Friday Night Wingin’

These days, I don’t go out much.
I have a small group of friends who understand that about me, so know that if they ask me what I’m doing on a Friday night and I’m free, an invitation to hang out will usually constitute sitting out on my porch listening to music from my Blaupunkt, chain smoking and listening to anecdotal stories about life in general.

When I got home on Friday night, the sun will still very much high in the sky and the weather was nothing short of stellar.
Whether it was dumb luck or sheer foresight, I’d picked up a bottle of Matavino Dolcetto earlier in the week, which the vegan society confirm is an appropriate option for me.

In some instances, although wine is made from grapes, may have been made using animal-derived products. During the winemaking process, the liquid is filtered through substances called “fining agents.” This process is used to remove protein, yeast, cloudiness, “off” flavors and colorings, and other organic particles. Popular animal-derived fining agents used in the production of wine include blood and bone marrow, casein (milk protein), chitin (fiber from crustacean shells), egg albumen (derived from egg whites), fish oil, gelatin (protein from boiling animal parts), and isinglass (gelatin from fish bladder membranes).

I figured I would take full advantage of the weather and positioned myself on our front stoop, drinking in the summer sun with a glass of this gorgeous wine.
My good friends Amy & Fraser stopped by, with beers in tow to join in the merriment.
Eventually the conversation turned to my pre-married role of being Amy’s wingman in gay clubs – she said I was never good at it, and if I’m honest, well? She’s right. I’m a terrible wingman. I would usually end up dancing the night away with gay men instead of helping my friend meet a potential significant other.
We’ve laughed about this throughout the years, as we’ve shared many hilarious stories of our nights out with friends, that began with so much hope and promise, and ended with us all at home, alone, talking about all the people we could’ve gone home with…but obviously, chose not to. Realistically, hindsight tells us that the reason we went home alone so regularly was because we were and are a special breed of super awkward humans, but it was easier on our egos and better for our self esteem to pretend otherwise.

As the drinks flowed, Amy tried to convince me that as I hadn’t been out in a while, it was my duty to take her out dancing that evening. You know, as repayment for all those years as an absolute rubbish wingman. After drinking an entire bottle of red, I started to think it was a good idea too. I heralded the alarm by way of facebook and recruited another couple of girls to join our party.

My trusty friend Dave arrived and we piled into his car, thanking him for assuming the role of sober driving dad. He dropped our gaggle of giddy, intoxicated girls on K’Road and we headed into Family Downunder to cut some serious rugs.

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Family Bar is a longstanding institution on K’Rd, outliving most of the LGBTQIA venues that used to litter the strip.
The upstairs bar boasts a mezzanine floor and stage area which is often crammed with gyrating, half naked men, women and drag queens strutting their stuff to EDM. In the downstairs bar, the DJ’s musical repertoire borrows more from pop & hip hop genres with, to my dismay, a preference for Taylor Swift. Ugh.

It’s a strange thing, being awake and out socially at 4am especially when you’re struggling to remain coherent and awake after consuming what seems like your weight in wine and vodka. Usually, I would say nothing good happens at this time, but you know what? That’s not true on K’Rd. Falafel & Shisha are available in abundance!

The Little Turkish Cafe has been a part of the K’Rd scene since I was a teen. I haven’t eaten here by choice since the ERA determined in favour of former employee Zahra Barzegari, after her claims of unfair dismissal, withholding pay and holidays were found to be with merit. She was awarded $10, 000 in back pay in the employment courts; the company challenged the Employment Relations Authority’s findings in 2011 and the two parties settled out of court, an undisclosed sum which is not a matter for public record.
In any case, I’m ashamed to say that my ethics got the better of me at this time in the morning and I hastily ordered a falafel kebab before jumping in a cab and heading home to Mt Albert.

Falafel is made from ground chickpeas, fava beans, or both. Falafel is a traditional Middle Eastern food, commonly served in a pita, which acts as a pocket, or wrapped in a flatbread known as lafa; The Turkish Cafe is one of the few places in Auckland that serves their kebabs that way.
And it’s good!

Word to the wise though? Maybe don’t drink wine like it’s going out of fashion as a vegan. The hangover is brutal.

Love,

Charli xx

Peach Pit

How on earth more people don’t know about this place is beyond me.
This innocuous little eatery is located halfway down Auckland’s infamous K(arangahape) Rd, a stones throw away from the sex shops and titty-bars that the strip is synonymous for.

Owned and operated by Luckrecya Craw, Peach Pit‘s menu much like its nearby neighbour Coco’s Cantina is sustainable, meaning that the dishes are ever changing based on available ingredients.

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Peach Pit, Auckland Central, NZ. Photo courtesy of Peach Pit (Facebook.com).

It was Tuesday night when my friend Carl and I visited for dinner.
A bevy of young, alt types sat outside in the dying sunlight sampling craft beers, paying us no mind as we reviewed the most current menu displayed in the restaurant’s window. After agreeing that there were items on the menu that piqued both our interest, we strolled on in.

