Wednesday February 6
The only reason for the existence of Franz Josef Village is the Franz Josef glacier. Once you've walked to, on, or around its magnificence, or been ferried over it in plane or helicopter, you must return to one street of backpacker motels, hotels, some bars, and two or three restaurants. So we asked the driver of our Eco-Tours shuttle what restaurant she and her daughter Tasmin (who was collecting fares) liked. They recommended the Blue Ice Cafe, so we were sold.
As it was Waitangi Day the place was pretty crowded, but there were tables on the patio, and soon after we got our bottle of Brookfields Ohiti Estate Cabernet Sauvignon 2006 (and just before the sandflies started to bite), they were able to move us to an inside table. Our starters were tender calamari, cut Thai-style into diamonds, in a fine mustardy vinaigrette on a bed of fresh greens; and mussels again in Thai style, coated in coconut crème thick as housepaint, with a hint of green curry paste and a lingering blast of chili. We requested spoons and sucked up every drop.
The chef plainly considers himself artistic, because each main dish had a one-word title and an elaborate description, including its spiritual qualities and its mystic wine-marriage, in the menu. "Irish" was very tender beef tenderloin slices topped with chimichurri, piled on a heap of coarsely mashed potatoes marooned in a lake of dark oniony sauce with a shot of Jameson's; the garnish was thin chips of grilled chorizo knifed into octopus tentacles. "Red" was venison, again in tender and perfectly cooked slices, on mashed kumara with beets AND a grilled tomato AND red cabbage sauerkraut AND demiglace with blueberries.
The individual elements were inventive and tasted great, but with all that traffic on the plate, the dishes were incoherent. If half the sides had been removed, the impression of excellence would have been stronger. The chef is already a very good cook, and we think that advancing age and experience - plus maybe a little Zen thinking - should calm him down to achieve better results.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Wai, Queenstown
Tuesday February 5
We had tried to get into Wai on Saturday, when we'd ended up at Fishbone. It looked so nice that Holt forethoughtfully made reservations for the night we'd be back in Queenstown, after our day cruise on Milford Sound. It's a very dressy place, so we burnished our wind-chapped selves and put on some fancy duds to walk out to Steamer Wharf, where we were ushered to a white-clothed table overlooking patio, lake, and mountains.
Wai aims for a sophistication atypical of New Zealand; they do that bit about their choice of waters, and actually charge for bread. But the bread was a procession of five faultlessly tender little rolls, to be dipped into good oil and balsamic. We did plenty of that, with a bottle of 2007 Rock Ferry Sauvignon Blanc - peachy keen.
We started with a half dozen Nelson oysters, meaty and sweeter than their musky Pacific cousins. They came with mignonette, shredded dilled cucumber, and white balsamic; the latter was best at not disguising their slight briny tang. Even better was a starter of pan-seared Wahoo, perfect circles rolled in chopped green herbs, along with pinwheels of panko-crusted calamari dusted with fleur de sel. Amazing.
Holt was still eager for what he'd missed at Redcliff, so he ordered a braised leg of Bendigo hare in vanilla sauce. That was an intense dark demiglace, just this side of toasted, with the long slice of vanilla bean still garnishing it. Little pillows of potatoes and french beans helped soak it up, and a glass of Gabriel's Gully Pinot Noir went with it.
Barbara went for the new fish of the day: Fiordland grouper, which is apparently different from other groupers throughout the world, and from the "groper" they also serve around here. This was rich fish, its crisp skin dusted with almonds. Its complex, well-balanced flavors reconciled us to that trite trout-amandine combination. So yes, Wai aims at sophistication; but it really is sophisticated.
We had tried to get into Wai on Saturday, when we'd ended up at Fishbone. It looked so nice that Holt forethoughtfully made reservations for the night we'd be back in Queenstown, after our day cruise on Milford Sound. It's a very dressy place, so we burnished our wind-chapped selves and put on some fancy duds to walk out to Steamer Wharf, where we were ushered to a white-clothed table overlooking patio, lake, and mountains.
Wai aims for a sophistication atypical of New Zealand; they do that bit about their choice of waters, and actually charge for bread. But the bread was a procession of five faultlessly tender little rolls, to be dipped into good oil and balsamic. We did plenty of that, with a bottle of 2007 Rock Ferry Sauvignon Blanc - peachy keen.
