Topic: TN: High, fast, and stupid (New Zealand, pt. 6, img)
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: 20030401194510

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Los Angeles

Darth Vader and the pelvis

New Zealand

Waiheke and the malbec fetish Five wines with penguin All in the family Heaven at the Green Dragon Inn

High on speed

The young woman serving our hotel breakfast looks a little worse for wear. She retains the pleasant smile she's had the last two mornings, but it's plastered on a semi-unshowered, slept-in-these-clothes visage that we clearly – or perhaps not so clearly – remember from college. The lumberjack portions of food are just as good as ever, but we find ourselves wishing her a good, long nap. Soon.

It's a chillier morning, though still sunnily blue, and a brisk stroll around downtown Queenstown finishes with our exhalations still visible. It's thus with a bit of trepidation over the cold that we board a small boat loaded with winches and cables to attempt the first of our limited forays into the prime industry of these parts: risking death.

Truth be told, attempt number one isn't that risky. Theresa's letting herself be dragged through the air by a boat chugging around Lake Wakatipu, but she will be attached to a parachute. What seems like mere moments after we've boarded the boat, she's strapped in and drifting away like bait on an exceedingly large fishing line. Excapt that she's a long way above the water, though the boat operators toy with her a bit by slowing until she almost dips her toes, then gunning the engine and sending her skyrocketing back heavenward.

We cruise around the lake for just over ten minutes before Theresa starts looming larger and larger, coming in for a soft landing on the rear of the boat. Spooled in, she's breathless. "That was great! What's next?"

Rocky mountain high

Well, what's next is a jet boat. Skimming along the lake and the frequently dry-to-the-rocks Kawarau and Shotover Rivers, sometimes quite literally flying over less than an inch of water, a jet boat is a great bit of fun that eventually turns more scenic than adrenaline-pumping. Sure, the gravity-enhancing spins and waggles induce gasps and white knuckles, at first, but after a half-hour we spend more time gazing at the stunning vistas than worrying about which way our jaws will be flung next. Still, there's something to be said for racing over jagged rocks and under low-hanging tree branches along a riverbank, wondering if your feet or head will be severed first.

We quick-step back to the hotel for a hot bath, and lunch…

Chard Farm 2001 Pinot Gris (Central Otago) – Fullish, with pear and a bit of spice, fairly thick (thanks to lees contact and malolactic fermentation) but with good acidity, though the finish is quite short.

…which lasts just long enough for the morning chill to finally disperse, and then it's out again to explore more of Queenstown, starting with the Gardens. It's still a little early this far south for there to be extensive blooming, and so we cross the beach and take a leisurely wander around the town, stopping to buy a few Christmas gifts and spending a good half-hour in The Wine Deli (40 Shotover St.), a small wine shop stuffed to the gills with the best of New Zealand viticulture, including bargain-priced verticals of some of the key reds. With a few bottles in tow, we hike up the hill to play miniature golf at the base of the gondola, then head back towards the lake and a waterfront table for a beer (served by the one of only two truly surly people either of us will meet in New Zealand) at The 19th, right on the Steamer Wharf. As we sit, a front rears its threatening forehead over the mountains.

The Queen's town

Eating smart

We're back at the hotel not long afterwards, waiting for a (complementary) taxi to take us to dinner. A gentle mountain rain has started, and the clouds have descended as fog over the shoreline. When the taxi arrives, there's already a friendly couple from Washington D.C. inside, on their way to the same restaurant. We chat about wine and the glories of New Zealand all the way to Gantley's, which is perched on a rural byway above Queenstown.

Upon arrival, we're encouraged to sit at the bar and pump up our tab a bit by ordering some drinks, a request which we partially accommodate by once more sampling glasses of:

Deutz Brut "Marlborough Cuvée" (Marlborough) – Slightly better than the last glass. Fresh lemon, grapefruit, and apple with some autolytic aromas, but still lacking any sort of complexity or depth.

Soon seated at a nice windowside table, we scan our surroundings. Fairly formal, European-style service flits about the room, which is filled with Americans and Asians on holiday, save for one lonely Aussie quartet. The restaurant has a certain international reputation – our taxi-mates had read about it in the Wine Spectator, from whom it received some sort of award – which probably explains the lack of locals.

Sadly, the restaurant doesn't really live up to its reputation, nor is it as good as either Saffron or The Bunker. The service is excellent in the classic style, though we're already becoming accustomed to the more relaxed, casual approach taken at other restaurants. But the food is a little boring. Things start out well, with green-lipped mussels in a spicy lemongrass/pepper/cream broth, but turn pedestrian when a decent venison loin is served with an indifferent thyme jus and some vegetarian afterthoughts. I suspect a menu like The Bunker's would frighten certain tourists, but this food could be transported to Los Angeles, or Chicago, or Boston, or London, or even Paris with little discontinuity…and little excitement, either.

Adventure sausage

The wine list is worthy of guarded commendation, showing good breadth in both New Zealand and international wines, but not as much depth as one might expect. There are verticals, but the prices aren't particularly appealing. We choose something local that we'd only been able to purchase, not taste, from an allocated stock at Gibbston Valley:

Gibbston Valley 1999 Pinot Noir "Reserve" (Central Otago) – Strong plum dosed with citrus rind (something that appears to be a signature of Gibbston Valley pinot), balanced and showing earthy tannin through a solid and structured finish. Ageworthy and quite accomplished; though the Felton Road Block 3 is a bit more exciting, this one might last longer.

But both food and wine pale beside the floor show. While slurping up the mussel broth, Theresa and I notice a growing commotion across the dining room. It's an older couple and someone who appears to be their daughter; the couple reeks money, while their daughter – probably in her thirties – looks overly made-up and somewhat uncomfortable. She's picking at her food, not really eating it, while she carries on some sort of disagreement with her father.

As the volume escalates and people around the dining room start to turn their heads and stare, their accents become clearer. Texan, by the sound of it. The mother occasionally leans in to soothe, the father is clearly upset but remains outwardly calm, and the daughter…well, the daughter is screeching. She didn't want to come, she's miserable, she hates it here, she hates them…and then she storms out. Following her is a relieved sigh from virtually every diner in the room, as the distraction has proved overwhelming, and all the staring and gaping has brought actual dining to a halt. At long last, the ambient volume returns to normal.

If it's not a sculpture, I’m standing too close

Ah, but not so fast. Now the parents are arguing – the mother sobbing, the father murmuring something, the mother's sobs growing louder with each exchange – and heads once more start to turn. Our waiter arrives to refill our water glasses, and we feel compelled to apologize on behalf of our countrymen. "You're not the only people to say that to me," he smirks, resigned. The argument continues, rising and falling.

And then, the daughter returns.

She leans over, hisses something at her father. Then she raises her arm, and it seems for a moment like she's about to strike her mother. The waitstaff is tense, poised for action. Several angry phrases are exchanged, the daughter's volume growing to room-filling levels. Finally, she shrieks at the top of her lungs: "Yyyeeeew dawn' thaynk aaaahhhm smaaaaaarrrrt!" and stalks out again.

It's the first sensible thing she's said all night.

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