Fish of the Week

by Steve Braunias

  The two eminent broadcasters who ran the exercise described my performance as ‘eerily compelling’. This is because I was filled with the white heat of Brash’s intellect. It scorched Harré to a mumbling heap. She was a very poor Clark. She was subdued, passive, unconvincing—actually, perhaps this was meant as an accurate portrayal of the prime minister, who seems so worn-out these days. The guy who played Winston Peters was sacked after the first taped segment. He was simply too pale. This left Rare, as Turia, who gave Brash a torrid time with her punchy, belligerent performance. She was then switched to play Peters, and gave Brash a torrid time with her punchy, belligerent performance.

  In between taping, I felt I let Brash down a little by stepping outside for a refreshing cigarette. Otherwise, though, I stayed true to character. I was resolute: ‘We say your money is yours!’ I chanted: ‘Welfare trap!’ I was personal: ‘My wife is from Singapore!’ I raved: ‘My vision is of a New Zealand where all children, regardless of race, are given high quality education, where social justice, regardless of race, can be achieved, where New Zealand produces just one-quarter of one percent of the global emission of greenhouse gases, regardless of race!’

  And then I very nearly wept. I pointed out that six hundred New Zealanders left to live in Australia each week, and that in one year this would add up to a city the size of Gisborne. I once had an affair with a beautiful girl from Gisborne; perhaps moved by some distant memory of her tender caress, I evoked the terrible image of Gisborne as a ghost town, emptied and vacant, its shops shut, its girls gone, its surf rubbing salt on to the carcass of the shore. On the brink of hot tears, I turned to the stunned, quivering Clark and said: ‘Your government killed Gisborne!’ She had no reply.

  In this way, I gave myself to Brash. We joined forces, we defeated our foes, we rode together on a galloping horse through the deserted streets of Gisborne. We had facts, some of them accurate, and we definitely had plenty of figures. We were steady men. We wanted the very best for our country. I saw Brash through his eyes; I came to love him, I possibly craved his wife, I walked tall in his shoes … Acting places such intense demands. You can’t just shake off a character and resume the self you left behind. I suspect the role I played will follow me to the polls on September 17.

  [August 7]

  The Morning After

  He woke up to the noise of his wife banging shut the cupboard doors in the kitchen. Oh Christ, he thought. Here we go again.

  He rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Twenty past seven. He wanted to go back to sleep but he knew what would happen next; she would bang a few more doors—there went another one, rattling the saucers—and then appear at the bedroom door with her head steaming like a kettle. She’d say, ‘Did I wake you?’ And he’d say, ‘No, no, I was just lying here. Was that you looking for something?’

  She’d say she couldn’t find the can-opener, or that she’d found the can-opener despite her allegations he’d hid it in the laundry basket, but now she couldn’t find the tin of peaches. The truth was that she wasn’t really looking for anything. Her cupboard rage was just her familiar tactic of wanting to start an argument.

  She needed these torments; they had become a pattern, knitted as tight as the jerseys she insisted he wear. During the past four weeks, as her mood worsened, he felt as though the jerseys crushed his ribcage and throttled his neck. He had circled the calendar for today’s date, knowing it would be the eye of the storm, regardless of last night’s result. If she lost, all hell would break loose. But she was a sore winner, too. It was never enough. Someone always had to pay. He knew who had that someone was.

  He heard the quick, hard stomp of her feet on the hallway floor. He noticed his jersey draped over the bedroom chair, and felt afraid.

  He shifted his weight, placed his head next to hers on the pillow, and continued making love to his wife. To the left, he thought. No, to the right.

  His thoughts strayed to the events of last night. Someone had spilled red wine over his shirt and tie. Had she remembered to soak them overnight? He wondered about asking her now, but let the question pass. He particularly liked that tie though, and although he had other shirts exactly like the one that had been soiled, it would be a waste of a good shirt. Shirts didn’t grow on trees.

  He thought of the balloons. The streamers. The TV cameras. The cheering, the applause. But he had been fearfully hungry. He kept seeing plates of food ferrying past him; all he had to eat all night was a bite of crayfish, but when he put his plate down a waitress took it away. He imagined her scraping it into the rubbish. That was a shame. Crayfish didn’t grow on trees.

