Another day, another blog

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Hoovers, dogs and a spot of rain

Today I decided to hoover my car. Well, I never actually decided to do it, as I would've definitely changed my mind and decided not to. One minute I was walking home from the supermarket, the next I was sprawled between the front and back seats of the motor with a hose under my armpit.

It was shockingly filthy; I’ve hoovered it once before, so am no stranger to the maddening, unreachable gaps between the handbrake and seats which, since 1990, have been the belly-button equivalent of the Honda.

Surely the sensible thing would be to make everything detachable so you can hoover a carpeted square-like box, then clip everything back in. Though no doubt that would lead to safety issues when, for example, you didn't secure the driver’s seat and ended up driving from the boot or forgot to put the gear-stick back in. Besides, there’d probably be some law whereby you’d have to enlist a mechanic to undertake the entire hoover job which would be an expensive exercise. But think how clean and it would be!

At some recent and considerably lengthy period of its service, this particular Honda has provided shelter and transport for what one can only presume was a large wire-haired dog. In fact, the further under the front seat I hoovered, the hairier the floor became and it flashed through my tiny mind for a brief second that the creature was possibly still there, in a secret metal dog-well between the carpet and road, existing on dropped apple cores and rain water at traffic lights.

After 20 minutes of dog-hating hard hosing, ungainly clambering and wretched seat-manoeuvring, it suddenly dawned on me: this is why people have children! 10p well spent, I’ll say. Cursing all dogs and nearby children who I could hear playing – yes, shamelessly playing! - in their gardens when they could have been helping me, suddenly, as luck would have it, it started to rain.

Now, you don’t need to be or even know a mechanic to know that hoovers and rain don’t mix. So in a great hurry, I packed up and resigned to finish the job later. Though I think the forecast is bad. Shame for the kids stuck indoors, too.

Another day, another challenge

Today’s challenge - which I not only accepted, I invented it, too - was to move house and go on holiday on the same day.

Now, this isn’t something I would recommend in a hurry, particularly should your method of transport for the house-moving section be a reliably dilapidated motor that skims the road by a centimetre even when there’s nothing in it, never mind when crammed with boxes and bags.

Another tip - should you defy my most sensible advice and take up the challenge yourself - is to drive the car up any nearby volcanoes (aka the drive) first before loading it. And - this is the most important bit - don’t do any of this during rush hour.

I can’t remember if I’ve ever complained about Auckland's rush hour before but, the truth is, I’ve never been in it. I just always thought I was in it at 7am, but in fact, it doesn’t really kick off and get really good till around 8, which was around the time I decided to hit the road (quite literally with the underside of the car) and move house.

I passed a fair chunk of the stationary on road tedium trying to fathom whether the ever increasing headache was from last night’s wine (surely not!) or being awake for at least an hour without having had a coffee… 35 minutes (or 1.2km) later I was still quite sure I had woken up feeling normal, so concluded caffeine deficit. Unless it was some kind of reverse hangover, which increases as the day progresses until your head explodes.

So, one house-move, two coffees, a ferry-ride and an airbus later, I would like to say I arrived at the airport refreshed and alive with the challenges and promise of the day yet to come (please! no more…) but quite frankly it’s as much as I can do to sit here between Taste of Asia and Café Down Under in the Jean Batten Food Court, no less, instructing my fingers to hit the right keys – or even just keys – and wish the nasty smells would go away. At least the headache’s on its way out.

The big question now, is: noodles or coffee, or both?

Fancy a coffee?

Today I went to a barista jam in a café called the Grind.

It was all about milk.

So you rock up with your milk - rice, soy, organic, boggo blue-top - jump onto a coffee machine, get steaming and compare notes.

Organic is a tricky customer, especially if it's not homogenised (how silver-top used to be in the good old doorstep days). The fat molecules aren't incorporated into the protein, so it's hard to achieve a smooth texture. Often it's a rougher finish with more air bubbles. Though, texture aside, you can't beat it for creaminess and it comes from happy cows, let's not forget. Or so we like to believe.

Rice milk, another challenge. Low in fat, it froths up fast but collapses all too soon. Fat's handy for keeping things stable. Far from creamy, it's more like a sweetened cardboardy rice, like hot liquid Rice Krispies. If you're into that sort of thing.

