Dunedin

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Learning to speak Kiwi

Thursday, May 8, 2014 in Dunedin, New Zealand | 2 comments

Photo by David Lansing.

Adriena is a Jafa who has lived in Los Angeles for several years. (Jafa, if you’re wondering, stands for Just Another F…ing Aucklander.) When I first met Adriena, her En Zed (that’s New Zealand) accent was slight. But here in Dunedin it’s sweet as, bro. Everything in New Zealand is “sweet as.” Sweet as what, you may wonder? They don’t say. It’s just “sweet as.” For instance, today Adriena suggested we have lunch at Nova Café which, she said, was choice and the fush and chups sweet as.

Which is to say, she thought the café was very good and the fish and chips were worth ordering.

So naturally when the waitress got to me I said, “Fush and chups, please.”

“Chur,” she said. “Kumara chups?”

I looked at Adriena. “I have no idea what she’s asking,” I said.

Adriena frowned and said, “Don’t be a wally. The kumara is sweet as.”

“Fine,” I said to the waitress. “Kumara,” though I had no idea what that was.

“Chur,” she said again. “Handle?”

Again I turned to Adriena. “She wants to know if you’d like a beer.”

“Yes, please.”

“Three Boys?”

I nodded, hoping she was referring to my handle and not the uni students at the next table.

When my order came, I got a big plate of lightly battered cod and a pile of sweet potato fries—that was the kumara chups—and a lovely wheat beer—the Three Boys. Adriena was right. Nova was choice and the fush and chups was sweet as.

Chur.

 

 

 

 

 


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Searching for Dunedin whisky

Wednesday, May 7, 2014 in Dunedin, New Zealand

The Dunedin railway station. Photo by David Lansing.

 

Justin and I move quickly down High Street in a cold rain. We’re on a mission. We’re looking for The Liquor Store (that’s the name of the establishment, not a descriptor). Our cabbie told us it was the only place in Dunedin we might find the 15 year old Dunedin Doublewood whisky we’re looking for.

Now you might think that it would be easy to find a Dunedin whisky in Dunedin, particularly one that has won all kinds of awards like the Doublewood, but you’d be wrong. We’ve yet to come across a single bar in town that serves it.

“How can you not carry any New Zealand whiskies?” I asked the bartender at the Nova Café where we had lunch.

“I didn’t know New Zealand made any whiskies,” she said.

Now that’s just a sad state of affairs when a bartender in Dunedin not only doesn’t carry a good Dunedin whisky but doesn’t even know there are several good New Zealand whiskies.

The cabbie couldn’t remember what street The Liquor Store was on but assured us we’d have no problem finding it. “It’s the only shop in town selling whisky and it’s right by Gingerbread George,” he said.

And what’s Gingerbread George? we asked.

“The railway station!” he said. “That’s what we call it, anyway.”

Seems the railway station is the fanciest building in Dunedin; maybe in all of New Zealand. Built in the early 20th century in an eclectic, revived Flemish Renaissance style, the old station, once the busiest in the country, used to handle up to 100 trains a day. Sort of the Paddington of New Zealand, I reckon.

Well, we find Gingerbread George. And it really is something. Queen Victoria meets Marrakesh, I’d say. Very impressive. But now the rain is really coming down. We run in to a café and tell the waitress we’re looking for the whisky shop. Couldn’t be easier, she says. “Straight up Stuart to the Octagon, then go left on Princess Street. It’s right next to the Japanese restaurant.”

We thank her and head for the door but as we’re leaving she says, “But it’s closed, you know.”

Closed?

“Yep.”

It can’t be. We follow her directions and find the whisky shop easy enough. And just as she told us, it is indeed closed. They’re not making it easy for us to sample a little Dunedin whisky in Dunedin.

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Fletcher, the lodge and the dog

Tuesday, May 6, 2014 in Dunedin, New Zealand

 

Sitting in the tub in the Edinburgh Suite at Fletcher Lodge in Dunedin, New Zealand. Photo by David Lansing.

We’re going to Fletcher Lodge on High Street, we tell the cabbie that picks us up from the Dunedin airport.

 

“I think I know the one,” he says. “Barks a lot.”

 

“Who barks a lot?”

 

“Fletcher.”

 

“Who’s Fletcher?”

 

“That’s the dog. Scottish terrier or something. Is that the place you’re thinkin’?”

 

No idea, we tell him. Did anyone say anything about a dog at the hotel? Don’t think so. Still, when we pull in the driveway to the somewhat Victorian looking lodge, there is, indeed, a small salt-and-pepper dog sitting on the stoop waiting for us.

 

“There he is,” says the cabbie. “That’s Fletcher. The one I was tellin’ ya about.”

Nevermind the dog. After 36 hours of travel all I want is a long bath. And maybe a drink. Ewa, the Polish-born owner, has them both waiting for me in my room, the Edinburgh Suite. Sherry on the dresser and a lovely claw-foot tub. Run the water, hot as I can stand it, pour myself a thimble full of sherry, and then for the next half hour or so, I give myself a good soak. Lovely.

Fletcher, the dog, in the office at the Fletcher Lodge.

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