  How had he come across on TV? But it was too late to worry about that. It was good not to worry anymore. He could relax now, after four long, hard weeks. It was over, done with, gone. And surely his wife had remembered to soak his shirt and tie.

  The thought reminded him that she was beneath him. He whispered to her, ‘Who’s the boss?’ It was their secret bedroom script. She said, ‘You are, dear.’

  He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and brushed his hair. More to the left, he thought. No, to the right.

  He had a very good head of hair. He wasn’t vain about it, but he wondered whether his hair might actually be described as virile. True, it was grey, but he wasn’t in any danger of going bald, praise God! He smiled. God had meant him to have a very good head of hair. That was as much a fact as it was that God had created the world in seven days.

  He thought of words to describe his hair. ‘Lush.’ And ‘full’. Also, come to think of it, ‘exciting’. People said he was boring, but his hair had the last laugh. He would take his lush, full, exciting hair back where it belonged—to Wellington, to parliament, to the corridors of power, which he strode with intelligence and dignity, with importance and purpose, as leader of a party that really made a difference.

  He would be late for church. He had best hurry. He took up his brush. More to the right, he thought. No, to the left.

  It took him six attempts to get the key in the lock but he finally made it, and then he tripped over the doorstep. Oh Christ, he thought, here we go again.

  But at least he had made it home. That was an achievement. He lay on the floor and tried to remember where he had been. Balloons. Streamers. TV cameras. Where the hell had that been? He could hear birds singing. They hurt his head. Goddamned lousy birds.

  The music last night was too loud, too. Old people came up to him and said they couldn’t hear themselves talk. They were lucky, he thought, because he could definitely hear them, going on and on and on, and stroking his arm and looking up to him for guidance and would he deliver them from Asians, when all he wanted was a steak, served rare, and something to drink, served often.

  He turned on his back, lit a cigarette, and covered his eyes with his sleeve. Goddamned lousy birds. Goddamned lousy Tauranga. Goddamned lousy election campaigns. Never again. Never again. Never again.

  [September 18]

  Ghost Story

  There was a piano at the back of the room, and a sign on the wall that read, ‘Do not move the piano.’ I immediately felt like moving the piano. I had entered a lawless zone; rules were made to be broken, anything was possible, anarchy lurked in every corner. This was on a recent Saturday afternoon, upstairs in my local library, where I had chanced upon a public notice. It announced, ‘Mediums bring messages to you from the spirit world. No charge.’

  Five elderly women sat behind a long table on a low stage. One of them caught my eye, and her gaze followed me as I took a seat in the third aisle. There were three aisles. About twenty people were in attendance. It was a small dark room, with a view of a plane tree outside the window. I noted earthly hopes and appetites; a handbag on the floor revealed a Lotto ticket, and a packet of Mentos mints. But there was also a sign of the unreal: next to the handbag was a library copy of My Story by Uri Geller. There was a sense of anticipation, of excitement.

  A woman on the stage stood up and began talking to a tw
enty-three-year-old man with red hair who had been killed in a motorcycle accident. She said to him, ‘Good afternoon.’ He had a message. He wanted to give a doe-eyed young girl in the audience the following advice: ‘Money isn’t everything.’ Had she ever known a red-haired man who had been killed on his motor cycle? No, she said.

  A medium who specialised in automatic drawing showed her portrait of a woman with a sunken face and a scar on her cheek. She had been killed in a car accident. Her name was Kelly. Did anyone know her? No. But then another medium took a closer look and said, ‘Shit!’ Yes, she said, that was a close friend back in the 1970s, who had worked as a stewardess for British Airways, and moved to America, where she died.

  A second portrait was held up, of a handsome brute with black hair and a firm square jaw. He claimed he was a great dancer. Did anyone know him? No. But then another medium took a closer look and said, ‘Oh, him!’ She said she went ballroom dancing with him in the 1960s. Did they have a relationship? ‘No, goodness me, nothing like that. I hardly knew him.’ His message was: ‘I’m still dancing with you.’ His dance partner said, ‘That’s nice.’ And then she said all she could remember about dancing with him is that she stepped on his toes.

