Few things are
as certain as the cycle of the seasons and yet, when you find yourself hopping
from foot to foot on the scolding sand of some impossibly scenic beach at the
height of the New Zealand summer, the very notion of winter appears like some
Nordic fantasy. More than ever, I felt like this, this last summer gone, as the
sunny days and muggy nights seemed to cling on in heavenly perpetuity. As late
as May, this Englishman, weaned on wet holidays and white-grey skies, found the
impending creep of colder weather an unfeasible prospect as I sauntered around
Auckland comfortably jacketless.
Slowly
but surely, though, the weather has turned. The faintest breeze blows fragile
leaves from their branches and pavements have disappeared beneath detritus
beds. Daylight hours can still preserve the illusion of summer for a while, but
the air cools rapidly when the sun sinks behind the skyline and evenings are
once again spent huddled around plug-in radiators. Almost three years on from
my arrival in New Zealand, central heating is still to be discovered, it
seems.
And
yet, I have to remind myself that I’m a lucky man, for even the chilliest days
in Auckland are still a picnic compared to the arctic nightmare of the British
winter. It rains a lot here, but in between storms, the sun can still light up
a winter’s day like an ersatz summer. Rainbows appear with startling
regularity, and late afternoon sunsets over the city skyline are frequently
things of wonder.
Dusk sets in later here. I remember the despair I used to
feel back home when darkness would fall as early as 4pm during the year’s
shortest days and seven hours of confinement in the office could mean you’d
miss the succor of daylight altogether. We only recently passed the winter
solstice here and yet twilight can still hold off as late as 6 o’clock. And,
for all my moaning about the lack of decent interior heating, it never gets that cold. One night recently, I even had to
stick a leg out from beneath our double duvet because it was keeping me just a
little too snug.
The
worst aspect of winter here – and specifically, the month of July – is the lack
of decent entertainment on the box. The very time when you yearn most for a
cosy night in front of the TV, all the best series (Mad Men, Game of Thrones)
have finished their runs in time for the US summer, and the new footy season is
still a good six weeks away.
Winter
here, I find, is best enjoyed exploring Auckland’s wealth of eating and
drinking establishments. I have waxed lyrical about my adopted city’s culinary
excellence on many occasions, but even after 3 years I am still finding new
bars, cafes and restaurants to write home about.
A
recent discovery that has quickly established itself as a favourite of ours is Selera, a
Malaysian eatery in Newmarket that serves some of the city’s tastiest rendang
and noodle dishes at improbably reasonable prices. I even overcame my initial
reluctance to dine somewhere without an alcohol license, for the food is so
good that you barely register the absence of a nice lager to wash down the
spice.
Dominion
Road, which boasts an impressively long strip of cheap but quality Asian
diners, has also become a regular haunt in recent months. The choice of
restaurants is almost overwhelming, but Metro magazine’s brilliant Cheap Eats blog has been
an indispensable guide to the best picks. The wonderfully named Zap 2 is a particular favourite,
and its extensive Thai-themed menu has eventuated in many an evening of noodly
indecision.
It’s
not all about rice and dumplings on Dominion Road though. La Voie
Francaise is no gimmicky imitation of a French café, but an authentic
purveyor of the finest baguettes I’ve tasted in the southern hemisphere. Though
there’s a bakery just a couple of blocks up from our house, the 15 minute drive
to La Voie is well worth the effort, and as an accompaniment to a warming
winter stew or soup, there’s nothing better than a warm hunk of their
mouthwatering bread slathered with creamy butter.
Another
acclaimed French-run establishment is a café called Voila in the nearby
suburb of Sandringham. Incongruously stationed in the middle of a street of
Indian restaurants that collectively pump out a cloud of spicy air so strong
that it carries down the whole street, Voila cooks up some of the finest
breakfasts in town, its speciality crepes provoking vivid daydreams of a
favourite pancake stall near Notre Dame.
Auckland
caters expertly for most types of Asian cuisine, but it does Japanese
especially well. Half-decent sushi was something of a luxury in London, and I
would often find myself opting for the ‘cheat’ breadcrumbed chicken options
over the raw fish variety. For whatever reason, New Zealand sushi is a class
above and Japanese cuisine as a whole is well served by an array of quality
eateries to suit any budget. Tanto on Manukau
Road is something of a hidden gem, but for those in the know it offers an
extensive range of delicious Japanese dishes, including sushi, tapas-style mini
plates and full-blown mains. With its modern yet cosy interior and attentive
wait staff, Tanto is equally suited to large gatherings and couples looking for
a quiet night out, and is licensed to wash your meal down with as much Asahi
beer or sake as you can stomach.