Steam your milk to the right ratio of froth to liquid and you stand half a chance of pouring a good latté art - the pattern on top of a coffee. A good definition between creamy white milk and nutty-coloured crema creates the sharpest pattern.

The best baristas pour free-hand so there's no fiddly mucking around once the milk hits the cup. Once you start pouring, there's no going back.

Though you can always make another one.

One hardback meets another

There's nothing worse than sitting down to an eagerly awaited home-cooked dinner only for the phone to start ringing. Grrr. You know it's probably nothing that can't wait but you answer it, just in case.

If only it was just the phone ringing.

Here's a story:

The other night, just as I sat down to my weekly steak and fried potatoes I caught sight of something scuttling across the floor towards my bedroom. It didn't take me long to identify it as a cockroach. In 2002 I'd shared a hostel with other living examples of its kind on the West coast of Australia. My reflexes kicked in. I dived ahead of it and slammed my bedroom door shut in its face.

But no! my worst fears were realised... the two inch gap between door and carpet wasn't going to deter it. Moments later, it cleared it with ease and was through to the next round. My bedroom.

(There was a short interlude here of 10 minutes plus half an hour whilst I decided I may as well eat my dinner and watch the end of Hotel Babylon and plot my next move. The Dog was out and I didn't know what else to do.)

I'm pleased to say the cockroach was to come off worse. Fortified by a medium-bodied 2006 Marlborough Riesling (me that is), I found it sitting by the foot of my bed, whereupon I dropped a very large, very heavy National Geographic hardback on top of it when it wasn't looking. While I would like to say that I deeply regret my actions, I don't. It felt no pain and shall be missed by no one. Plus it meant I was able to sleep in my own bed that night.

It wasn't a pretty picture though.


The End

Lipstick to go?

There's nothing wrong with a bit of lippy on your lid. Just remember to reapply as soon as you've finished your coffee.

For a coffee to end up as a latté or whatever in a cup with the milk, the espresso has to be good enough in the first place. It's like the base of a recipe. If it's not up to scratch, the rest of the dish will suffer.

Unlike a chef, checking the seasoning on each dish before it goes out, we can't taste every coffee before handing it over to a waiting customer. If that was the case, today I would have tasted around 250. And shared every customer's coffee.

So instead, we have to be confident that each espresso that comes out of the machine is good enough to be sold. That's well-balanced - there's more to coffee than bitterness. A tiny 30ml (2 tablespoons) shot of espresso should also be be bursting with sweetness, acidity and body.

Often, the way it trickles out of the machine is a good indication as to what it might taste like. If it runs out too quickly, it's likely to be under-extracted and lacking in depth and flavour. Too slowly, and chances are you're looking at a syrupy, bitter offering that not even 200ml of steamed milk can disguise.

So sometimes we slurp a few shots during the day to make sure we're on the right track. It can get quite messy.

Wine bars and dancing shoes

It's a nice surprise to come home from a hard day behind an espresso machine and find your kitchen worktop covered in opened bottles of wine.

It's one of the perks of living with someone who works in a wine merchants. You'd think their shift was one big exercise in opening screw caps with the odd cork thrown in for old world measure.


Anyway, I'm not complaining.

Well, only I am because, after sampling a few, I took off in my tango shoes, tripped and ripped the left one at the toe.

And I wasn't even dancing.

I blame it on those wine drinkers.

Penguins and rabbits

Yesterday was Anzac Day in New Zealand. It commemorates the landing of their solidiers in Gallipoli. Nearly 3,000 were killed.

It was also World Penguin Day, as 25th April is the day the penguins in the Antarctic head up north. I didn't have any penguins to hand, nor a black and white suit (the day's required dress) in my wardrobe. Neither did I partake in the Anzac Day gunfire breakfast (coffee with rum) at dawn. Nevertheless, I marked both occasions with a latté and a freshly baked Anzac cookie at work later in the day.

I came home to an announcement in the letterbox that a rabbit had been found three times. I hadn't lost a rabbit so I didn't pursue it but it's nice to know some things are found alive and well.

Even if they've lost their owners.

Shots and chardonnay

I've just started a part-time photography course. My tutor's married to a radiologist. So he photographs people as he sees them and his wife takes care of the insides. Between them, they've got all angles covered.

