Jamie spent a few days on Waiheke island attending a wedding for a friend of Ami's. The wedding itself, on a beach that was at the base of a very steep slope, was disorganised and particularly accident prone. However, one redeeming feature was the food.
Jamie had heard of a hangi, but had never seen, let alone experienced one. A hangi, as any Kiwi will tell you, is a Maori cooking tradition whereby rocks are taken from a bonfire and piled into a deep hole. The food is then placed upon the rocks, wrapped in blankets, and buried. Eight hours later, the food is cooked and piping hot.
Hangi food generally consists of different meats, potatos, kumara, and maybe a pumpkin or two. Hearty food. And wrapped in with the blankets that cover the food is also the odd leaf of cabbage used to add moisture (one of the guests remarked to Jamie that "there is always cabbage at a hangi." An observation of both the food and the relatively large number of very old women hovering around the food).
Not knowing what to expect, Jamie piled his plate high with venison, pork, beef, spuds--well, everything really. The meat was incredible. Moist and crumbling apart like cake. But when he tasted the potato, the sensation was, well, different. He imagined he might accidentally have chosen the accidental car tire chucked in with the food. The he took a bite of the pumkin. Another tire.
"How's your food?" Ami asked at one stage.
"Um, good." He answered, then added. "Does anyone else's meal taste like car?"
"Yeah," said one of the guests. "It's an acquired taste."
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