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 vernacular in 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.