Address: 490 Karangahape Rd, Newton Phone: (09) 308 9039 Cost: Snacks $5; small $13-$19; large $24-$26; desserts $15.
The first record I ever owned was Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, a birthday present in 1968. Over the years, I'd always thought the longest track, Madame George, was about a drag queen, although Morrison has denied it. Still, the song's echoes are fitting for this very cool bar and eatery,in the middle of what was once K Rd's strip-club sector (who can forget Julie'ts [sic]?).
Another revamp of the street's western end is under way, which can hardly be worse than the last tone-deaf and soulless effort, but I hope it doesn't presage too extreme a refurbishment. If it does, the boho chic Madame George would not fit in as perfectly it does now. People half my age tell me it's where the cool kids hang out, so it was just as well we ate early and were out of the way before they arrived.
We turned up at 5pm when they were still dragging tables out on to the pavement but they seemed happy to see us. No one asked if we were looking for the RSA at any rate.
Having often ridden past the place when cheery drinkers were crowding the pavement, I always assumed it was a bar, and it is: the cocktail list is almost as long as the menu and includes some intriguing ingredients (rooibos vermouth, yuzu tonic); its posts on Facebook feature lots of liquor.
But co-owner Pablo Arrasco Paz explains that the establishment, now 18 months old, is trying to turn out "simple food that will surprise people". It's a great mission: good liquor is easy to come by, but food this inspired is hard to find.
I had eaten chef Will Cook's food before actually, when, with fellow Matterhorn and Orphans Kitchen alumnus Carlo Buenaventura, he ran a pop-up called The Cult Project here. I have happy memories of that meal; this one I will think of fondly for some time to come.
Regrettably, the Professor and I did not manage to eat everything on the menu: to try the beef — a tartare and a bavette — we'll have to go back, which we will do really soon. But we gave it a pretty good nudge, and, nitpickers though we are, we couldn't find fault with anything.
Carrot jerky, air-dried, chewy like dried apricots and yielding a carrot flavour only in hints, was as smart a snack as I've tasted. Raw trevally (a cheap, delicious and sustainable fish that is becoming a welcome fixture on Auckland menus) was tinged pink by the rhubarb used in its curing and sat on a sesame cream. Courgette was dealt dead straight, raw in fat julienne strips, dusted with a herb powder, predominantly mint.
Gnocchi were a patissier's flight of fancy: made of choux pastry, bathed in a foam and cream of gruyere and ricotta, with toasted walnut slivers, they made for perhaps the single most striking dish I've had this year.
Pork neck, with powdered eggplant skin seared into the surface, and served on baba ganoush, was fantastically juicy, and a piece of skin-on snapper, cooked a microsecond beyond raw and glistening with nori butter, was state of the art.
On no account miss the dessert described as "milk, raspberries": lightly poached berries of the season were topped with a sugarless milky parfait, close to pav, but sensationally tart, like a sorbet. It was the end of a world-class meal that was a pleasure from start to finish.
Go soon, even if you don't drink. You may be surprised.
