Restaurant Gripes

I spent Saturday afternoon ambling around Parnell Village, a quaint little part of Auckland. I decided to hole up at a café for a little while and try a flat white in the hope of finding the sort of coffee I’d been looking for. At first glance, the drink set before me was a frothy concoction, and I swear I heard the waitress say “Latte?” as she put it down at my table, and for some reason, I had ordered a large. I have a habit of ordering a large even when I don’t know what it is that I’m ordering. I guess I just like torturing myself by ordering huge quantities of things I don’t like so I can acutely feel the financial loss every time I discard the item. I should just throw my money in the garbage. However, I was determined to drink the jumbo-size “non-coffee,” and once I got past the five inches of foam, which refused to dissipate even after several vigorous stirs, it wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t quite coffee, but it was decent enough. I think I’m giving up on finding coffee and from now on, I’ll just order whatever strikes me when I get to the espresso counter.

Soon after, I checked out the shops in the village and happened upon this small wool store where I bought a beautiful handmade wool scarf. The saleslady wasn’t sure if she could even sell it to me because it was marked “sample,” but she decided to throw caution to the wind and risk scolding by her boss and sold it to me anyway. I was pleased.

I worked up an appetite strolling around the village and stopped into an Italian restaurant. I’ve been craving pizza since I arrived and this place, La Porchetta, was the only one so far that billed itself as an Italian pizzeria as opposed to the Middle Eastern pizzerias scattered around called “Istanbul Pizza and Kebab” or something of the sort, which could have been very good but were somewhat off-putting. La Porchetta turned out to be very tasty and cheap.

I had planned nothing for today, but I didn’t really mind. Sometimes, though, when I’m not doing anything, I think I should find something to do. But then I think about when I was home and I did absolutely nothing most of the time. Why is it that when you’re in a foreign country, you feel you have to fill every minute with sightseeing or touring or some cultural activity? I consider sitting at a café, people watching, a form of cultural immersion so that’s what I decided to do. I spent half the day at Little Turkish Café, a small place on K Rd., where I had dined a few days ago. The food was great and they serve the best hummus I’ve ever tasted.

For dinner, I went to an Asian noodle restaurant. When the waitress handed me utensils, I noticed she had tucked a fork into the napkin along with chopsticks. I thought at first it was because I was the only Caucasian in the place, but then I just thought I was being reverse-racist and assumed they probably do that for everyone. But then I watched her put down place settings for the numerous Asians who walked in the door and not a one contained a fork. I laughed. If they feel the need to supply me with a fork at an Asian restaurant in New Zealand, imagine what they’ll give me when I’m in Southeast Asia – probably a ladle, for how else would I be able to get anything into my mouth they’ll think. I left the fork unused next to my finished dish of chicken curry and rice.

I booked a rental car to drive all over both islands, which I’ll pick up tomorrow and drive to Whitianga. I had originally planned to buy a car at the Backpacker’s Car Market, but after discussing the pros and cons of renting vs. buying with Phillipa, the hostel travel agent, I decided against buying. She made it abundantly clear that buying would surely result in financial loss and great, all-around risk. Tomorrow will be my first experience driving on the left side of the road. I hope I don’t forget to yield when making a right.