My compact digital didn't cost a lot and has held out well over the past few months. It was dragged out here from the UK and, whether it likes it or not, spends most of its time at the bottom of my bag without any guarantee of sunlight or a glass of wine for days on end. Though it's seen some interesting things in its short life.

Since moving house last weekend I've discovered a potential diet tip: keep your fridge in the garage. Okay, so it's highly inconvenient - but that's the point! If retrieving a chilled bottle of chardonnay involves unlocking a door, descending five steps and repeating the process in reverse then it might make you think twice. Though, second thoughts, what's five steps and a door? And, besides, God didn't invent red wine for nothing. Nor peanut butter.

Who needs fridges or diets anyway...

Cake, wine and porky parcels

So - kitchen work. Fingers get cut and arms are burned.

And often they all belong to me.



Shifts might come with their hazards but I'm quite lucky really.

I get to scoff plates of staff food whipped up by five-star chefs as the first orders roll in for service and taste trays of freshly baked cakes (okay, so they're not necessarily created for me but quality control is a great thing). I sample wine off the shelf and top baristas put unbeatable cups of coffee down before my very eyes to knock back whilst scrubbing saucers.

And last night a friend, a Chinese barista and accountancy student, made me a hundred pork dumplings.

They weren't all for me, of course, though I did my best. Each was a prettily pinched parcel of minced pork and seasoning (soy sauce, rice vinegar and sugar), boiled in water until fat and puffy, then served in bowls with soy and chilli sauce and dark vinegar.

Chop sticks optional.

Depending on which part of China you're from, dumplings are eaten as a simple brunch or at special occasions.

In Auckland they're incredibly moreish anytime, but particularly on a dark, wet night.

Easter - and not an egg in sight

Today I left the city on the 199 westbound to a tip of Auckland, a place called Point Chev (it's short for Chevalier but no one calls it that) to see what life was like out west.

But not before a wake-up double flat white in the Strawberry Alarm Clock and Easter greetings to its resident animals. Today it was the tortoise and the octopus. The bunny was busy.

So, Point Chev. First stop's a cafe called Vicino, where I sit outside with a flat white and a reheated wodge of beef lasagne ($6.50) and the Dog has some water (free). At the table next to us a mobile rings It's Not Unusual and two women behind us talk leisurely about sewing and growing vegetables. They're all locals.

A lime green chevette chugs rustily by. Twice. Point Chev is a slow-paced place, even for boy-racers.

We walk down to the beach then up a hill where we pause at a bench in the sunny breeze and take in the city views across the shiny water. An ice cream van somewhere behind us belts out Greensleeves but when it stops the birds start up again and the grasses rustle around.

It's lovely.

But as the sun starts to dip, a cold beer becomes an inviting prospect.

A supermarket festival

I couldn't not go to Auckland's Wine & Food Festival. So I went. It cost me $20 to get in and was a bit like paying to go to an outdoor supermarket. That's because it was sponsored by Foodtown - one of the supermarket chains in New Zealand - and was held outdoors.

So what's new in the crisp world? Tzatziki. Call me a wet weekend at a food festival but if I fancy yogurt and cucumber then I might have just that - separately. Crisps optional, on the side, and preferably plain. Just so you know for next time.

Well okay, there's also best-sellers prosciutto and brie crisps too. That's posh smoky bacon and cheese to me and you. Vegetarians get the green light though, as the prosciutto is cleverly simulated by flavourings. Let's just hope they didn't mix them up with the Parma ham flavourings, which wouldn't do at all.

What else? A ready-meal delight of butter chicken with rice which made numerous appearances in small plastic cups, mountainous cubes of cheese from all types of milk-giving animals (mainly cows and sheep really - the odd goat thrown in for fetta measure) and there was a baker who I later spied turning prawn kebabs in the adjoining tent.

On the plus side - some amazingly huge (note wine glass for helpful proportionate guide) hulks of roman bread called casareccio, made by an Italian restaurant called Aquamatta, who'd somehow managed to bypass the Foodtown connection and snuck in through the back gate. Each loaf was the size of a pillow, though try plumping it up and you'll break your hand - its crust is as rough as a rock. Apparently after a couple of days, it makes great bruschetta and breadcrumbs. The Italians never being ones to waste a crumb of bread.

