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#BeastOfKelburn
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Panini, Trammezino, Potato, PO-TAY-TOE, Tomato, Tomay-tee
Potato.
'Ugh' I can hear you all saying, not another one of those posts. Well, TBH, it's just important we get the right people following this quote-un-quote 'blog'. You could always go back to reading TMZ, or whatever the antipodean equivalent of TMZ is... (lookin@chu, Rachel Glucina). #LeaveCharlotteAlone
In any case, prepare to receive knowledge darts straight to your domium.
3.
2.
1....
Seems at some point, right around the time you could still catch a latte bowl in Ponsonby, a subtle yet significant paradigm shift occurred. Cafe bought toasted sandwiches went from being called panini to going by tramezzini. Dear Cafeterias, please cut the crap and call a spade a vanga. It's two breads and a fillings, maybe witta li'l chili-cheese on um. And don't let anyone tell try and tell you there's a difference, unless they're a legit I-ti or a made man, at which it'll be too late fo yo adze anyway. My personal theory is at around the time this shift took place, McCafe was jumping all over this shit, so cafs felt like they hadda differentiate.
Which leads me to my next topic, Tongue & Groove Cafe, Birkenhead Ave, GuessWhereStupid. The coffee here came as recommended by highly reclusive but fairly reliable source and some-time collaborator/provincial correspondent to EB, Capital Times. Post Saturday roller-plank sesh at BSP (VSOP ASAP Cheezburger RIP), we decided to blow up the spot. TGV served up a range of staple cafes (FW, SoyFW, HC, and my LB), all pronounced to by more than dece' by the gang. Sidenote: LB's a'gotta be the yardstick... come on, cuzzy, get on some grown-arse-(wo)man coffee, especially in the PM (peace to my mans Juelz Santini on this one).
I was a little pecko so copped a breakfast tram-wich out da cabo, which, if a little grease-ball, was nevertheless well taste.
In spite of their somehow off-putting name, TGV Caf' comes correct. They've (secret) nailed it. I'll TOATS be back. Hit.
'Ugh' I can hear you all saying, not another one of those posts. Well, TBH, it's just important we get the right people following this quote-un-quote 'blog'. You could always go back to reading TMZ, or whatever the antipodean equivalent of TMZ is... (lookin@chu, Rachel Glucina). #LeaveCharlotteAlone
In any case, prepare to receive knowledge darts straight to your domium.
3.
2.
1....
Seems at some point, right around the time you could still catch a latte bowl in Ponsonby, a subtle yet significant paradigm shift occurred. Cafe bought toasted sandwiches went from being called panini to going by tramezzini. Dear Cafeterias, please cut the crap and call a spade a vanga. It's two breads and a fillings, maybe witta li'l chili-cheese on um. And don't let anyone tell try and tell you there's a difference, unless they're a legit I-ti or a made man, at which it'll be too late fo yo adze anyway. My personal theory is at around the time this shift took place, McCafe was jumping all over this shit, so cafs felt like they hadda differentiate.
I was a little pecko so copped a breakfast tram-wich out da cabo, which, if a little grease-ball, was nevertheless well taste.
In spite of their somehow off-putting name, TGV Caf' comes correct. They've (secret) nailed it. I'll TOATS be back. Hit.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Sunday Cha Timez
17C Link Drive, Wairau Park
Areet, OK... Issyabuoy, Young E.B. AKA The Cha-millionaire AKA Dimset AKA Shrimp C. It's been, what? a minute since I last deigned to bless you with a little mid-morning knowledge. In any case it's certainly been a min-ute since I last fucked with the dim sums, on this internet web-log anyway.
Word to the #SpiceBoyz gang. Of late I been tryna obtain some legit intel RE: new gook-muck spots, IE. spots that aren't New Flavour or any other over-arse joints (peace to Spicy Joint, which by the way, is not over). Intel from real live Azns.... the word from two of my oriental colleagues at the Sweatshop was that Star Caf was the place to be.
N-Dundee Pro-tip: get here early, especially if you come on a Sunday. The place opens at eleven, we arrived about eleven-thirty, and had a brief, tolerable wait, until the dude with the earpiece retrieved P. and me from loitering outside - we'd been admiring the majestic Lake Wairau. By the time we bounced the queue was out the do'!