We started with a half dozen Nelson oysters, meaty and sweeter than their musky Pacific cousins. They came with mignonette, shredded dilled cucumber, and white balsamic; the latter was best at not disguising their slight briny tang. Even better was a starter of pan-seared Wahoo, perfect circles rolled in chopped green herbs, along with pinwheels of panko-crusted calamari dusted with fleur de sel. Amazing.
Holt was still eager for what he'd missed at Redcliff, so he ordered a braised leg of Bendigo hare in vanilla sauce. That was an intense dark demiglace, just this side of toasted, with the long slice of vanilla bean still garnishing it. Little pillows of potatoes and french beans helped soak it up, and a glass of Gabriel's Gully Pinot Noir went with it.
Barbara went for the new fish of the day: Fiordland grouper, which is apparently different from other groupers throughout the world, and from the "groper" they also serve around here. This was rich fish, its crisp skin dusted with almonds. Its complex, well-balanced flavors reconciled us to that trite trout-amandine combination. So yes, Wai aims at sophistication; but it really is sophisticated.
Redcliff, Te Anau
Monday February 4
Fiordland is a huge national park with a delicate rainforest ecosystem. It has rough impassable terrain and deliberately few roads in order to keep it lightly populated - and that works, because we've never seen such gorgeous scenery with so few people in our lives. The disadvantage is, if you want to go from a cruise on Doubtful Sound to one on Milford Sound, you can't go directly between the two, but have to overnight somewhere.
We spent the night at Te Anau, which is far quieter than Queenstown - indeed, almost geriatric. The only amusement (beyond walking around the lake, reading in the sun, and swimming in a hotel pool almost colder than Doubtful Sound) was watching the volunteer fire department run hose drills in Lion Park.
Of the restaurants recommended by Lonely Planet, we chose Redcliff for its imaginative menu and funky decor (the other two places were too Olive Gardeny). But first we tested it by lunching there. We had two "stacks," tall sandwiches like gourmet Dagwoods: one of greenbone, a new fish to us and very savory, served with pickled peppers and arugula on good white bread; and one of wild venison with tomato and pepper confit, roast peppers, and arugula on herb bread. Also, their dinner menu said they had wild hare. We were so there.
Redcliff doesn't take reservations, so when we came back from our do-nothing day we had a bit of a wait, only sweetened by a bottle of Dry Gully Pinot Noir 2005. Eventually we were seated out on the garden patio to watch some French children play patenque, and to split a billy of mussels - a traditional bucket full of greenlipped beauties, drenched in their own juices and creamy aioli.
Alas, they were out of wild hare, so in honor of the herds of beef cattle we'd been driving past, Holt had the local Southland beef. It was toothsome and tender, served with yummy roast potatoes, baby carrots, and onion and pepper relish (we sense a theme here, as peppers and relishes were also prominent in the afternoon's stacks).
Barbara ordered medium-rare rack of lamb, but when it came - well after Holt had already been served, which is a restaurant sin - it was two mingy little end ribs, overdone to boot. So for the first time in her life, she sent a dish back. Many apologies from the youthful and plentifully tattooed waitstaff, so she [Barbara, that is, who lacks tattoos] strolled in the garden, sniffing flowers and picking plums, until they could get another one ready. This time it was au point and a decent size, on a bed of Israeli couscous with (guess what) peppers, onions and olives, and garnished with nasturtiums and honeysuckle fresh from the garden. We were the last people in the place, but Redcliff eventually redeemed itself.
Fiordland is a huge national park with a delicate rainforest ecosystem. It has rough impassable terrain and deliberately few roads in order to keep it lightly populated - and that works, because we've never seen such gorgeous scenery with so few people in our lives. The disadvantage is, if you want to go from a cruise on Doubtful Sound to one on Milford Sound, you can't go directly between the two, but have to overnight somewhere.
We spent the night at Te Anau, which is far quieter than Queenstown - indeed, almost geriatric. The only amusement (beyond walking around the lake, reading in the sun, and swimming in a hotel pool almost colder than Doubtful Sound) was watching the volunteer fire department run hose drills in Lion Park.