And there was Freedom Farms who pioneered the production of free-range bacon in New Zealand. Lots of freshly fried bacon bites to be had - though they should have teamed up with Aquamatta's loaves if you ask me.

The best thing I ate - hot-house cherry tomatoes on sticks. Orange-red mouthfuls of tangy sweetness that tasted like food. And you can't beat a stick for its functional woody simplicity. Especially when it's handed to you on a plate.

Here's one I made earlier

Okay, so I didn't necessarily do this one, but I work with the barista who did. And I drank it.

Also I ate the rugala (pastry wrapped round crushed apricots and dusted with icing sugar, made in the kitchen at the back) on the plate.

As for my coffee-making progress... well, there's more to steaming milk than meets the untrained eye. So rather than waste the annual output of a cow, I've been practicing with water and washing-up liquid.

Why? Believe it or not, cold water in a jug with a squirt of washing-up liquid behaves in a similar way to milk - it steams and froths to the same texture.

And once it's steamed to the correct texture (more foamy for a cappuccino, less so for a latté) and the temperature's around the 70ºC mark, then there's the all important pour. A flat white just wants a thin covering of foam to keep the coffee in the cup, a latté a finger's worth and the foam in a cappuccino should top out at around a third of a cup.

Only the professionals make it look easy. Here's one of them - David.

When he's not making coffees look as good as they taste he's equally adept at piling washing up in the sink for me.

Coffee al fresco

I've invested in a new coffee machine!

I found it lying in wet grass down the road from where I live.

It's all part of the big recycling campaign launched by Auckland council.

Everyone's been digging out their unwanted belongings and putting them up for grabs in the street.

I didn't even have to go out of my way to hunt down anything in particular but still managed to walk past plenty of interesting stuff on my usual route to and from the city.

If you'd had the time and patience for a good rummage, you'd have been rewarded with some nice finds.

And probably a few not so nice ones, too.

I bet this BBQ's been to some good parties though.

Okay, so the coffee machine has seen better days. And most of them were probably some years ago.

But you never know... it might turn out to be the best free investment I've ever carried home.

Though I still haven't dared plug it in yet. And as for cleaning it... well, let's just say I haven't yet attempted that either.

As you can see.

So whilst I still can't make a decent coffee at home, at least I still have an excuse to while away the hours drinking them in cafes.

Though after a certain time of day, usually around 3 o'clock, I now move on from coffee to hot chocolate. And I've found a pretty good one at Ben's.

This one wasn't done for the camera either - they always look like this. The texture is amazing, like smooth, fluffy pillows that melt over your tongue.

You're not sure where your mouth ends and the drink begins.

And this is what they look like a few minutes later.

Cake in a carpark

Sometimes the greatest finds present themselves in the most unexpected places.

Though maybe that's what a great find is.

Here I am, in a carpark community called Northcote, with 20 minutes to kill before the next bus back over the bridge to Auckland. What to do?

Without much thought I wander into a Chinese bakery called Classic Bakehouse to have a look at the rows of cakes. Just a look. One that catches my eye is called butter bread and it's bright yellow, shiny on top and springy to the touch even through the cellophane. Looks to me like brioche. It's only $1.60 for 2 pieces joined together. Okay then. Oh and a flat white on the side thanks very much, I'll be sitting over here.

The butter bread/brioche is as soft as a kitten, as light as a feather and pulls apart into doughy strands with therapeutic ease. Like candyfloss without the stickiness, you could probably tease it out from one side of the shop to the other. I must have set off some kind of culinary-chemical reaction causing it to disintegrate as, before I know it - poof! - it's gone. I'm bewildered, too - and by the nice taste in my mouth.

The flat white - made on a tiny coffee machine (no photos allowed) and at only $2.50 probably one of the cheapest in Auckland - turns out to be up there with one of the best I've had. And I've already had a couple just this morning.

Chef's special to go

A bag of chips on the way home is all well and good but sometimes that carby grease doesn't quite hit the spot.

So on Saturday night I was lucky enough to experience the all-new throw-together Venison Bap.

I can't claim to have invented the VB - it was created by chef Lennie of Vinnies after a Saturday night shift threw up an unlikely array of leftovers in her fridge. And so the VB was born. Slices of seared venison and Tomme de Savoie cheese, pickled red onion and baby coriander, stuffed into a homemade roll baked earlier that day (naturally).

