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Tomfoolery opened its doors last month on Auckland’s Karangahape Road. (Imaage: Archi Banal)
Tomfoolery opened its doors last month on Auckland’s Karangahape Road. (Imaage: Archi Banal)

KaiJune 12, 2022

Objectors baffled by ‘duplicitous’ opening of controversial Auckland bar

Tomfoolery opened its doors last month on Auckland’s Karangahape Road. (Imaage: Archi Banal)
Tomfoolery opened its doors last month on Auckland’s Karangahape Road. (Imaage: Archi Banal)

After his liquor licence application received dozens of objections, a domestic violence-accused former reality TV show contestant appeared to drop his plans for a K Road bar. So how did it manage to open?

The opening of a Karangahape Road bar connected to a controversial reality TV show contestant, despite mass objections from the local community last year, has opponents wondering what happened.

As reported by The Spinoff in March 2021, more than 40 objections were filed in response to an application for a liquor licence for a bar called Tomfoolery that was planned to open in St Kevin’s Arcade. The application had been made by Front.Left Ltd, the company of Chris Mansfield, who was fired as a contestant on the Three reality show Married at First Sight in 2019 after it was revealed he had outstanding domestic violence charges against him in the United States. Production sources subsequently told Stuff Mansfield had been “aggressive and volatile” during shooting, and edited him out of the show before it went to air. Mansfield previously worked as brand ambassador for DB Breweries and account manager for Hancocks, a liquor wholesaler.

Most of the objectors to Tomfoolery’s application were people who lived or worked around the close-knit St Kevin’s Arcade community and were concerned about Mansfield’s character, many of whom cited his domestic violence charges. The objections were not the only hurdle faced by Mansfield, with Auckland’s delta outbreak causing multiple delays to district licensing committee hearings. On December 23, some 10 months after applying, Mansfield withdrew his application for the licence.

By the start of this year, the bar’s social media and website had vanished and the Tomfoolery-branded brown paper that had covered the windows in the St Kevin’s Arcade space for more than a year were gone. It seemed the work of those who objected had paid off. “We were all celebrating,” says one of the objecters, Silke Hartung, who describes the arcade as her “living room away from my living room”. 

So when Tomfoolery opened its doors last month, with Chris Mansfield still seemingly at the helm, many of the original objectors and members of the wider community were taken by surprise. How did the bar manage to get a liquor licence without any objections?

“Well, we didn’t know it was happening,” says Hartung. She says nothing in the new application signalled that it had anything to do with either Tomfoolery or Chris Mansfield. 

The lots inside St Kevins Arcade in March last year. (Photo: Jean Teng)

So what happened? After the application for Tomfoolery was withdrawn in December, an application for a new on-licence on the premise was lodged by a different applicant, Donald Hospitality, and under a different operating name, Maggie May’s. According to the Companies Office, Rachel Donald is the director and sole shareholder of Donald Hospitality. On March 16 a public alcohol notice was published. The application received no objections, and the licence was issued on April 13. 

“Mr Mansfield was not mentioned during the processing of this application,” a representative from the district licensing committee told The Spinoff. “Nor was there anything contained within the application to indicate that Mr Mansfield was involved as a director or shareholder of the company or that he would have any involvement in the day-to-day onsite running of the bar. Other individuals were nominated in the application as having those roles. If that situation were to change, the council would take the matter up with the licensee.”

There is plenty to suggest that Chris Mansfield is still very much at least tied to the bar. Stuff reported last month that he’s working as a “consultant” there. Each time I’ve walked past, Mansfield has been inside the bar, its email is “chris@tomfoolery.co.nz”, and two Google reviews mention “Chris”. And despite the new application being made under the operating name Maggie May’s, the bar is still called Tomfoolery. 

Another objector to the original application, Isobel*, says the way this has played out “seems super duplicitous”, adding that she’s concerned it “was so easy for him to circumvent the process”. She has concerns this could further put people off getting involved in the civic process in future.

Communities Against Alcohol Harm secretary and lawyer Grant Hewison says the problem is “the law doesn’t really provide for situations where the applicant hasn’t disclosed things that they should have disclosed, like the ongoing involvement of Chris Mansfield, and that they’re just going to keep trading as Tomfoolery”. This meant there was no way for objectors to know that it was essentially the same establishment going ahead, and even if they did have suspicions there was little grounds they could have objected on, he explains.