I was warmly greeted by Luckrecya & the chef as we entered, taking the opportunity to grab a booth in the virtually empty dining room. Like lightning, iced lemon water was brought to our table by the owner herself, along with a pair of handwritten, photocopied menus. I’ve eaten at the Peach Pit before, and found this to be a charming touch – almost like wandering into a friend’s home who’d decided to host a dinner party and as a cute gesture, provide their guests with an insight into what they would or could choose to experience that evening.

Considering the humidity in the city at the moment, the large jug was sorely appreciated. Too often I eat in restaurants where bottles of water aren’t presented to the table for guests to self pour, owners opting instead to have their wait staff dutifully refill glasses during busy service. Personally I find this style intrusive, so appreciated that we were being given an opportunity to sit & review our options, whilst catching up on each others’ work, family and home lives – not being interrupted by a stranger hovering during a potentially private discussion about embarrassing bodily functions brought on by a diet high in fibre. I digress.

Carl noted that the jug & matching tumblers were reminiscent of some similar glassware that his grandmother owned once upon a time when he was a child, and we talked some on how design has evolved since the fifties, sixties & seventies, amber glass rarely being used in more recent offerings. The glassware appeared to be replica (not amber like Carls g’mas), emulating a vintage style that has become so hugely popular in modern day decor.

Luckrecya returned to the table to let us know that the sweet & sour tofu salad I had spied in the window display on the way in was unavailable, however had been replaced on the menu with a salt & pepper tofu option. This made the selection easy for me and I opted to accompany my main with a cabbage side salad.

Carl ordered a bulgogi beef burger, accompanied by barbecued corn & miso.
Luckrecya mentioned that the burger came with both a large, homemade pattie & sliced beef, and recommended that the beef be cooked medium rare as the chef intended, however did indicate that she would be happy enough to let the kitchen know the beef could be cooked to Carl’s liking, if he chose a different temperature.

As anyone who eats out frequently knows (or has had a friend or spouse who was/is a chef), if the chef recommends an item be cooked a certain way, this is how you should order it – as the overall flavour of the dish will taste as it was designed and intended by someone who knows food well. Carl agreed that the burger should be served as recommended.

Whilst we waited for our meals to arrive, James Blake’s ‘Overgrown‘ played in the background, followed by Wale’s ‘Bad‘, which made for an interesting but appreciated dinner soundtrack. Carl & I work for the same group of companies however he recently took a position in an office closer to home, meaning that we don’t often see one another – when we do, there’s the usual chatter you would expect from two people who previously worked in the same building catching up on office gossip. As the conversationalist (read, ‘blabbermouth’) of this duo, I spent the majority of the time excitedly talking over my own new job and my experiences documenting my new life as a vegan.
He listened intently, as he always does when I’m on a tangent or rant (of which I am famous for), and interspersed the conversation with a terrible joke, of which he is famous for.

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Bulgogi Beef Burger – Peach Pit – Auckland Central, NZ.

Carl’s burger arrived first and it was…well, impressive.
My tofu was delivered soon after and it appeared to be firm, the coating crispy (not sitting in a pool of grease), and was served with a thin sauce which tasted of chilli, coriander seeds, malt vinegar & sugar. I dipped the first piece of tofu gingerly into the sauce and took a mouthful, making sure it was sufficiently coated.

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Salt & Pepper Tofu – Peach Pit, Auckland Central, NZ.

Holy shit. This is vegan’s ambrosia. I don’t think the English language has enough adjectives in it to describe how incredible my first salt & pepper tofu experience was. Carl asked me how it was, but it was so good, I couldn’t speak. I fumbled in my knapsack for my mobile phone and called my Octo-Lacto buddy, Kenny.
It took a while for him to answer and as I found out later, was because he was halfway up One Tree Hill on his road bike. I told him I was out for dinner and had just had the most amazing animal-free protein experience of my entire life. He laughed because it was that good, I had to call somebody and tell them, even though Carl was sitting less than a half a metre away across the table.

Carl didn’t say much during dinner, aside from asking me whether I was going to offer to share (which I eventually did, begrudgingly) but did struggle to finish his burger. Luckrecya cleared the table and was genuinely impressed he’d managed to finish it in it’s entirety, claiming to only be able to palate about a third of the meal herself before being stuffed.

The long and short of my second Peach Pit experience, but my first as a vegan, is that everyone must eat here.

Just like Wu Tang, Peach Pit is for the children.
The service is friendly & efficient, the dining room clean and orderly without being sterile or clinical and the meals on offer are ridiculously cheap, especially for a central city based restaurant. I freaked out when she handed me the bill, totalling a mere $47 (including taxes) for 2 mains, 2 sides & 2 soft drinks.

Overall, the best part of this restaurant is that all of the staff know about the food they are serving. They know what flavours will compliment one another and will let you in on these secrets without being condescending, pushy or making you feel uncomfortable about choosing an alternative, should their opinions on flavour differ from yours. A meal at the Peach Pit is an experience, not just ‘food’ haphazardly served on a stark, white plate. They give a shit about their menu, they’re clearly passionate about the food they serve and hip hop is on the restaurant’s playlist.

Why wouldn’t you go?

Love,

Charli x