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Kia-Ora drinks for sale in Ireland, and one of the very dubious ads (Photos: Supplied)
Kia-Ora drinks for sale in Ireland, and one of the very dubious ads (Photos: Supplied)

KaiSeptember 10, 2018

Why is Coca-Cola still selling a racist drink called Kia-Ora?

Kia-Ora drinks for sale in Ireland, and one of the very dubious ads (Photos: Supplied)
Kia-Ora drinks for sale in Ireland, and one of the very dubious ads (Photos: Supplied)

The offensive ads may have been confined to the annals of history (ie: YouTube), but the 100-plus-year-old cordial is still around, and still wrong on many levels.

Kia ora — isn’t it a lovely word? It reminds me of my hometown and Suzy Cato and perky Air New Zealand flight attendants. It’s informal but sounds a lot nicer than ‘g’day mate’, and it’s a word you’re only likely to hear 4.000 kilometres south of the equator, which is why I was a little surprised to see it plastered on a bottle of colourful goo in a small town supermarket in rural Ireland.

Kia ora, as it turns out, is not just a Māori greeting and expression of friendship but a brand of cordial (or squash as it’s known here) owned by a small outfit you might have heard of called Coca-Cola. It comes in blackcurrant and orange flavours, the latter of which glowed so obnoxiously from the shelf I had to take a bottle home and taste it. It was sweet and sickly and somewhat fruit-adjacent without actually tasting like any particular fruit. It had something called glycerol esters of wood rosins in it, which was alarming.

I wanted to know what Coca-Cola was doing selling New Zealand greeting-themed juice. But first, the history.

In 1903, a man called Arthur Gasquoine created a lemon cordial and called it Kia-Ora. It seems he was inspired by the literal translation of kia ora — to wish someone good health and wellness, and, in keeping with the traditions of white people, had no problem whatsoever taking a chunk of Māori culture and using it for his own benefit.

To make matters worse, Mr Gasquoine was an Australian.

Shortly after its inception, Aussie Arthur G sold the Kia-Ora brand to the Dixon family of Victoria, but it wasn’t until Kia-Ora was launched in Great Britain that the product really took off. From its humble beginnings as a lemon squash, Kia-Ora expanded to include multiple drink flavours, and in the 1940s diversified to include tinned soup, spaghetti and baked beans. Unfortunately, the undisputed highlight of the latter move was Kia-Ora home economist Anne Dixon’s depraved spaghetti and baked bean recipes. By the 1960s, the Australian arm of Kia-Ora had been bought out by Campbell’s, and Kia-Ora’s Lent-friendly Easter eggs in spaghetti nests tragically became a thing of the past.

Two examples of home economist Anne Dixon’s depraved spaghetti and baked bean recipes (Photos: Supplied)

Meanwhile, though, the popularity of Kia-Ora in the UK continued to soar. Posters featured smiling white children at the beach and tennis club secretaries lauding the “healthful goodness” of the drink. Meanwhile, the company also took up the opportunity to be very racist whenever the subjects of the posters were black or brown.

And then there were the TV ads created between the early and late 1980s, which were still getting airtime well into the 1990s when really, everyone should’ve known better. The adverts featured a black, straw hat-wearing child in a vaguely Caribbean setting, leading a pack of crows representing such brazen stereotypes seemingly copied directly from the racist disaster that was Disney’s Dumbo.

Karma appears to have caught up with Kia-Ora. These days, Coca-Cola has discontinued all but two Kia-Ora cordials (the aforementioned sugar-free orange and blackcurrant) and doesn’t appear to advertise on TV, online or anywhere else. The television ads of old were so famously awful that an English Labour MP recently got in trouble for sharing one in a WhatsApp group. Apart from a few nostalgic boomers in the deep recesses of internet message boards, most people seem to remember Kia-Ora as “that juice with the messed up ads”.

Kia-Ora advertising over the years (Photos: Supplied)

As unpopular as Kia-Ora is today, a few uncomfortable points remain.

