I'm on location in New Plymouth

I'm on location in New Plymouth.

That's not for any particular reason. I just like my own company, as well as a good maunga - and Mt Taranaki is a cracker. So I threw my other pair of track pants in the boot and I drove up to pay my respects.

I arrived to my $99 per night motel room, which was reassuringly wiped down with enough bleach to avoid coachroaches and evade luminol; and then I walked into town. I was looking forward to solitude over a kai. Truly, no parent will need an explanation.

Confession: I am an embarrassingly unsophisticated diner. Kind of a culinary idiot. It's my working class secret: I'm not entirely sure what a brioche is, but if it's not green onion chips and Maggi dip, I'm only feigning interest anyway. So when I was faced with a choice between the two eateries I could find, there was trouble.

Number one was an Irish bar. Some of my forebears are Irish, and I associate it with unrelenting oppression and potatoes. I figured I could get these any time back home in Upper Hutt.

I went instead with option number two, a tapas bar. I don't know how that stuff works, so I just ordered a wine and pointed randomly to the menu and gave it my best shot.

Something about the scene pictured in this photo tells me I over-ordered.

Four forks' sake.