Mine survived the bus trip home. And it was worth the wait, as it turns out that the best thing you can have with a VB is a glass of Valpolicella.

Though if you're out of venison, a Mousetrap, an Afghan and a cuppa should just about hit the spot.

Warm up in the Fridge

It was a blustery Autumn day in Auckland so I took myself off to The Fridge to warm up. It's the biggest walk-in fridge I've ever been in - Gordon Ramsay wouldn't know what to do with himself in it - but its not flash and fancy, it's homely and Smeg-like. This Fridge is a cafe in Kingsland, a western suburb of Auckland.

To save time, I took the train. Well, I say to save time, but really it was a sociological urban experiment in train travel - my virgin voyage by train to circum-navigate the volcano that is Auckland and its suburbs. Cheaper than the bus at $1.40 a go, there's no traffic lights every 10 metres and you can pay at your seat. What's not to like?

Another question - have you ever done a three-point turn in a train? I did one today - I wasn't driving, of course, I'd left that to the driver, but this is what happened: first stop (of supposedly three) was Newmarket, where we paused to collect a teenage goth then, quite unexpectedly, reversed out of the station and back the way we'd come.

Oh, so the joke's on me, I grimly realised, I see - I'm on Auckland's outdoor equivalent of the Waterloo & City line in London, no wonder it's so cheap. But, not more than 50 metres of back-crawling down the track, we screech up for no apparent reason, in a weedy plot where the tracks criss-crossed like no one's business (certainly not mine).

Then someone, somewhere, maybe in India, flicked a switch and we slowly started moving, this time forwards. What, back into Newmarket to pick up the goth's mate? But no! Ah-haha, we fork off in a westerly direction with the wind, bypassing Newmarket and off to Kingsland. Thereby an elegant three-point turn was completed and we were on our way.

I'd heard about The Fridge's famous pies and by the time I finally arrived I was in need of more than a Traditional Mince ($5). However, it was a good warm-up act, quite literally. Its pastry was golden and flakey and the mince within moist and sticky - and, curiously, not greasy - mixed perhaps with onions, I was told. Though no one was sure on this detail - only that quality mince is used, all pies are baked in the Fridge and are really pretty good.

And good it was, though one finds with pies that every bite is generally the same. Unless you separate the pastry from the filling, that is, and eat each alternately, then you would be correct in saying that every mouthful is different to the previous. But who'd even think of doing that?

Something not many people know about pies and calories is that they're best rounded up to the nearest 500, so after my pie, I ordered a homemade Afghan - you know the ones - and it arrived extra-specially topped with chocolate frosting and half a walnut. Crunchy through and through thanks to its invisible ingredient - cornflakes.

Lovely, though the flat white was a bit heavy handed in the milk frothing department, lots of air and bubbles, though probably good to wind a baby. Not that I had one to hand, mind you. Give me a pie any day though.

Mice on toast

The other day someone at work asked me if I knew what a mousetrap was.

Why sure, I said, it's what you catch dem pesky mice in.

It turned out he was speaking in an edible context.

A mousetrap, to a Kiwi, is vegemite and grilled cheese on toast.

The idea being that the mouse is lured onto the hot savoury slice by the prospect of scoffing the cheese. But then the vegemite takes a hold on its tiny paws like a sea of superglue.

The mouse either perishes on the spot or is hit over the head with a hammer once the kettle's boiled.

Just as I was assembling that theory, my informant popped one under the grill - a mousetrap, not a mouse. Indeed, there were no mice to hand - that we knew of at least - but I was grateful for the illustration.

While I devoured the mousetrap (grated Gruyere, since you ask) I tried to imagine what it would be like being stuck to a giant piece of hot toast that stunk of vegemite.

So I certainly shan't be needing these that my landlord left outside my door.

It would seem that people in Auckland have mousetraps on the brain. A one-trap mind, you might say.

Happy New Year Auckland

It's the end of the Chinese New Year celebrations and in Auckland that means just one thing - its famous Lantern Festival.

Princes Street is transformed into a long strip of tents housing make-shift kitchens. Smiley faces and deft hands whip up sizzling food at top speed.

Everyone's either cooking or eating and the air is thick with wafting smells. It's all very interesting.


