Marine Parade's Pacifica Restaurant strikes an understated but unmissable pose at night, writes Mark Story. Photo File
Marine Parade's Pacifica Restaurant strikes an understated but unmissable pose at night, writes Mark Story. Photo File
Opinion
By day Pacifica Restaurant sits orphan-like next to the six sisters, sleeping off another rough night.
Come dark, the beach-bungalow is a firebrand nocturnal exception to an oddly-dull Marine Parade. The weatherboard azure-blue pairs with a piquant interior that glows as orange as a ripe persimmon.
It's New Zealand vernacularin form and fare. It's also the singular highlight on my drive home from night shift.
Degustation plates are whipped out to guests before slipping back into the void like Wurlitzer 45s. Full tables of diners and wine bottles are obscured by fogged up windows.
Warm inside, cold out, the condensation is a success statement; the vapour trail of a restaurant pumping out the nosh.
Jeremy Rameka is the reason for the full room. He's in the kitchen with a tea towel over his shoulder. A white chef's jacket shows up the brooding ta moko on his neck.
Any local writer will tell you he hides from headlines - such as those last week outing him as the hottest cook in the country. Judges at the Cuisine Good Food Awards dubbed his restaurant the best, tipping their hat to his "genuine New Zealand cuisine".
That's quite the billing for a regional chef cooking in the youngest country on the planet. And let's not forget the rare feat of a consistently full restaurant in a province in its dining-out adolescence, where on Saturdays most still prefer to eat tea at home in front of the box - One News for the main, Lotto for dessert.
Other eateries including Bistronomy, Malo and Elephant Hill also did us proud; but it was Pacifica's coup, and Rameka specifically, who seized power from the metro kitchens.
I read somewhere that his earliest memory of cooking was watching his grandfather cut the top of his fingers with a knife to attract eels at a local creek. Lured by blood, the tuna would latch on to the human bait before being hauled from the river and grilled atop hot coals.
The finned hunters became the hunted, then the harvested.
I struggle to think of anything more visceral, more beautifully Kiwi, than that. I guess this is where the vernacular comes from.