Cyber-rumours of authentic Chinese style service were mostly confirmed, it did suck. At times it's a stretch for mild-mannered palagis to get comfortable about being what would be considered rude at a non-chinese restaurant. You gotta be pretty direct, even then it's a struggle. A few of our faves proved highly elusive, but the sweet-n-sour pork was proffered to the whites more than once.
Straight off the bat decided to switch the style up (and watch the pile up) and cop some pork slices. These were chilled and resplendent in a well ratio'd bath of chili oil and other mysterious elixirs. Nothing like kick starting your Sunday fuzzbrain with the magic of spice. Sweating and buggin' in seconds.
The proceeding plates & baskets that did land were competent. Dumpos could've been a little firmer, IMHO, and could've been a little more various - they all seemed to be prawn. Where the coriander at!!??? That's my shit! Prawn toast was official, doe, while we're talkin' prawn. Nice ice cream balls, but real-talk, kinda hard to fuck-up something pre-packaged.
I left feeling satiated, but not disrespected, which is mission failure in my kindle. Side note: at Star Cafe Seafood Restaurant $64 three ways is $19.20... which seemed to suggest a surcharge for not splitting. Buzzy, eh. I would/will return, but not in a hurry - maybe just for the pork slices. Judging by the mob forming in the foyer as we gapped, they'll do fine without my frequent custom. Miss.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Playing the %ages... or "Let off some steam, Bennett"
Kia ora, kia ora EB Whanau.
I certainly fell-off there for more than a minute, I can admit that... But I ain't never left. Just been posted in the booth, watching suckers play theyselves an' all that. But I'm about to take these fake-arse A&R's to court, because I the Inspector!!!
(whew! so many mixed-up rap references already in the first para - first person to ID will win............. nothing but the satisfaction of Knowledge).
Anyway, like I'm saying, it's not as though your boy Edward Burlington III freaked-the-fuck-out and stopped coppin' those extravagant fast-breakers, had some kind of petit-bourgeois crise-de-couer (Franc'd-the-fuck-out) and eats nothing but beansprouts and water from his own artesian bore in Kaiwaka. I'm Bout This Brunch Life, always have been, always will be. ACKLIKEYOUKNOW.
I feel like those first two were far too Urban.
Apologies to my Two (2) followers (and any other Anon lurkers - optimistic, I know), who I'm sure have long forgotten the existence. In any case I shouldn't have left you, without some knowledge darts to step to (step to). One can only review Salta so many times...
I have recently made the move out of Central, which hasn't yielded any discoveries particularly blog-worthy, until recently.
First at the crease is Devonport Delicatessen Cafe, right on the main drag. Based on it's shady appearance I prolly would've never bothered, but my Fred-buddy suggested we go there one day post some Rapha-as riding in the Alpes d'Henderson, and I was pleasantly surprised.
Good, honest food, that wasn't too rich... and heaps-dece' coffee to boot. While we're about it: why is it it seems once you travel a certain distance from AKL Central, suddenly coffees are available in up to four times as many sizes (Starsquiers excluded, of course). Stop me if you think you've heard this one before, but didn't the latte bowl disappear about the same time as colourful iMacs, or at least it should have - along with Mingi/Backwards Cheese-cutter Combos. Surely the idea of a Large Short Black is in itself contradictory. Once I got over this minor gripe, however, the kai was thoroughly enjoyable. Hit. Go here. Would eat again. A+++ cheers :)
Click here, scroll down. Not a bad guide, but someone could do a better one. Lord knows it won't be me.
Top billing this time goes to Cafe at Bennetts of Mangawhai (52 Moir St). A place like this would ordinarily set alarm-bells off in my head - faux Tuscan villa style, the main event is in fact an award winning Chocolatier (PAUSE), distressed-french-country-everything-everywhere - but I was in such a good mood after a surprisingly refreshing sleep on the top bunk I was able to get over my usual prejudices. In spite of all these obvious faux-pas, the cafe has a pretty honest vibe about it. Simple, concise blackboard menu - all the big names, none of the bullshit. A little on the spenno side, but it is worth it. I opted for the omelette with raclette and onion jam, with a side of excellent pork & fennel saus. As usual, my talk exceeded my walk, the plate getting the better of me (this time, and only just). My companions' plates were also pronounced good, if a little riche. We all left disrespected, obviously. Service was prompt, but to be fair, we did get there quite early (before 10:00AM even... shit's unheard of), and it looked like the hoards were 'pon us as we stumbled across to the Boutique afterward. The waitress even had a wrist-tat. Alt Dot Tick. Gripe: my latte was far too creamy, but maybe I should grow a pair and stop ordering lattes. Also, what did I expect from an adjunct to a chocolate factorie. We admired the various bon-bons on display as we basked in the afterglow. As we were leaving, J enquired as to the highest percentage 'cocao' Bennetts' make: "70%... anything higher is just too bitter". Before I could check myself: "that's an opinion..." and off we went. Gimme that stuff that TASTE LIKE DIRT. That's my shit. Oh, yeah. Hit.