Beyond that, “there actually are some other issues that were raised in the original objections which just haven’t been dealt with, like the toilets”, he says. “Very disappointing is an understatement.”

The way in which Tomfoolery obtained its licence creates a worrying precedent for future licence applications, Hewison says. “It’s very unsuitable for someone to basically create this entity and create a new name, get an application through and then go, ‘hey, look, we fooled you all, we’re actually still Tomfoolery and Chris is still involved’.” 

The front windows of Tomfoolery were covered in brown paper for most of 2021. (Photo: Jean Teng)

While Hewison says it’s a long shot, there is a provision under the relevant act that allows for a rehearing. A group of the objectors have applied to the district licensing committee for a rehearing on the basis that information wasn’t properly provided in the application form.

The process raises another systemic issue with the liquor licensing process. Of the 40-plus people who objected, most were struck out – including women who had accused Mansfield of abuse and domestic violence. 

“One of the difficulties with this act is that it has this requirement that you must demonstrate, when you’re an objector, that you have an interest greater than the public generally,” Hewison says. Usually this is decided by a geographic proximity test where if you live within one to two kilometres of the premises, you have the right to make an objection. “It’s the easiest pathway for people to get status or standing,” he says. 

But Hewison believes those who raised objections around character who had prior experience with Mansfield arguably have an interest greater than the public, “because that connection with the applicant was important in providing evidence about his character”.

Since the beginning of this saga, opposition to Tomfoolery has been fed both by Mansfield’s lack of engagement with the community and his perceived lack of remorse for his past behaviour, Silke says. The way their license was obtained has only compounded this. 

It’s also reflective of how protective locals are of the arcade and the surrounding area – a feeling heightened by locals’ sense of powerlessness about the ongoing gentrification in the neighbourhood. 

“Nobody has anything against people partying,” says Hartung. “People just don’t like people with strange morals running a bar in a good place.”

Neither Chris Mansfield nor Donald Hospitality owner Rachel Donald have responded to requests for comment.

*Name has been changed.

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Illustration by Vasanti Unka
Illustration by Vasanti Unka

The Sunday EssayJune 12, 2022

The Sunday Essay: A never-ending pot of curry

Illustration by Vasanti Unka
Illustration by Vasanti Unka

As a child in India, Perzen Patel wished for a bowl of her grandmother’s curry that would never run out and always remind her of home. In New Zealand, that wish came true.

The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand

Original illustration by Vasanti Unka.


When I was a kid, Mum and I went to my grandmother Dolly’s house every Saturday for lunch. The menu was always the same: Dolly Mumma’s prawn curry with steamed rice.

In the morning, Mumma would send my grandfather to the market to buy a fresh coconut for her curry masala while she sat on the shared balcony of her apartment in Mumbai keeping a watch out for the fishmonger. Mumma would clap loudly when the fishmonger arrived and call her up to the apartment. She’d handpick the biggest prawns she could find, always sneaking in a few extra after the price was fixed, saying, “Arre, these extra ones are for my granddaughter. You know how much she loves eating your fish.”

Then Mumma would clean the prawns with salt and chickpea flour before marinating them in turmeric, red chilli powder and salt. They’d sit on the counter covered, while her curry bubbled away on the stove, the aroma of the curry leaves filling the home. We’d arrive at Mumma’s house around 12.30, tired from rushing around the city at various extracurricular activities. Mumma would immediately push me directly to the basin to wash my hands and feet and “become free” from the outside clothes I had on. Meanwhile, she’d finish off the curry, slipping the marinated prawns into the pot and adding a generous squeeze of lemon juice.

As we all gathered around setting the table, Mumma would bring out her famous prawn curry, a glass bowl of kachubar – onion salad – balancing on the saucepan lid.

We’d sit patiently while Mumma served us the curry rice in our steel thali. Having grown up poor, she took fairness very seriously when it came to serving food. Every family member was served three potato pieces and five prawns to go with their rice and curry. Except me – I got eight prawns. If you questioned it, Dolly Mumma would laugh and say that it was because the fish lady had given her extra prawns, especially for me.

