Restaurant Review: Jesse Mulligan Has A Night Out In Wellington At Rosella, Puffin & A Jazz Bar

ROSELLA

Cuisine: Bistro/wine bar

Address: 18 Marjoribanks St, Wellington

Phone: (04) 333 0573

Reservations: Accepted

Drinks: Fully licensed

From the menu: Tasting menu $85, vegetarian tasting menu $70

Nothing makes me happier than arriving at the airport for a flight to Wellington. I felt that euphoria again on my most recent trip, even though weather-related delays and cancellations had the Koru Club stuffed with people, a line of unlucky latecomers like me queued outside and the staff running a one-in, one-out policy like bouncers at a nightclub after midnight.

“Not in those shoes,” I almost expected to hear as I nervously approached the sliding glass door with my boarding pass but, of course, they were welcoming and apologetic and happy to show me to a comfy seat where I ate the businessman’s banquet: a large wedge of blue cheese with water crackers.

“Could you recommend some good restaurants but please not tell them I’m coming to review them?” was my request of Wellington tourism but if the waitstaff were surprised to see me they did a good job hiding it. They showed all the classic signs of a team trying extremely hard not to do a single thing wrong — the pressure of which leads to all sorts of little errors they wouldn’t normally make, along with profuse apologies for any misunderstanding or request for additional information. They are a great and lovely team and I doubt they’d refer to radicchio as “verdicchio” to anyone apart from me.

I was eating with my good friend Thomas, who led me somewhat astray last time I had a night in the capital (Forest and Bird conference, nbd). It wasn’t his fault — he was just being a good host — but I woke up the next morning vowing never again to go round for round with a political journalist; they have livers that are immune to toxicity, presumably due to sustained daily exposure.

So here were Thomas and I, me still chipper as all heck, and then the food starting arriving and I’m afraid I didn’t stay happy long. Rosella must sometimes be as good as everyone says it is (“It opened last year and is an absolute favourite of ours,” said the lovely Wellington PR who recommended it, put me up in a hotel and is no doubt, even at this early stage of the review, resolving never to do so again), but our tasting menu was a succession of disappointments.

Thomas ordered the vegetarian option and got a selection that seemed like a degustation of side plates: some toasted sourdough, sliced tomato and aioli, a bitter leaf salad and, climactically, potato gratin for a main. Often it wasn’t clear to us or the waitress what was a shareable snack and what was meant to be a showcase of the kitchen’s talents. He did enjoy a sort of tofu tartare which came at the same time as my tuna crudo. Neither of us enjoyed the corn fritters (in mid-autumn) which were deep-fried orange, with uncooked batter in the middle.

Have I told you how much I love Wellington? Let’s not dwell on the negatives. I liked what the chef did with black bean, creating a condiment (served with mussels) that I don’t think I’ve ever seen in a New Zealand bistro. The lamb belly skewers with black garlic were pretty delish though unusual that they came before seafood on a degustation. The butterfish was sadly a disaster, a beautiful Wellington south coast protein either overcooked or pre-frozen into mush.

Not my favourite part of the job ruining a restaurateur’s day so let’s swiftly leave Rosella (where, did I say, the staff were excellent?) and head down the road to the Rogue and Vagabond, an only-in-Wellington experience where you can find (superb!) live music almost any night of the week. On this occasion, it was a six-piece jazz band — just the sort of gig that makes you feel glad you’re out of Auckland for a night.

When the gig was over we went somewhere that really did serve cocktails: Puffin Bar, on the ground floor of the Intrepid Hotel. There is a time of night in Ghuznee St when two men arriving together are always going to order one thing and the bartender was already pouring out a measure of vermouth rosso before I’d even hit the third syllable on “negronis”. It was a perfect way to end the night — a feat so difficult to achieve last time Thomas and I had got on the tiles — and I wandered back to my hotel happy again. Wellington has still got it, and even the best restaurants have bad nights.