Livelier,
and my pick of Auckland’s suburban Japanese restaurants, is Nippon Sake Bar, which is nestled a little
further up Manukau Road and is decked out inside with an evocative assemblage
of paper lanterns, bamboo awnings and paintings of mythical scenes. You know
you’re not in for a run-of-the-mill dining experience the moment you step
through the front door and get greeted by the banging of a gong and a chorus of
salutations from the chefs. Seating options cater to all requirements: intimate
booths for couples or friends; cushioned benches for larger groups; and for the
brave, a bar with a front seat view of the masters at work in kitchen. The bar
is always my preference if my dining group allows it. There’s something
mesmeric about watching a culinary craftsman up close and you appreciate all
the more the dishes they serve up to you steaming and sizzling within seconds
of completion.
At
the top end of the spectrum and offering one of the finest dining experiences
I’ve had the fortune to enjoy anywhere, let alone in Auckland, is the recently
opened Kazuya, which turns Japanese cooking
into an art form. The seven course degustation is not cheap - especially if you
opt to include matching wines and sake - but if you’re going to spend an
evening in thrall to food this exquisite, you don’t want to be doing it by half
measures. Exceptional service (the wait staff never had to check who had
ordered what, even for a table of almost twenty people) and minimalist dark
hued décor set the scene for a gastronomic extravaganza, where every
fastidiously presented dish was greeted with awe and fascination. From a plate
of over thirty individually prepared vegetables to the childhood dream come
true of pastry ice cream, Kazuya electrified my taste buds in a way few restaurants
have before.
So
with dining options this good in ever abundant supply and days filled with
sunshine that make a mockery of the season, I should have been able to navigate
another winter in Auckland with relative ease. But then, a week ago, I was
suddenly struck by the most acute pangs of homesickness that I’ve felt in the
near three years I’ve been here. The cause? Andy bloody Murray. Yes, the gawky
Scottish miserablist turned tennis superstar that Britons have been willing to
Wimbledon glory with the collective force of 65 million hopes and prayers for
over half a decade. And the year that he finally vanquishes the demons of 77
years of failed attempts by male British tennis players and actually goes and
wins the bloody thing, I’m asleep under superchilled bedsheets some twelve
thousand miles away.
It
wouldn’t be so disquieting were it not for the fact that during my time in NZ
I’ve already missed, in 2011’s Royal Wedding and last year’s Diamond Jubilee
and London Olympics, three of the most iconic events of modern British history.
I was, granted, fortunate to be back home for that magical afternoon exactly a
year ago when Murray reached his first Wimbledon final, but watching him get
beaten by Roger Federer’s untimely reminder of his claim to be the greatest
men’s singles tennis player of all time left a rather bitter taste in the
mouth.
When it comes to national sport, only the England
football team’s failure to win, well, anything, for nearly 50 years has caused
me as much consternation as our little island’s inability to produce a
homegrown champion at the world’s premier grass tennis tournament. Year after
gut-wrenching year, I spent my formative summers cheering on the latest young
pretender to Fred Perry’s immortal racket, from Jeremy Bates to Tim ‘Tiger’
Henman, but always with an increasing sense of resignation to the belief that
Britain would never against produce a Wimbledon men’s champion. Even when
Murray himself roared onto the scene in the middle of the last decade and
emerged from that gawky teenage frame to be, you know, a little bit good, it
seemed inconceivable that this lanky lad from Dunblaine could ever topple the
then twin towers of tennis greatness, Federer and Rafael Nadal.
So to miss the moment when a Brit – at long long last
– actually won Wimbledon was just a little disappointing. Especially when it
happened to coincide with some of the finest summer weather the UK has seen in
many a year and all my friends back home are basking in London parks with
carelessly sunburnt shoulders and a smog of barbecue smoke filling the evening
air. I try to remind myself that the grass isn’t always greener on the other
side, and for every weekend of glorious sunshine in England, there are ten more
when the sky is so washed out you wouldn’t notice if you went colour blind. At
the very least I can comfort myself with the thought that living in New Zealand
means I’ll be spared the British press’ cringe factor fawning over the imminent
birth of our future monarch. Good luck Will and Kate, you’re going to need it!
Jonny
