Live the Live ™

I recently rediscovered a story I wrote a couple of years ago, after my trip to New Zealand. I had hopes of getting it published somewhere, with no luck. So, what the heck…I’ll reprint it here, adding a few photos to help with the story.

A Guy Walks Into a (New Zealand) Bar…

I recently returned from a two-week trip to New Zealand, touring the northern half of the South Island, clocking over a thousand miles by car and train.

My journey started and ended in Nelson, the oldest city on the South Island. It was a great home base to explore the famous Abel Tasman National Park, ending each day with dinner and drinks.

One of my favorite stops was the Urban Eatery and Oyster Bar in Nelson, where fresh, creative seafood filled the menu. I walked in and noticed there were no seats at the bar, my spot of choice when I’m traveling solo. I had made a reservation, but I saw a bar stool in the corner and pulled it up to the bar, much to the surprise of the bartender and manager. 

The manager explained that no one usually sits at the bar in New Zealand, opting for small tables, but it being obvious that I was an American, if I chose to do so, I was more than welcome to. I did get some interesting glances as I pulled my barstool up.

The bartender, a lovely young woman who perhaps wasn’t used to having someone to talk to in her workspace, asked me what I wanted to drink. I was craving for a vodka martini, very dry, expecting what I got at most American restaurants: 3 to 4 ounces of vodka, chilled, in a martini glass with olives. But instead, she hesitated.

She explained: “Here in New Zealand, if you order a ‘double,’ you get 30 mls.” (I quickly Googled it to find it was only 1 ounce.) “But, legally, I can pour an extra 30 mls into a shot glass that you can then pour into your glass yourself.”

Doing quick ounces-to-mls math in my head, I explained that a martini in the States can be almost 4 ounces, or 120 mls, and I could see her eyes widen in disbelief. “That’s irresponsible!” she gasped.

I laughed as I told her that two of those monstrous drinks were commonly referred to as a “businessman’s lunch” in the States, and she shook her head as she poured my first ounce in a rocks glass and then poured my side shot. (There were no martini glasses in sight.)

I poured my extra ounce into my glass and it still looked really low. “I’m guessing not too many people order martinis,” I said. “What do you usually fill the rest of the glass with?”

“Tonic, olive brine if it’s dirty, something like that.”

Ordering beer in New Zealand was simpler. It was served mostly in pints. Wine glasses, however, had a clearly marked line on each glass, a regulation set nationally. No “nice pours” the bartender would sometimes give you at the end of the bottle.

They allowed me to order as many drinks as I wanted, as long as I wasn’t inebriated, but it felt a little embarrassing to have to order so many drinks.

Down the street in Nelson, I visited Kismet, a very well-stocked cocktail bar, though their choice of vodka was small due to its limited popularity. The drink of choice is gin, and there are a good number of distilleries in New Zealand, many in Marlborough wine country, that produce delicious floral, herbaceous gins. My own experience with gin was limited to a whatever-and-tonic, but here…gin was something special.

I tried a couple of brands: Victor, with powerful floral notes that reminded me of Hendrick’s on steroids, and Roots, another Marlborough product. The Roots bottle was labeled “Navy strength,” registering at 54.5%, and I soon realized that if I ordered a “double-double,” as I came to call it, I’d get more alcohol in my drink with gin. I was sold.

(“Navy strength” refers to a time when gin was stored on Navy ships in wooden barrels next to the gun powder, and if there was an accidental gin spill, it had to have enough alcohol in it to still allow the gin-soaked gunpowder to ignite. Hence: “Navy strength.”)

A Roots double-double with just a splash of New Zealand’s own craft-made East Imperial tonic, and I was a happy man. 

Wherever I went in New Zealand after that, my use of the phrase “double-double,” with a little smile, made the bartender understand I was here for the alcohol, and not for the filler. I couldn’t be more obviously American if I wore a red-white-and-blue bandana on my head.

A double-double of vodka (they all seem to serve only Finlandia, despite a couple of New Zealand brands I’ve had in the States) with olives at Bamboo Tiger in Blenheim. A double-double of bourbon in my Manhattan at Amazonita in Christchurch. A double-double of Mt. Gay with a splash of Coke at Oxley’s Bar & Kitchen in Picton. I got the hang of this!

Many wineries in New Zealand have wonderful restaurants, and sadly my attempt at humor by ordering a double-double of wine didn’t go over too well. But, I was able to enjoy more than one filled-to-the-line glass of Chardonnay at Black Estate Winery in Canterbury or Sauvignon Blanc at Saint Clair Family Estate Vineyard Kitchen in Marlborough.

Back on my homeward bound 17 1/2-hour non-stop from Auckland to JFK, I asked for a double-double of vodka on the rocks, and got it, along with a look from the flight attendant like I was some kind of lush. I wonder if her attitude would change when we crossed into US airspace…