  There was a message from a grandmother called Margaret. No one had ever heard of her. There was a message from a man called Jack. No had ever heard of him. A medium began talking to someone, but then she had a coughing fit and excused herself; she disappeared behind a door—you could say she was on the other side—and barked like a dog. Everyone heard that.

  Another drawing was produced. It was of an elderly gentle man with a mop of wild hair and shifty eyes—he looked like a sex offender. Did anyone know him? No. But then another medium took a closer look. ‘Well, I do know someone who looks like that,’ she said, ‘but he’s still alive.’ The artist asked, ‘Are you sure he hasn’t popped it?’ The woman replied, ‘I don’t think so.’

  This was disappointing news. The woman who chaired the meeting looked very cross. She said, ‘This isn’t going well.’ But then another medium stood up, and pointed at me. She said, ‘I’ve been looking at you since you came in the door. I have a very strong sense from someone in the spirit world who wants to talk to you.’ She said she was being spoken to by a six-year-old boy. He had very blonde hair, almost white. Did I know anyone answering that description? No.

  She persevered. She said she saw a hospital—the poor lad had died of something like scarlet fever, many years ago, possibly before I was born. I was so desperate to help out that I began telling a room full of strangers that perhaps he was related to my father, who was born illegitimately in Europe, and perhaps had other illegitimate brothers and sisters he didn’t know about … The woman said brightly, ‘I’m having a vision of Germany.’ My father was born in Austria, but that was close, I said. I asked for the boy’s name. She said, ‘Colin.’ I somehow doubted that Colin was a likely Germanic name but asked if he had a message. ‘He wants you to know that you’re on the right track. He wants you to follow your intuition.’

  I nodded thoughtfully. They were such nice old dears. They wore shawls, and flat shoes, and thick tartan skirts. The meeting was called to a close, and they welcomed everyone to stay for afternoon tea. There was cake and a sponge and a delicious chocolate log. They talked about friends in hospital, their own ailments, the nasty spring weather. They were from a time long before New Age nonsense; their icons were the teapot and the sugar bowl. We exchanged warm farewells. The piano stayed exactly where it was.

  [September 25]

  Beef and Liberty I

  We have all seen these past few weeks how New Zealand in spring is a dangerous thing. The wind lost its rag, the sea threw a fit, the sky foamed at the mouth; in short, the weather went stark raving mad. But calmness has prevailed. There is peace in the valley. The fields and the pastures are in bloom. There is so much bounty, so much new life—in particular, there is so much promise of meat. The future is full of hope when you consider that some of the best steaks we will ever eat in our lives are being born right now.

  New Zealand, land of steak: including the newborn steers and heifers, there are an estimated four million head of beef cattle wandering around. One for every New Zealander, going by our current population, although only twenty-one percent of the nation’s beef is bound for the domestic market. By all means head to the butcher and the supermarket for your fill. But what you really want to do is leave the kitchen and splash out on a hot, smoking steak brought to your table. And when you want a hot, smoking restaurant steak, what you want to do—at once, straight away, this minute—is go to a steakhouse.

  In the Auckland region, there is Bronco’s Steak House in Manukau, Chuck’s Steakhouse and Fish Restaurant in Mission Bay, Great Western Steakhouse in New Lynn, Texas Steakhouse and Saloon in Pakuranga, and Bazza’s Steak Out in Pukekohe. Downtown, there are two Tony’s Steakhouses, and there is also the holy grail of steakhouses—the Angus Steak House. Giant cuts of T-bone, Scotch fillet, rump, sirloin and eye fillet are laid out on a rack. Take up your tongs. Transport your tucker to the chef, who stands by at a grill, and await the hot, smoking steak by admiring so much art—the illustration of an Angus on the table mat, the pictures on the wall of the Northumberland ox and ‘the unrivalled Lincolnshire heifer’, and the photographs of celebrity diners, including that great ’60s pop star Donovan, who looks startled, almost afraid, as an enormous steak is brought to his table.