Māori children were forcibly banned from using the word kia ora (and any other te reo) in schools nationwide in 1903, the exact same year a white man was able to use the word to advertise a drink.

Kia-Ora’s advertorial history relied heavily on racist stereotyping of black people, purely because the word sounded vaguely exotic to some London-based executive.

Everyone who was an English or Irish child of the 1980s thinks kia ora is pronounced the same way Don Brash would pronounce it if he weren’t so afraid of the Māori language.

Kia-Ora is barely surviving as a brand and, inexplicably, still using a picture of a cartoon crow on its labels.

Given the above, I wondered if Coke had given any thought to calling Kia-Ora something other than Kia-Ora. Here’s what they said:

“The Coca-Cola Company acquired the Cadbury Schweppes soft drinks brands in a deal concluded in 1998. The Kia-Ora brand was part of this brand portfolio. There has been limited marketing investment in the brand since that time. There are no plans to make any changes to the branding or the beverage at this time.”

So many ads (Photos: Supplied)

In short, Kia-Ora will remain Kia-Ora because a company worth $270 billion cannot be arsed changing it.

I’m no marketing expert, but I managed to think of some alternatives pretty quickly.

  • Ireland’s Second or Third Favourite Concentrated Low-Calorie Orange Flavour Soft Drink With Sweeteners
  • This Has Something Called Glycerol Esters of Wood Rosins In It – Hope You’re Cool With That
  • Same Juice But Not Racist Any More

New Zealanders are pretty creative folk, perhaps we could organise some sort of national poll to choose a new name, Boaty McBoatface-style? The folks at Coca-Cola seem to be stuck for resources at the minute, they need all the help they can get.

Keep going!
Behold: the fizzler (All photos: Retail Meat NZ)
Behold: the fizzler (All photos: Retail Meat NZ)

KaiSeptember 8, 2018

My day of meat: A vegetarian goes to butcher bootcamp

Behold: the fizzler (All photos: Retail Meat NZ)
Behold: the fizzler (All photos: Retail Meat NZ)

Our usually meat-eschewing food editor proves she’s got the chops for the job by getting acquainted with some dead animals. 

People often presume that because I don’t eat meat, the thought of others eating it must horrify me. Anything from munching a ham sandwich in my presence to simply mentioning the nice steak they had for dinner last night is swiftly followed by embarrassed apologies.

I reassure them that it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I don’t eat meat (I do eat fish, so really I’m a pescatarian, but that didn’t sound as good in the headline), but it’s not due to any great ethical conviction or because it grosses me out. I can’t offer a simple explanation for it because I genuinely don’t have one — I just don’t fancy eating meat, so I never really have.

Though that’s not quite true. As a child, I did eat meat, but was not a fan of anything with bones, sinew, gristle and the like. Basically, I didn’t mind the whitest chicken breast, or anything highly processed to the point it was no longer really recognisable as meat.

Cheese sizzlers were a favourite, for example. Which brings me to my day of meat.

I was invited to attend a butcher bootcamp with 2017 Alto Butcher of the Year Reuben Sharples, who runs Aussie Butcher in New Lynn, West Auckland. It was in the lead-up to Sharples handing over his crown (apron? cleaver?) to the 2018 winner, who would be chosen in the coming days (Riki Kerekere from Countdown Meat & Seafood took out this year’s competition, which was held on Thursday).

“Aha!” I thought to myself on receiving the invitation. “This will show my doubters.” It may seem hard to believe, dear readers, but there are some folk out there who question my ability to be a food editor because of my dietary requirements. Getting amongst some MEAT would show those naysayers that I am hardcore.

Getting acquainted with the saus machine

The first task would be developing my own sausages, so in the lead-up to meat day I crowdsourced flavour ideas. “Make a fancy cheese sizzler,” suggested my sister. “A fizzler, if you will.”

It was a great idea, I had to admit – a nostalgic nod to my childhood. So the fizzler was born.

