TheBanyanTree: Another memorable anniversary

[PJMoney]

SkyCity casino (formerly MGM Grand, formerly some other name I can't
remember) has a very good fine-dining restaurant, Evoo, where we have gone
on special occasions.  We have never been disappointed in the food though
the service has occasionally been lacking.  Most wait staff at all the
restaurants here are back-packers, so what can you expect?

After our last visit to Evoo, several months ago, we got a call from the
restaurant manager telling us about a new Italian restaurant that the casino
was planning to open.  The advertisement announcing the restaurant's opening
was in the paper three weeks ago, just when we were thinking about what to
do for our anniversary.  Going there would be new and interesting so we
booked a table for two for dinner and, to avoid blood alcohol problems, we
also booked a room for the night at the casino hotel.

We checked into the hotel at 4.30pm last Thursday.  Our room had a view of
the sea and a private balcony.  Unfortunately, we couldn't open the balcony
door.  It had a button mechanism that said, "Push down to open," but the
button wouldn't be pushed down.  The door also had a lock but no key. I rang
reception to report our problem and was told a porter would be sent up.

The porter arrived with the key and a legal document for us to sign.  He
told us that some people have left the door open for prolonged periods.
That interferes with the air-conditioning, especially in the Wet season, and
that can set off the fire alarm, falsely.  The fire brigade will come and
then will send a bill, for about $350, for being attending a false alarm.
Hotel guests who wish to be able to open the balcony door must promise to
leave it open for as little time as possible and sign this document agreeing
that, should the fire alarm go off falsely, they will pay the fire brigade
call out fee.  OK.  We signed.  The porter unlocked the door.  I opened it
and went out to the balcony making sure to close the door as soon as I was
through.  Immediately my glasses fogged up and for several minutes I
couldn't see a thing.  But it's the Wet season.  I'm used to that.

We decided to go and walk along the beach.  The land on which the casino
complex sits is protected from being washed away when cyclones cause
destructive waves by a jumbled wall of massive basalt boulders.  The wall is
broken by not a single set of steps.  The beach, covered as it was in a
fascinating tracery of crab trails, is, therefore, not to be reached except
by the agile.  I'm not entirely lacking in that department but I am old
enough now to have a sensible fear of breaking bones so we walked along the
top of the wall looking for a reasonably safe route down.  At the edge of
the casino property the boulders stopped and there, in the crumbling coffee
rock, we found a steep and winding path that was held together by tree roots
and the odd large stone. Paul went first and helped me down.

There were so many little hermit crabs scuttling around that we had to be
careful where we trod but otherwise the beach was, as beaches around here
generally are, rather a sterile place.  I suppose that's because the tide
falls so far (up to 7 metres) and, on falling, exposes nothing but sand.  By
the time shells get washed up to the high tide mark they're generally in
fragments.  I did notice scores of green tubular things that, at first, made
me think of snake beans and then of cochayuyo - that tasteless seaweed that
I had to eat too much of when I was living in Chile nearly 40 years ago.
But then I looked again and realised that they were the seed pods of
mangrove trees that had failed to bury themselves in the muck when they fell
from their parent trees.  I looked out to sea and saw the stems of scores
more pods riding vertically in the water, like the bristles of a sparsely
furnished brush.  Can mangrove seed pods ever germinate that are carried
along like that and then deposited, horizontally, on sand?  I have no idea
but I hope so.  

Paul suggested that we find the restaurant so we'd know how to get there
after we'd showered and dressed.  So we clambered up the rocks (going up
while wearing trifocals is, I've found, far easier than going down) and made
our way into the casino proper.  We passed the keno room where a half-dozen
or so people sat in armchairs staring in a dully absorbed fashion at a
screen full of numbers.  We moved on and passed through one room, and then
another, full of what I presume are slot machines, and almost as full of
people playing them.  Many of the people were smoking and nobody was jumping
up and down, calling for security guards or the police.  I can't remember
the last time I went into a public building where smoking was allowed.

These machines are nothing like the one-armed bandits I once put $10 worth
of 5 cent coins through and I realised that I have no idea how to use them.
One machine was vacant.  I noticed a button labelled something like, "Rules
of the game," so I pressed it and the screen filled up with instructions
that I couldn't understand.  A second and a third press of the button
provided more screens of text that left me just as uninformed and took away
what little interest I had in having a twirl at the game.  