While I never said no to the extra prawns, it was Dolly Mumma’s curry that was always the star of the show. I always had one serving with my rice, the next couple of ladles served on top of my kachubar, and then a final serving that I’d drink using my squeezed-dry lemon rind as a spoon. My mum says that she has never seen a child eat the way I used to – slowly, with my eyes closed, relishing each bite to the fullest.

One of my family’s favourite stories is the time Dolly Mumma asked me what I wanted to inherit from her. Cuddled up to her, tummy full and nearing a curry-induced coma, I innocently told her that all I really wanted was a big, never-ending bowl of her curry that I could always have and remember her by. Given that I can still taste Mumma’s beautiful medley of fresh coconut, spice, fish broth and curry leaves when I close my eyes today, this story sounds legit. Come on, what’s not to love about an overflowing saucepan of fish curry?

Our Saturday curry tradition fell by the wayside when my parents separated and we moved first from Mumbai to Pune, and then to New Zealand. Of course, Mum would still make prawn curry, I’d still eat it, but it never tasted the same. Mum was sure it was the lack of fresh coconuts that was the culprit. And I was sure that the curry wasn’t right because it was Mum cooking it and not Dolly Mumma.

I was at work when I got the call from Mum.

She was crying as she told me Mumma had passed away. Absurd as it may sound, my mind went straight to those afternoons we spent in her home eating curry. I also felt instant remorse: I’d only just seen Mumma a few months earlier, but didn’t bother asking her for her curry recipe. Learning how to make it was always something “I was definitely going to do one day”. And now she was gone. I no longer had anything special of hers that I could treasure.

Mum and I couldn’t afford the plane fares back to India for Mumma’s funeral but we mourned her loss by cooking prawn curry together. Even with the fresh prawns and the freshly grated coconut that Mum had managed to get, Mumma’s curry just wasn’t the same without her special ingredient. If only we knew what it was.

When we next went back to India and visited my mami (aunt), there was a cardboard box waiting for us, a parting gift from Mumma. My hands dug past the three saris and the velvet pouch that no doubt had some jewellery in it for mum, until they came across a book. As I lifted it out of the box, I noticed that the book was actually a tattered diary. Curiosity piqued, I flipped through the pages that were filled with scribbles in Gujarati. There were a few recipes with interesting ingredient lists – how many grams is “five anna (cents) of pumpkin”, I wondered – names of suppliers that offered the best produce in Mumbai, and even the phone numbers of Mumma’s favourite fishmongers.

What caught my attention was a loose piece paper tucked into the centre spread. It was headed: “Machi (Fish) ni Curry for vahli (dear) Perzen”. My heart skipped a beat. She had remembered.

The next morning Mum and I went to the fish market for fresh prawns and coconut and got working in the kitchen. Mum made the curry masala while I cleaned the shellfish and chopped the potatoes. Soon, the curry was bubbling away and the aroma in the house was exactly like the one in my memory.

We learned that the missing flavours were in the time it took to roast the peanuts and cashews separately before toasting the other spices. More flavour had been lost when we ground everything together rather than grinding the dry ingredients before doing the wet. And the reason Mum’s curry never had the right texture? Turns out she wasn’t frying the chickpea flour in oil before adding the masala paste.

With the curry paste fried and the water added, Mum added five prawns for her and eight for me. We smiled at each other in excitement. The curry came out just as we remembered Mumma making it. Even the house smelled exactly the same. That day at lunch as Mum and I licked our plates clean we were both transported back to those beautiful afternoons in Mum’s childhood home.

Inheriting Mumma’s curry was the first step I took toward reigniting my love for Indian food. It taught me the secret to cooking good food – taking your time. It’s an instruction often missing from modern recipe books.

I wanted to make sure that the recipe was never lost again and so, it became the first recipe I wrote on my food blog. It was also the first item on my menu when I started my catering kitchen in India, the first proper meal I fed my children and now, the first product I bottled for my range of Indian curry pastes.

Every now and then an email will land in my inbox from a customer who’s made Dolly Mumma’s curry in their own home. The gist of those emails is often the same: in cooking Mumma’s curry they were able to bring alive the edible memories they have of their loved ones.

That never-ending pot of curry I wanted to inherit from Mumma? In sharing Mumma’s curry far and wide, turns out I cooked my own never-ending pot of it after all.


Love The Sunday Essay series? Be sure to check out The Sunday Essay postcard set over in The Spinoff shop. The set includes 10 original illustrations from the series with insight from the artists. 

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