Of the restaurants recommended by Lonely Planet, we chose Redcliff for its imaginative menu and funky decor (the other two places were too Olive Gardeny). But first we tested it by lunching there. We had two "stacks," tall sandwiches like gourmet Dagwoods: one of greenbone, a new fish to us and very savory, served with pickled peppers and arugula on good white bread; and one of wild venison with tomato and pepper confit, roast peppers, and arugula on herb bread. Also, their dinner menu said they had wild hare. We were so there.
Redcliff doesn't take reservations, so when we came back from our do-nothing day we had a bit of a wait, only sweetened by a bottle of Dry Gully Pinot Noir 2005. Eventually we were seated out on the garden patio to watch some French children play patenque, and to split a billy of mussels - a traditional bucket full of greenlipped beauties, drenched in their own juices and creamy aioli.
Alas, they were out of wild hare, so in honor of the herds of beef cattle we'd been driving past, Holt had the local Southland beef. It was toothsome and tender, served with yummy roast potatoes, baby carrots, and onion and pepper relish (we sense a theme here, as peppers and relishes were also prominent in the afternoon's stacks).
Barbara ordered medium-rare rack of lamb, but when it came - well after Holt had already been served, which is a restaurant sin - it was two mingy little end ribs, overdone to boot. So for the first time in her life, she sent a dish back. Many apologies from the youthful and plentifully tattooed waitstaff, so she [Barbara, that is, who lacks tattoos] strolled in the garden, sniffing flowers and picking plums, until they could get another one ready. This time it was au point and a decent size, on a bed of Israeli couscous with (guess what) peppers, onions and olives, and garnished with nasturtiums and honeysuckle fresh from the garden. We were the last people in the place, but Redcliff eventually redeemed itself.
The Fiordland Navigator, Anchored in Doubtful Sound
Sunday February 3
The highlight of our trip was an overnight cruise in one of the longest inlets in all Fiordland, Doubtful Sound. The weather was clear, the meandering shoreline deepest green, and sunset on the Tasman Sea unruffled except by dusky dolphins and sea lions that appeared and basked for our delectation. Magical.
We admire how these cruises manage to give a whole bunch of unrelated people of many nations and all ages the correct balance of amusement (in our case, nature watching and a bit of blue-lipped swimming), picture-taking, quiet, company, drinking, sleeping, and eating. The eating is especially chancy, as people tend to be particular about food. So the general rule is, bring on the buffet!
The other general rule is just as important: keep the bar open. So we progressed from an early bottle of BenSen merlot (which we carried all over the decks as the scenery demanded) to a Matariki pinot noir that took us through dinner.
There were many salads to start with, though we stuck to the Greek variety - quite good. The many main courses included thick cuts of lightly-smoked salmon (the best choice) with waldorf salad; a chicken curry; and carved roast lamb and beef; all with their requisite accompaniments. There were also assorted vedge, though we stuck with the very tasty roast herbed kumara and potatoes.
For dessert, Kiwi pride made it essential to have a slice of pavlova, more meringue than anything; and just a nibble of the dense chocolate cake. There was also a nice service of New Zealand local cheeses, which went well with the last of the pinot noir before we took a last stroll of the moonlit deck and fell into the twin bunks in our tiny but well-equipped cabin. Only the dawn chorus of bellbirds - and the starting of the ship's engines - would awaken us.
Fishbone, Queenstown
Saturday February 2
Queenstown is more of a hyped-up resort town than anything else we've seen in New Zealand - a mall in its center, motels stacked around its edges, lots of loud teenagers in its streets and bars, and paragliders coming off the top of the mountain and landing along its otherwise lovely lake. So the loud music coming out of Fishbone made us walk right past it, despite its high recommendation in Lonely Planet. But all the other fish restaurants in town were full, and everybody we asked said that the best alternative was Fishbone. So we finally returned.
As it turned out, the music was mainly in the front, and people were doing some serious eating in the back. We started with a dozen Pacific oysters (nice and musky), accompanied by a Chard Farm Savvie 2007.
In our constant search for fishes we had never had before, we ordered the Blue Warehou special. The fish is meaty like tuna, but more tender, and falls away in big flakes. It was served on a zucchini pancake with a grilled and parmesaned tomato on the side. Delicious.
We also had the South Island Flounder (patiki, so the NZ fish-spotters' guide informs us). Unfortunately the little floundery thing had NOT been well-cleaned, and a dark bitter patch of guts was clinging behind his head and gills. But once that was cleared away, the flavor was subtle and mild, like Dover sole. It was baked with citrus butter and laid out on a layer of excellent chups (or french fries, as they also say here), along with a good aioli.
