(Image: Tina Tiller)
(Image: Tina Tiller)

KaiMay 16, 2023

Hear me out: Bring back the unaesthetic 90s-style stack of pancakes

(Image: Tina Tiller)
(Image: Tina Tiller)

Simple plates of pancakes were once a cornerstone of New Zealand cafe menus. These days they’re as rare as hen’s teeth – and where they do exist, they’re often alarmingly over-embellished. Who or what is to blame?

Though I was only young, New Zealand cafe culture in the late 1990s and early 2000s left a distinct impression on me. Cinnamon-topped cappuccinos served by the bowlful, verdant leafy side salads, a slightly dewy counter cabinet almost certainly containing a colossal chocolate mud cake. And most importantly, a blackboard on the wall behind the counter offering $16.50 (or thereabouts) pancakes.

There was an oddly comforting predictability to these pancakes. And while I can really only speak to the Tāmaki Makaurau experience, whether you were at Crucial Traders in Kingsland, Cezanne on Ponsonby Road or Melba on Vulcan Lane, the formula was much the same. White plates offered a blank canvas for a dependable composition: three, or if you were lucky, four, floppy pancakes, a jug of syrup and a combination of bacon rashers, a ramekin of berry coulis or a spliced grilled banana. Adornments could involve a twisted slice of orange, a pair of grapes or a sprig of mint. A quick dusting of icing sugar was a requisite right before the plate was sent out for delivery to hungry breakfast-goers, who might have even been reading a physical copy of a newspaper or magazine.

Homogeneity is rarely a good thing when it comes to food, but with these pancakes, familiarity was their secret ingredient.

The fading 90s pancake lives on almost exclusively in blurry pictures from old online reviews. (Images: Google)

Most of us would agree that on the whole, New Zealand’s culinary landscape has been enhanced over the last two decades. Everyday food, once largely standardised, is now brimming with ingredients and recipes that better represent the diversity of our population. Our collective palate has been expanded. Where this positive progress has been less evident is in the arena of pancakes, where things have taken a wild turn for the worse.

Despite their heroic presence in the clattering cafes of the turn of the 20th century, pancakes are scarcely on menus these days, regularly replaced by easier-to-prepare equivalents like waffles and French toast.

Perhaps even more heart-breaking, though, and where my real gripe lies, is that where pancakes remain on the menu, they’ve often been fancied up beyond recognition. Any initial excitement I feel when I spot the elusive “pancake” on a menu in 2023 immediately dissipates on reading the alarming description beneath. Now, it’s not unusual to see plates of pancakes piled precariously with ingredients like banana dust, poached figs, lemon curd, seeds, chopped nuts, labneh, praline crumble, Persian fairy floss, shaved dark chocolate, edible flowers, millet puffs, microgreens, marshmallows and coconut meringue. A time traveller from the 1990s would be utterly bamboozled by the state of it.

What made the pared-back pancakes of the 90s and early 2000s incredible was that everything on the plate (minus the sprig of mint) was there for a simple reason: it tasted good. There was art within that harmonious medley of salty, acidic, starchy and fatty, and the presentation itself was delightfully daggy. These were the pancakes of a burgeoning digital age. But little did any of us know, it was precisely the digital era that would eventually topple them. 

If the pancakes of the new millennium were a reflection of the leisurely comfort of cafes at the time, pancakes now are a symbol of an industry reliant on us taking pictures of our breakfast. Social media – mostly Instagram and now TikTok – has completely changed the way we eat. It’s not hard to see the link between the state of our pancakes and the over-accessorised “freak shakes”, “rainbow unicorn bagels”, impossibly tall burgers or maximalist charcuterie boards that haunted our Instagram feeds in the 2010s. With that shift in focus to aesthetic and rarity, pancakes, like many other foods, are a victim of having to distinguish themselves by way of a facade of excessiveness. Whether they actually taste good has become secondary to what will attract eyeballs.

Lamenting the impact of social media on how we eat is a relatively tired subject matter. The eye-roll reaction to people who enjoy taking pictures of their food is even more so. Still, at least occasionally, I’d like to just sit in a cafe with a newspaper in hand and a large, delicious plate of unremarkable-looking pancakes that aren’t begging me to take their picture. 

Keep going!
John Key, Jacinda Ardern, Grant Robertson and Chris Hipkins enjoy some hearty tucker (Image: Tina Tiller)
John Key, Jacinda Ardern, Grant Robertson and Chris Hipkins enjoy some hearty tucker (Image: Tina Tiller)

OPINIONKaiMay 15, 2023

The politics of pastries

John Key, Jacinda Ardern, Grant Robertson and Chris Hipkins enjoy some hearty tucker (Image: Tina Tiller)
John Key, Jacinda Ardern, Grant Robertson and Chris Hipkins enjoy some hearty tucker (Image: Tina Tiller)

Chris Hipkins has made no secret of his penchant for sausage rolls. But beyond the layers of puff pastry, there’s a whole lot more at play.

At this point in his tenure, Chris Hipkins’ fondness for sausage rolls will be familiar to most of us. While in London for the coronation, the prime minister was presented with sausage rolls not once, but twice – first on a quaint doily-lined foil tray by King Charles, and again by British prime minister Rishi Sunak, paired, naturally, with Wattie’s tomato sauce. “I was incredibly touched by the gesture, as you will see from the fact that there’s only two left. They were exceptionally good,” Hipkins told media after the meeting with King Charles. 