Then we saw a sign pointing to the restaurant - Il Piatto.  It looked very
swanky indeed.  The most expensive dish on the menu was a pizza boasting the
best of the best, genuine Italian ingredients, for $300.  Who would spend
$300 on a pizza?  A well-heeled winner, I suppose.

At 7.30pm, on the dot, all tarted up - beglammed and bejewelled as
appropriate for what is intended to be a romantic anniversary dinner, we
arrived at the restaurant.  The restaurant manager took our name and started
fiddling with his computer.  He looked down.  He looked around the room.  He
looked down again and around the room again, and again, and again.  It
dawned on me that despite booking the table we were not actually booked.
Eventually he offered us a table, set for four right in front of a glass
wall through which we could see the whole kitchen and everything that was
happening in there.  Interestingly, the three pizza cooks were all Asian.

We were seated, the extra places were removed and we were handed two wine
menus; one priced by the glass and one priced by the bottle.  We prefer to
decide on the wine after we've decided what we're going to eat so when the
waitress came back to ask what we'd like Paul asked for the menu.
Surprisingly, she was surprised.

She brought the menu and a few minutes later, while we were still thinking
what we'd like to order, another waiter came to take it.  He suggested
starting off with bruschette, we said OK and then we decided we'd have
risotto.  

Gordon Ramsey, whose Hell's Kitchen series we both find riveting viewing
(though not in repeat - so much nastiness, boastfulness and lack of personal
insight is only interesting to me the first time I'm exposed to it), is
always going on about risotto and neither of us had ever had it before
(packet Rice-a-Riso doesn't count) so here was the big chance to have proper
risotto.  This one came with wild boar sausage, white beans and porcini
mushrooms, and was for two persons.  For the main course we both chose duck.
We also ordered a bottle of wine.  Sweets we would decide on later.

The wine was brought by another waiter.  It was delicious but instead of
putting the opened bottle in a bucket by the table the waiter carried the
bottle off to somewhere on the other side of the room.  Soon afterwards yet
another waiter brought the brushchette.  It was bland and needed salt.  The
accompanying olives were bland.  I much prefer the chilli garlic ones I get
from the deli section at Woolies.

The risotto arrived.  It was bland.  Salt improved it somewhat but it also
had a sour, fermented taste that some might like but we both thought was
unpleasant.  Neither of us would ever order it again.  

Then the duck arrived.  It came on a vegetable stack of spinach, eggplant
and mushrooms and with a plum and rhubarb sauce.  The duck was overcooked
and dry so I didn't eat much of that but I did eat all my vegetables because
I really like vegetables.  Paul, on the other hand, doesn't like vegetables
so much and ate none of his.  I assume that was what saved him.  Otherwise I
can't account for it.

By this time we'd had one refill of our wine glasses, they were both empty
again and had been for some time. I got sick of waiting to be noticed so I
got up, walked around the room until I found a bucket containing bottles of
wine, grabbed ours and carried it back to our table.  Two waiters I met on
the way grew round-eyed at the sight of me and the bottle and muttered
apologies.

The detritus of the duck was carried away.  Did we want dessert?  Not me.  I
was feeling very full but Paul had gelato and eventually told the waiter it
was the best part of the meal.  Finally we had coffee.  The bill came to
$195.

We went back to our room and were in bed by 10.30pm.  Sometime after
midnight I woke up feeling uncomfortable - the sort of bloated
uncomfortableness that isn't outright nausea but tells me that vomiting
might follow and I should be prepared for a quick dash to the dunny.  The
quick dash was required.  And again.  And again.  Ad nauseum.

By 3am, after I'd made about 8 forced trips to the dunny, Paul took pity on
me.  He hurried home to get some Maxolon (aka metoclopramide hydrochloride)
while I hung on at the hotel, hurling unhappily.

Maxolon is great stuff!  A syringe full of that into my thigh made an end of
my misery.  We slept, woke at the usual time having had too little of it,
had a cup of tea, abandoned (out of fear) our original plan to have
breakfast at the casino and went home.

So we have another anniversary to remember even if for different reasons
than we have for remembering last year's big party.  I expect that, quite
soon, my chest and abdominal muscles will stop hurting when I laugh, cough
or sneeze.  

Janice