Capital city, eatery capitol of the world. More cafes and restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the world. The ratio was 4 places to eat for every one resident. Then why in the hell was I carrying a bag of groceries across town?
Patch (the Irish guy), bless his heart was on a true backpacker’s budget and chose to survive off of groceries and vegemite (half Australian). At first on this trip I welcomed the experience. At first, when the markets were near the hostels. At first when I was cooking muscles from the sea. But I had officially hit a breaking point. Of all the places to eat out in New Zealand, this was it. But I went with the flow. Never again would I cook in New Zealand (I thought in my head as I peeled the skin off of boiling hot potatoes.) This was bullshit. I was cooking a mediocre meal in the first place (bangers and mash- what is the UK’s brainless obsession with sausages anyway? It’s a scrap meat. Low grade, and unimaginative), and at the Irish man’s request, I was removing the best part of the potato. An English man looked at me in the kitchen and said “awwww you’re taking off the best part!” He took a handful of the skins and popped them into his mouth. I started yelling! What do Irish people know about potatoes anyway!? The spice trails are open, why do you still chose to live in the filth of bland?! Fuck the Irish!!! I was in the middle of a three hour ordeal that maybe saved me 2 dollars. This was bullshit and never again.
The Irish are just too drunk to care what they’re eating, so they just eat what’s most readily available.