Contextually, it makes a lot of sense. Sausage rolls, which have culinary roots in ancient Greece and 19th century France, gained popularity in London in the early 1800s as a cheap street food, and have since transformed into a quintessentially British delicacy.

And I’ll admit, as someone who’s obviously quite into food, I find all this talk of sausage rolls very charming. But it’s also kind of intriguing if you delve a little deeper.

Chris Hipkins smiles with a bottle of Wattie's tomato sauce while standing next to UK prime minister Rishi Sunak. Sunak is holding a large silver platter of sausage rolls.
Chris Hipkins and Rishi Sunak with a tray of sausage rolls. (Image: Facebook)

References to a particular brand of kai have become a defining symbol of Hipkins’ time as a prime minister. Since he began the role he’s shared his love for pies, especially steak and cheese, which prompted journalists to hunt down his favourite pie shop. Hipkins has regularly framed the government’s focus as being on “bread and butter” issues, in defence of its recent policy cull. Heck, even his nickname “Chippy” is a reference to a carb-loaded food. But sausage rolls have certainly been the most notable food association. 

Sausage rolls are a wonderful thing, and I honestly have no doubt that Hipkins genuinely likes them. But I also think it would be naive to pretend that this enjoyment isn’t being exaggerated for political effect. Food is political and, as I know from writing about it, also a wonderfully accessible tool for communicating more complex ideas. Sausage rolls in this case could be seen as shorthand for New Zealand-ness, working class identity, authenticity and, more generally, a kind of commonsense brand of politics.

Hipkins isn’t the first politician to attempt to win over voters’ hearts and minds via their stomachs. We love to see politicians with food. When she was prime minister, Jacinda Ardern name-dropped Alison Holst sausage rolls as part of the daily rituals of working in the Beehive during lockdown. Ardern was regularly photographed tongs in hand behind a snag-lined barbecue (we could delve into the gendered references here too, but that’s for another time), and she made regular reference to Morrinsville’s Golden Kiwi Restaurant – the fish and chip shop where she worked as a teen. John Key made no secret of his love for another sausage-based product, the hot dog – with an infamous picture to prove it. For some reason I have a picture saved to my laptop of a suit and tie-clad Key and then-deputy Bill English posing with impressively sized cheese and ham toasties in a sports bar. Rightfully, they both look utterly delighted with their plates. 

John Key and Bill English grin while each holding plates with larger than normal toasted sandwiches. They look to be in a sports bar.
John Key and Bill English pose with toasted sandwiches.

McDonald’s has been a popular choice among the National Party, with Luxon last year posing for photos at the drive-through of the franchise he worked at as a teenager. In the early 1990s, the National Party “brat pack”, comprising Bill English, Roger Sowry, Nick Smith and Tony Ryall, posed with Big Macs for a photograph mimicking the famous 1980 “fish and chip brigade” shot of Labour politicians David Lange, Michael Bassett, Roger Douglas and Mike Moore tucking into a generous portion of fish and chips. A politician who bucks this trend for the stodgy and beige is Winston Peters, who tends to reach for far more eclectic and diverse kai like raw mussels, fish heads and phenomenally hot tom yum soup, and has proudly touted his fondness for eating a pie with a knife and fork.

National party leader Christopher Luxon wears a red polo and a black apron as he leans out the window of a McDonald's drive through to talk to a customer..
Christopher Luxon poses in the McDonald’s drive through. (Image: Facebook)

Anyway, I digress. The general point is that food has been used, often cynically, as a political tool in Aotearoa: to craft politicians’ images, signal political leanings, reflect policy concerns and forge connections with voters. The assumption being that if you eat like voters, you understand voters.

And to fail at this can be disastrous. For example, it’s been suggested that ex-British Labour Party leader Ed Miliband’s inability to eat a humble bacon sandwich in a “normal” manner in 2014, which was documented by way of some extraordinarily awkward photographs, led to the end of his political career a year later.  

The reassuring sausage roll is perhaps most useful politically not for its own identity, but for the way it distinguishes itself from more politically onerous associations of foods like, say hummus, alternative milks or homemade muesli – all markers of the out of touch “urban liberal elite”. That’s why you’re unlikely to see Chris Hipkins, or any politician vying for “the middle” for that matter, posing with a bowl of silken tofu or divulging to journalists an obsession with oat milk flat whites. Politicians in the middle want to be seen as connected, ordinary and in touch – food is a relatively easy proxy through which to do so. 

I’m not here to criticise this strategy – sausage rolls are likely a very useful vessel for communicating an understanding of what certain types of people care about. However, and I mean no disrespect to sausage rolls or to any deliciously carby food, it’s somewhat disappointing that in a country with so much diversity and unique kai of its own, beige bakery fare with resolutely British roots remains the taken-for-granted emblem of authenticity and of “everyday New Zealanders”.

In 2023, it’s an outdated idea of how people eat in this country, what the working class looks like (they’re not solely male and Pākehā) and a rather revealing reflection of which voters matter. When you extrapolate more broadly what that means about our political landscape, it’s even more grim. Whether we like it or not though, I suppose politics is easier to digest if it’s wrapped in pastry.