Save for the cleaning error, Fishbone was on the whole a very good thing, and from now on we won't judge a restaurant by its music - so much.
Queenstown is more of a hyped-up resort town than anything else we've seen in New Zealand - a mall in its center, motels stacked around its edges, lots of loud teenagers in its streets and bars, and paragliders coming off the top of the mountain and landing along its otherwise lovely lake. So the loud music coming out of Fishbone made us walk right past it, despite its high recommendation in Lonely Planet. But all the other fish restaurants in town were full, and everybody we asked said that the best alternative was Fishbone. So we finally returned.
As it turned out, the music was mainly in the front, and people were doing some serious eating in the back. We started with a dozen Pacific oysters (nice and musky), accompanied by a Chard Farm Savvie 2007.
In our constant search for fishes we had never had before, we ordered the Blue Warehou special. The fish is meaty like tuna, but more tender, and falls away in big flakes. It was served on a zucchini pancake with a grilled and parmesaned tomato on the side. Delicious.
We also had the South Island Flounder (patiki, so the NZ fish-spotters' guide informs us). Unfortunately the little floundery thing had NOT been well-cleaned, and a dark bitter patch of guts was clinging behind his head and gills. But once that was cleared away, the flavor was subtle and mild, like Dover sole. It was baked with citrus butter and laid out on a layer of excellent chups (or french fries, as they also say here), along with a good aioli.
Save for the cleaning error, Fishbone was on the whole a very good thing, and from now on we won't judge a restaurant by its music - so much.
Bell Pepper Blues, Dunedin
Friday February 1
Dunedin, in the far southeast of the South Island, is a very Scottish town, with the Free Kirk, its raison d'etre and major monument, slightly rainy and windswept today. The Lonely Planet guidebook (which has proved to be VERY reliable so far) only had two restaurants that sounded good, and luckily one of them was not far from our hotel, as we'd already walked our feet off to and around the Otago Museum.
Even the waitresses couldn't explain the name Bell Pepper Blues. The place is nondescript on the outside, plain but serene within. We warmed our bones with a bottle of Hatton Estate merlot, which like most merlots here was meatier than even a Cab Sav. And the special soup, a delicate seafood bisque, helped a lot too. Our other starter was scallop tortellini, an exquisite lineup of little dumplings stuffed with big chunks of scallop as well as lovely pink mousseline and decorated with scrawls of lemon and wasabi cream sauce, each topped with a tiny chip of prosciutto.
For mains, we had a char-grilled elk loin - probably wapiti, a deerlike elk or elklike deer which was imported from America to New Zealand for the hunters, and as usual, got loose, overpopulated, and decimated this delicate ecosystem. They were finally rounded up using nets from helicopters, and are now extensively farmed in the South Island. It was perfectly cooked, sprinkled with pepper and porcini mushroom dust, with a roasted white kumara aioli and a sweet red wine and juniper glace de viande, not to mention a smoked bacon yorkshire pudding alongside. Though we still think that our best venison was the wood-smoked stuff at Cook'n' with Gas.
As every NZ restaurant seems to have pork belly on the menu, we tried it here. It was a streaky roll, so unctuous that a mouthful felt like a full meal, and came with puréed potatoes, roasted parsnips, and a muscatel, muscovado sugar, and apple juice glaze. At the end, I could hardly get my jacket on, and the cold wind was no longer a problem.
Dunedin, in the far southeast of the South Island, is a very Scottish town, with the Free Kirk, its raison d'etre and major monument, slightly rainy and windswept today. The Lonely Planet guidebook (which has proved to be VERY reliable so far) only had two restaurants that sounded good, and luckily one of them was not far from our hotel, as we'd already walked our feet off to and around the Otago Museum.
Even the waitresses couldn't explain the name Bell Pepper Blues. The place is nondescript on the outside, plain but serene within. We warmed our bones with a bottle of Hatton Estate merlot, which like most merlots here was meatier than even a Cab Sav. And the special soup, a delicate seafood bisque, helped a lot too. Our other starter was scallop tortellini, an exquisite lineup of little dumplings stuffed with big chunks of scallop as well as lovely pink mousseline and decorated with scrawls of lemon and wasabi cream sauce, each topped with a tiny chip of prosciutto.
