Firehouse Restaurant 293 Colombo Street Phone 39-208 Licensed

Press, 29 January 1986, Page 39

Firehouse Restaurant 293 Colombo Street Phone 39-208 Licensed

(By

808 IRVINE)

The resemblance to a fire station is nominal only. The upper storey has been gutted and rebuilt as the swank new addition (it opened in November) to Christchurch’s top restaurants and nightspots. From the ritzy red awning out front, you ascend a stairwell with salmon pink, velvet-covered walls, grey carpet and lots of woodgfain. In the club, the decor is just as select. A huge Italian marble bar fills one wall; a mezzanine overlooks the stage and dancefloor. It may be fast become a design cliche, but the grey and pink hues, old brick, brass, rimu, palms and Bauhaus chairs certainly work magic. Safe but sumptuous. If firemen lived like

this you could not get them to answer alarms. At 8 p.m., we nearly had the place to ourselves. We settled in, ordered gins and studied the exhaustive wine list and small but innovative menu. (Two menus actually, with a-la-carte from 7 to 11 and supper from then to 2 a.m.)

I kicked off with the chicken and mushroom soup.

“Four dollars, 50 cents for soup,” my motherbabysitter gasped later when I showed her the bill.

Steep, yes, but this was no consomme. There must have been half a chicken in that small bowl, and handfuls of mushrooms.

The garlic “bun” ($1.50) was also delicious. Kay’s entree of vegetarian crepe ($6.50) was bursting with crispy goodness. .An imaginative blend of almonds, celery, apricots, mushrooms and tomato came wrapped in a pancake. An auspicious start. By now a bottle of Matua Valley chablis was sinking fast, our young waitress being attentive with the top-ups.

“You’d have to mention the lack of formal ettlquette,” quibbled Kay, who has slung plates professionally in her dark past.

“Hell no,” I replied. The skipping of that stupid ritual of giving my ascent to a quite predicatable wine, was most welcome.

But then, I get annoyed with “silver servility” as well. Is there anything more awkward than staff juggling vegetables with a totally inappropriate spoon and fork? The mains were as pleasing to the eye as the palate. Kay’s salmon ($17.50) was accompanied by golden potato croquettes, a sliver of red with tomato, and yellow apricot.

The side vegetables, just as colourfully presented, comprised broccoli and kumara whipped and swirled like snow freeze. While the salmon was just a bit tasteless, the fennel butter sauce was wonderful, she said. I ordered the muchvaunted orange roughy ($16.25) as a “first,” and must confess that I still

don’t know what all the fuss is about. No chance of doubt with the superb banana and cream sauce, though. The room began to fill quickly, with the band due on at 10.30.

(Although there was no shortage of smokers, the air was quite clear, thanks to extractor fans which they should make compulsory in every pub and restaurant.) We spun out the wait for the live music with desserts.

My gateau ($6.50) lived up to the standard of the rest of the meal, with fresh strawberries and cream sandwiched in layers of rich chocolate sponge. “Fresh” was also the verdict on Kay’s fruit salad ($6) of rock melon, grapes, paw paw, kiwifruit, oranges and strawberries. You would swear they had just been diced, she said. Both dishes come with a scoop of ice-cream and “log” of whipped cream as complement. The coffee, so often mud in even the best eating-houses, was ambrosia. Here was a kitchen

you could trust And in one American custom which is most welcome, the milk, sugar and cream stayed on the table, and the cup was refilled until we were. What better than a bottomless cup to linger over while savouring a great meal.

Unfortunately, the band jolted me out of the postprandial stupor. Talk about aural GBH, sophisticated venue like this and they wind the amps up as if they are in the sawdust bar of some booze barn.

We suffered two songs in the vain hope that the atrocious mix would improve, then bolted.

A raucous end to an otherwise very pleasant evening. The decor and food were first class, but then at $81.25 for two (including drinks), so it should be.

“That’s a week’s pension,” the babysitter gasped again. True. There is hardly any need for dress code (it’s Ignored anyway), for this is hospitality aimed at the well-heeled: young professionals, princes of the realm, police constables ...