I certainly fell-off there for more than a minute, I can admit that... But I ain't never left. Just been posted in the booth, watching suckers play theyselves an' all that. But I'm about to take these fake-arse A&R's to court, because I the Inspector!!!
(whew! so many mixed-up rap references already in the first para - first person to ID will win............. nothing but the satisfaction of Knowledge).
Anyway, like I'm saying, it's not as though your boy Edward Burlington III freaked-the-fuck-out and stopped coppin' those extravagant fast-breakers, had some kind of petit-bourgeois crise-de-couer (Franc'd-the-fuck-out) and eats nothing but beansprouts and water from his own artesian bore in Kaiwaka. I'm Bout This Brunch Life, always have been, always will be. ACKLIKEYOUKNOW.
I feel like those first two were far too Urban.
Apologies to my Two (2) followers (and any other Anon lurkers - optimistic, I know), who I'm sure have long forgotten the existence. In any case I shouldn't have left you, without some knowledge darts to step to (step to). One can only review Salta so many times...
I have recently made the move out of Central, which hasn't yielded any discoveries particularly blog-worthy, until recently.
First at the crease is Devonport Delicatessen Cafe, right on the main drag. Based on it's shady appearance I prolly would've never bothered, but my Fred-buddy suggested we go there one day post some Rapha-as riding in the Alpes d'Henderson, and I was pleasantly surprised.
Good, honest food, that wasn't too rich... and heaps-dece' coffee to boot. While we're about it: why is it it seems once you travel a certain distance from AKL Central, suddenly coffees are available in up to four times as many sizes (Starsquiers excluded, of course). Stop me if you think you've heard this one before, but didn't the latte bowl disappear about the same time as colourful iMacs, or at least it should have - along with Mingi/Backwards Cheese-cutter Combos. Surely the idea of a Large Short Black is in itself contradictory. Once I got over this minor gripe, however, the kai was thoroughly enjoyable. Hit. Go here. Would eat again. A+++ cheers :)
Click here, scroll down. Not a bad guide, but someone could do a better one. Lord knows it won't be me.
Top billing this time goes to Cafe at Bennetts of Mangawhai (52 Moir St). A place like this would ordinarily set alarm-bells off in my head - faux Tuscan villa style, the main event is in fact an award winning Chocolatier (PAUSE), distressed-french-country-everything-everywhere - but I was in such a good mood after a surprisingly refreshing sleep on the top bunk I was able to get over my usual prejudices. In spite of all these obvious faux-pas, the cafe has a pretty honest vibe about it. Simple, concise blackboard menu - all the big names, none of the bullshit. A little on the spenno side, but it is worth it. I opted for the omelette with raclette and onion jam, with a side of excellent pork & fennel saus. As usual, my talk exceeded my walk, the plate getting the better of me (this time, and only just). My companions' plates were also pronounced good, if a little riche. We all left disrespected, obviously. Service was prompt, but to be fair, we did get there quite early (before 10:00AM even... shit's unheard of), and it looked like the hoards were 'pon us as we stumbled across to the Boutique afterward. The waitress even had a wrist-tat. Alt Dot Tick. Gripe: my latte was far too creamy, but maybe I should grow a pair and stop ordering lattes. Also, what did I expect from an adjunct to a chocolate factorie. We admired the various bon-bons on display as we basked in the afterglow. As we were leaving, J enquired as to the highest percentage 'cocao' Bennetts' make: "70%... anything higher is just too bitter". Before I could check myself: "that's an opinion..." and off we went. Gimme that stuff that TASTE LIKE DIRT. That's my shit. Oh, yeah. Hit.
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