For mains, we had a char-grilled elk loin - probably wapiti, a deerlike elk or elklike deer which was imported from America to New Zealand for the hunters, and as usual, got loose, overpopulated, and decimated this delicate ecosystem. They were finally rounded up using nets from helicopters, and are now extensively farmed in the South Island. It was perfectly cooked, sprinkled with pepper and porcini mushroom dust, with a roasted white kumara aioli and a sweet red wine and juniper glace de viande, not to mention a smoked bacon yorkshire pudding alongside. Though we still think that our best venison was the wood-smoked stuff at Cook'n' with Gas.
As every NZ restaurant seems to have pork belly on the menu, we tried it here. It was a streaky roll, so unctuous that a mouthful felt like a full meal, and came with puréed potatoes, roasted parsnips, and a muscatel, muscovado sugar, and apple juice glaze. At the end, I could hardly get my jacket on, and the cold wind was no longer a problem.
The Curator's House, Christchurch - Reprise
Thursday January 31
We enjoyed this place so much on our afternoon visit that we reserved a dinner spot for the last night in Christchurch before our tour of the Southland. And as an appetizer, we booked a romantic punt ride on the Avon - of course, taking along a bottle of Savvie (Sauvignon Blanc to you, pardner) and a couple of glasses. It amused the ducks, and our Edwardian-costumed punter got a sip as well.
Once at the Curator's House, we were seated in the bow window, looking out over the lawns of the Botanic Gardens to the Peacock Fountain (named, presumably, for its complete lack of peacocks - though there are storks). We didn't want to repeat the tapas we'd already had there, so we started by splitting an appetizer of "fish cakes," the fish having been given more body by admixing "tuna of the land," i.e. chicken. (As we'd later find at the Bush Man Café near Harihari, "chicken of the forest" is possum in these here parts). With it, we had a bottle of Earth's End Pinot Noir, which has on its label a move-by-move depiction of the All Blacks' famous haka (and if you don't recognize any part of that, feel free to Google).
One main course we chose was a "Zarzuela" of seafood - mussels, those genuinely "giant" prawns, clams, and tender tranches of various sorts of fish in a subtly seasoned tomato broth. Sort of a Spanish take on bouillabaisse. The other was "cervena" - lovely rare slices of roast venison among delicious vegetables. There is a "Cervena Council" here in NZ, and it seems to mean something different from place to place - venison yes, young and tender yes (it's apparently required to be from an animal less than three years old) but from red deer, or elk, or some crossbreed of both?
No room for dessert, but a nice stroll through the gardens as the sun set, about 9:30 PM. Summer near the South Pole has its advantages.
We enjoyed this place so much on our afternoon visit that we reserved a dinner spot for the last night in Christchurch before our tour of the Southland. And as an appetizer, we booked a romantic punt ride on the Avon - of course, taking along a bottle of Savvie (Sauvignon Blanc to you, pardner) and a couple of glasses. It amused the ducks, and our Edwardian-costumed punter got a sip as well.
Once at the Curator's House, we were seated in the bow window, looking out over the lawns of the Botanic Gardens to the Peacock Fountain (named, presumably, for its complete lack of peacocks - though there are storks). We didn't want to repeat the tapas we'd already had there, so we started by splitting an appetizer of "fish cakes," the fish having been given more body by admixing "tuna of the land," i.e. chicken. (As we'd later find at the Bush Man Café near Harihari, "chicken of the forest" is possum in these here parts). With it, we had a bottle of Earth's End Pinot Noir, which has on its label a move-by-move depiction of the All Blacks' famous haka (and if you don't recognize any part of that, feel free to Google).
One main course we chose was a "Zarzuela" of seafood - mussels, those genuinely "giant" prawns, clams, and tender tranches of various sorts of fish in a subtly seasoned tomato broth. Sort of a Spanish take on bouillabaisse. The other was "cervena" - lovely rare slices of roast venison among delicious vegetables. There is a "Cervena Council" here in NZ, and it seems to mean something different from place to place - venison yes, young and tender yes (it's apparently required to be from an animal less than three years old) but from red deer, or elk, or some crossbreed of both?
No room for dessert, but a nice stroll through the gardens as the sun set, about 9:30 PM. Summer near the South Pole has its advantages.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)