  In Christchurch, there is the New Yorker Steak House, LBJ’s Steak and Seafood Restaurant, Sophie’s Café (the so-called ‘best little steakhouse in Christchurch’ features the OK Corral Steak, the Jesse James Special, and Blazing Brent’s Choice), and that fabulous oddity, Sergeant Peppers Steak House, which has a Beatles theme—lots of artwork, continual music. ‘Here Comes the Sun’ and here comes the steak.

  Other South Island destinations include Turf Steakhouse in Nelson, Steak Shed in Blenheim, Steak Bar in Greymouth, Beefeater Steakhouse in Queenstown, Settlers Steakhouse in Te Anau, Huntsman Steakhouse in Dunedin, and Aino’s Steakhouse in Invercargill.

  Up north, there is Bulls on Bank Steakhouse in Whangarei, Twin Pines Steak and Ale House in Paihia, and Steak House Restaurant and Family Bar in Dargaville, where manager Lindsay Newman hits the nail firmly on the head when he says, ‘Nobody ever goes away hungry from a steakhouse.’ His fare includes the ham steak ($23) and the carpetbagger steak ($32). It’s popular with tourists—‘They come down through the forest’—and anyone who ‘prefers to look at their plate and know exactly what’s on it’.

  There is Steak Out Grill in Havelock North, Steak Outs in Palmerston North and New Plymouth, Steak at the Gate in Wanganui, Steak and Ale in Waipukurau, and Joxer Daly’s Steak and Ale House in Masterton, where manager John Cavaney advises: ‘You wouldn’t take your girlfriend here on the first date, or your wife on your anniversary … We do large meals.’ They include the rump steak (400 grams, $25) and the T-bone (350 grams, $26).

  There is Murphy’s Steak House and Chicago Steakhouse in Porirua, Bill’s Seafood and Steak Diner in Te Awamutu, Mazola’s Steak and Ale House in Hastings, and Mac’s Steakhouse in Rotorua, where manager Bob Macfarlane specialises in Hereford prime steaks, including his so-called Big Boy T-bone (450 grams, $32), and Tame Poto (Short Tommy) porterhouse (300 grams, $22.50). There is also the Super Works, weighing in at 600 grams, at $41.50: ‘That’s a man’s challenge.’ What’s the challenge? ‘You get a free litre of beer if you can clean up your plate. All the boys come in and make a contest of it. I’d say 80 percent of them doggedly get through it.’

  The oldest steakhouse in New Zealand may well be Big Tex in Foxton. There used to be twenty-four Big Tex steakhouses around the country; Foxton marks the last stand of that great chain, and has been in business for forty years. Seven days, from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., managers Carolyn Dawson and Anne Hancock serve up 400-gram rump steaks and 250-gram rib-eye steaks for $22, popular with truck drivers, who can charge back the meal to their bill at
the motel next door. ‘A lot of kill trucks go by,’ says Carolyn.

  Are there other steakhouses? For the love of meat and nation, write in with details. Locate, describe, share. In fact, all stories of steakhouses past and present are welcome. Information received may well furnish a follow-up column. Ever since refrigerated cargo ships set sail from our shores in 1882 to conquer the wider world, steak has helped make this country great; the steakhouse has helped make its people part of that history.

  [October 2]

  Diary of Fashion Week

  Monday, October 17

  The calm before the storm: Fashion Week starts tomorrow. Catch a taxi to the registration centre at the Viaduct Basin. The press release had advised: ‘Get in early to avoid the queues.’ I get in early, and avoid the queues: the only other person there is an elderly gentleman smoking a pipe.

  Tuesday

  The storm after the calm. A fat woman stands on my foot at the Caroline Church show, her high heels drilling into the beautiful leather of my Versace shoes. In the Mint Café after the Zambesi show, another fat woman spills my glass of Finlandia Vodka Mangotini over my Keith Matheson coat. Hobbling and stained, I escape outside for a cigarette, and get talking to an American fashion buyer based in Rome.

  I ask what she thinks of the Trelise Cooper show. She says, ‘Strong, intuitive, passionate, vulnerable, full of contradictions, yet ultimately fascinating. Anything but conventional, with an innate desire to express herself. The result of a keen mind, as much as a sharp eye. Treasures that suggest the secrets of femininity—what to reveal, what to conceal. An irresistible mix of mystery and candour that take women where they want to be.’