waiter was someone who my husband said “was too young to be out without his mother'', and his brother, the chef, was sat at a table, chef’s hat askew, writing the evening’s menu. They were a nice couple and the place spotless and tastefully arranged, we were back to the standards of owner number one.
I ordered a cappuccino and my husband a beer. The young lad making the coffee said, “It doesn’t look frothy enough, I’ll have that,” and made me another. “Is that alright,” he said, and sitting down at the table next to us, he began to tell us of his hopes and dreams. Meanwhile the chef had finished the menu and started work on a still life display of fresh produce. “We want folk to see the fresh stuff we use,” he explained.
I mentioned my up and coming birthday to Martin and asked to see the menu. It looked great, a selection of stuff from all over the world plus the old faithfuls, fillet steak and salmon. As we were leaving, the chef, who had just come in from the garden carrying a huge marrow and a load of courgettes, said “do you want a tomato,” and held out a handful of sweet cherry tomatoes. To say the least they were unorthodox and very friendly. On the drive back I discussed the idea of eating there while my husband muttered about a seafood place he wanted to try.
A couple of weeks later we were again passing The Schoolhouse so we thought we would drop in. This time we were greeted with “sorry I’m not cooking today.” “Why?” we asked. “Haven’t got the stuff from Nelson and the deepfreeze has broken down.” “Cup of coffee?” “Oh that’s OK.” “Where is your brother?” we enquired of the slightly anxious chef who was wondering what he could cook that night. “Oh he is in trouble, he went to a party last night and got done for drunk driving.” Just then a subdued looking brother put his head round the door. “Where’ve you bin?’ he was asked. “Lost my licence for three months.” But I have a feeling that his father’s tongue lashing had been the greater punishment. “I told you you were too young to be out on your own,” said Martin and then we booked a meal for my birthday. “I ‘ate cooking,” said the chef and I wondered what kind of a meal we would get.
Meanwhile we have just returned from lunch at The Naked Possum where the owner told me she was the aunt of these two youngsters and the lad was a great chef, so all should be well on the night.
During the course of the meal at this lovely spot, tucked under the Kaituna hills, we overheard a dear old lady of about eighty asking if it really did take eight hours to walk the Kaituna track. “The sublime to the ridiculous,” I thought, a chef who “‘'ates cooking” to an eighty year old, dressed in highly polished shoes and neat outfit, really thinking she could walk the Kaituna track. Maybe five minutes of it but whether she could make the gold diggings and the deep pool in the river, for us a gentle afternoons’ stroll, was doubtful.
The Kaituna track has these instructions at the beginning:
Pleasant walk for the reasonably fit for the first 30 mins.
From the Gold diggings to the Forks experience needed.
Beyond the Forks only extremely experienced trampers.
No track, route marked by blazes.
2 large rivers to ford which could be impassable.
I got a fit of the giggles as my mind painted a picture of this dear old lady beating a way through the undergrowth with her handbag and leaping from boulder to boulder, in her high heels, as she forded the impassable rivers.
It takes all sorts to make a world and I wondered what my birthday treat would be like, prepared for me by a chef who “‘ates cooking.”
It was excellent with a special place setting and “Happy Birthday” piped around my dessert plate.
I often wonder if the old lady tried to walk the track.