Fish is on everyone's menus.

There's curried fish balls in pots, lemongrass fish skewers on grills, rows of gigantic breaded prawns and fish lollipops on sticks.

I spy a bright green drink in plastic cups - I'm told it's made from basil seeds soaked in lime juice and water until they become soft and jelly-like.

I'm still waiting for someone to tell me what it tasted like.







Even if you're not hungry, there's still plenty to look at.

A larger-than-life multi-coloured zoo sits perfectly still.

It's a good place for people-watching too

too...

At last - a wireless coffee

I’d had a bit of bother with my ipod shuffle – I couldn’t upload any tracks - so I took it into the Apple shop, fearing the worst. No need - it's now bursting with 200 tracks (something to do with Consolidation), so I cross the road to the Strawberry Alarmclock to celebrate with a much-needed double latté.

The owner walks past my table, amazed I’m online. Yep, I’m typing this in their back garden – right now! He’s amazed because normally the internet connection here is practically non-existent – though the whole street is having routers installed next week. I don’t know exactly what that means but the result will be unbroken wireless internet on Parnell Road.

It’s quite a novelty being online outdoors. A bit like when you got your first mobile or, way back in the old days, turning the TV on and getting a picture for the first time. I almost forget to drink my coffee.

The connection's a bit slow and cuts out several times. Where are those routers when you need one?
It starts to spot with rain and I notice my battery’s running low.

Such is the downside to technology on the move. Though it was fun while it lasted.

I’ll be back.

A perfect cup of coffee

Is there such a thing? It's a bit like requesting the perfect meal. Do you have one? Just one? For me it varies each day. Yesterday it was chicken liver terrine with a glass of Cotes du Rhone at midnight. Today it's poached eggs on crusty toast with a cup of tea. I haven't got round to making that yet though. I'm out of eggs.

So maybe there's no such thing as the perfect cup of coffee but there's certainly a big difference between a good coffee and a bad one. If you're unlucky enough to pay for a bad one you'll know about it instantly. Sometimes before you even taste it. Thin, burnt, too hot, sour, too watery, too milky...

But if it's a good one, a well made one, it will slip down like bitter-sweet velvet and you'll realise that that's how they should all taste.

So what goes into making a good coffee?

A decent blend of beans that have been roasted well. Then there's the grind. It's not just a case of the finer the grind, the better the coffee. The grind is determined by the humidity in the air. Well, it should be, according to mother-and-daughter team Anthea and Selina who run Sierra café in Auckland. It's all about how coffee particles behave when it's humid or cool. Not only that but the metal parts of the coffee grinder can expand when it's hot and make the coffee clump together. So this has to be taken into consideration when the grind size is set on the grinder.

And if the beans aren't freshly ground - we're talking minutes - already the coffee is slipping down the scale of being potentially very good to so-so. You see, once ground, the essential oils are exposed to the air and they're slowly turning rancid.

What other variables? The pressure of the water coming through the coffee machine and how densely the ground coffee is packed into the basket. Too tightly, and the espresso will be gloopy and burnt-tasting. And as for the milk - how it's steamed and frothed can make or break the finished coffee. Heat and texture of both the espresso and the milk are key.

So there's a lot of pressure on the hands behind the machine - the barista - to get it right. It's not just a case of pressing a button and putting a lid on a cup.
There's more in a cup of coffee than you might realise.

In a good one anyway.


If in doubt, have a smoothie.

A taste of 1978

Today I had the most amazing wine - a 1978 Rioja Gran Reserva. That's nearly 3o years old.

1978 - the year the world's first test tube baby was born (in Manchester) and Pollyanna's nightclub in Birmingham was ordered to open its doors to black and Chinese people.

Kate Bush released Wuthering Heights and Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta were singing Summer Nights.

I can't remember what I was doing in 1978 but I was far too young for Grease and nightclubs.

So it's incredible, really, that all this history-in-the-making was going on when this wine was barely in the process of being created.

Presumably it's been re-bottled and re-corked over the years (the bottle is barely dusty and the label's in perfect nick) but how did the wine-maker back then know that it would taste so great today? That's pretty impressive forward-planning.

Something else I've enjoyed recently - though certainly not for ageing - was a handful of Auckland oysters. A work perk that I downed on the way home in the car...