I arrived at bootcamp HQ (the seafood school at Auckland Fish Market, where cooking classes are held) and was introduced to Sharples, who was to be my meat sensei of sorts. Pleasingly, he seemed entirely unfazed by my pescatarianism (at first he thought I said I was a pestatarian, which gave me a great idea for a story to delegate to an unsuspecting Spinoff staffer — possum pie, anyone?)

Anyway, once decked out in apron and cap, I proceeded to the flavour table where I had an array of herbs, spices and other ingredients at my disposal. After briefly flirting with the idea of a simple, sophisticated pork and fennel sausage, I glimpsed a block of Tasty cheese. It had to be the fizzler.

Sharples suggested adding jalapeños as well as cheese to make an American barbecue-style sausage, and I was sold. We decided to chuck some smoked paprika in too and though it didn’t really go, sage, mainly because I have a sage tattoo on my arm. This was set to be a real fusion fizzler.

Filling the saus

Sharples had boned out a leg of Freedom Farms pork and minced it coarsely already, adding some pork back fat too, so my first job was to grate and cube some cheese, chop the jalapeños and sage, then chuck it all in and mix the bugger up with my hands.

I never really touch meat (because I am a selfish cook who only makes dishes I will eat myself), but it didn’t feel gross. It felt kinda good, to be honest.

Then shit got real. Sharples brought out the sausage-filling machine and the casing, made from a very long, collagen-rich layer of pig intestine. It kind of looked like a giant bunched up condom. It was fascinating. I loaded up the machine with the fizzler filling and threaded the casing on, fearing I might break it, but Sharples assured me that gut casings are much tougher than the artificial ones.

Then, with some help (OK, quite a lot of help) from my teacher, I filled the casing, winding the handle with one hand and gently keeping my other hand on the sausage as I filled it. In an incredible display of self-control, I did not make a single inappropriate joke.

No one uses these manual machines in a commercial setting any more, says Sharples — why would you when an automatic one can push out 120 snags per minute — but I found the process therapeutic.

Once the casing was filled, we were left with a single long sausage, so it was linking time. This was a little tricky but I soon got the hang of it — loop it, twist it, wrap it in. Again, therapeutic.

When it was all done, I felt elated. I had made sausages! Me! Sausages! What a thrill. I was the sausage queen.

Linking the sausages

But my meaty endeavours weren’t over yet. Now it was time to tackle a leg of lamb.

I thought this might be a more confronting task, as there would be bones and gristle and gross stuff like that, but as soon as Sharples said “hold your knife like you’re going to kill someone”, I was 100% on board.

Step by step, he showed me what to do and I followed, first removing the aitchbone. Slicing through meat felt kinda good too — satisfying on a deeply primal, slightly disturbing level. Also, compared to chopping up a pumpkin or similar, it was easy AF.

I think squeamish meat eaters may have struggled more with the process, but because I wasn’t really thinking about the hunk of meat in front of me as food, I was sweet. It was like dissection, or perhaps surgery, an analogy helped along by my teacher saying things like: “When you do hip replacements, that’s what they cut off — that’s your hip joint.”

Next we removed the shank and butterflied out the leg. “You’re a natural,” said Sharples. I could only agree.

“Hold the knife like you’re going to kill someone”

Before I went on my merry way, taking my sausages and lamb leg with me to donate to carnivorous colleagues, friends and family, we cooked up a couple of snags for the expert to try. They split in the pan, which Sharples said we’d get penalised for if this was a sausage competition, but it wasn’t our fault — it happens when the sausages are very fresh and the pan is too hot. He cut off a slice and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, before announcing that they were a bit dry — his fault, this time, for not adding enough fat to the pork.

But the flavour was good, and the perhaps less discerning but honest recipients of the remaining sausages were fulsome in their praise. “Very good sausage,” said one. “Spectacular,” commented another.

No, I was not tempted to taste them myself, but I’d jump back on the end of that sausage machine without hesitation. And hopefully I have made some progress in proving to people that if I can bone a leg of lamb like it ain’t no thing, my delicate sensibilities can handle them eating a ham sandwich in front of me.

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