RANT

Thus far, this blog has been a fairly happy-go-lucky, "look at all the pretty scenery" general New Zealand love fest. And realistically, that makes perfect sense, as I have enjoyed my time here immensely. The scenery is indeed magnificent, the people are friendly to a fault, the beer is tasty and overall, things here are just peachey peachy. All is well in the world, and there is sunshine and rainbows everywhere and unicorns are prancing about all magical and stuff (metaphorically speaking of course. Unicorns aren't real...yet).

HOWEVER, last week arose a situation that provided me with my first real "bone to pick" here in New Zealand. So, if you'd like to read on in what will likely be a post filled with ALL CAPS (anger!), frustration and probably some unintentional comedy please do. Be warned though, this post is all about frustration and anger, and thus there may be some accompanying harsh language. If you can't handle that kind of heat, best stay out of this kitchen hombre.


Alright, first things first. The target of this rant, an entity that I have come to hate with every single fibre of my being, is BURGER KING. Yes, home of the Whopper. Yes, "Have it your way." Well, if I had it my way, every BK on earth would cease to exist. Just straight up disappear, not only from physical existence, but also memory. Like, you would ask someone, "Hey Gustav, remember Burger King?" And Gustav would say, "No, I do not. If you are referring to a fast food burger chain, one with such a name has never existed." And then you would say to yourself "Oh yeah...but then how do I know about it? What were we talking about? Some burger chain? Well now I'm confused" and so on and so forth.

The main ingredients in the Whopper? Anger and frustration.

So, to tell this story, most of you will need some type of background info, predominantly my prior BK history and BK's place in the NZ fast-food hierarchy.

1. About 3 years ago, when I was still living in Waterloo (in the Dorset house, if my memory serves), my roommate HOM TARMAN (note: not his real name) were in need of some Sunday morning hangover food. So we hopped in his stock Honda Civic and began a drive about town. Neither of us really knew where we wanted to eat, just that we needed food ASAP, so we began exchanging increasingly stupid ideas. I, remembering that a new BK had just been constructed not too far from where we lived, suggested (JOKINGLY) that we go visit the King. And then it actually happened. As we entered the restaurant, we both noted that this was a particularly upscale BK - it felt like we were walking into an exclusive club, but the light were on and it smelled of meat, cheese and broken dreams. Anyway, we place our order, it comes and we head out back to the car and home again. A pretty standard food retrieval adventure, and things were going swimmingly. I had food, was gonna scarf it all and wash it down with a nice cold Coca-Cola. Alas, if it were that simple. When I pulled my burger out of it's wrapping, looking forward to the flame-broiled, melted cheesy goodness, something was wrong. Horribly wrong. My burger was WRINKLY. Like a crumpled up dress shirt, or Stover's track pants. HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY can a hamburger be wrinkly. Needless to say, this confused me thoroughly, and though I ate the burger, I did not enjoy. I vowed never to return. A promise I kept faithfully until...

2. The morning after the longest day ever. Loyal readers of my blog will know of what I speak (for those that don't: it was a long day of cycling and drinking). It was on this morning (familiar theme) that I finally broke my anti-BK oath. The whole crew that came into Dunedin for the night out decided that BK would be the breakfast location, and I attacked it with reckless abandon. I had a quad BK Stacker, because I am a man, and I don't break oaths in half-measures. I go ALL THE WAY. Anyway, I was surprised at its deliciousness (and no wrinkles!) and the overall quality of the atmosphere in the BK itself. NZ BKs are quite classy apparently. This leads me to my next point...

3. For some unknown reason, I believe that BK is at the TOP of the NZ fast-food burger chain hierarchy. Over McDonalds. I know, it freaks me out too. In Canada, BK sits a distant fourth out of the "Big 4" burger joints (McD's, Wendy's, Harvey's) and even behind smaller establishments as well (A&W for example). Not the case here. Burger King is premium fast foodage in this backwards, confusing land (unfortunately, they only have Wendy's on the North Island. That fact is made even more painful by the fact that right now, NZ Wendy's have brought back the greatest fast food burger of all time: The Baconator Mushroom Melt. So many heart attacks, but all of them worth it).

Now, onto the story. I have yet to cover the events of the second half of my last break (mostly because I don't have much to write about for a little while), but this event takes place during my trip. Coles notes: I travelled from Dunedin, via Christchurch, Kaikoura and Blenheim, to Nelson, at the very top of the South Island. From there, I walked the Abel Tasman Coast Track in (surprise!) Abel Tasman National Park. Once completed, I returned to Dunedin via the same route in reverse. The BK portion of the story takes place in Christchurch (from here out abbreviated as CHCH), on a Saturday and subsequent Friday.

I left Dunedin at roughly 8am Saturday morning for the bus ride to Blenheim, with a stop of about 2 hours in CHCH. Unfortunately, the recent earthquakes have really devastated the city, and while it was once a great place to visit, it now is really a shell of its former self. The people of CHCH and New Zealand as a whole are doing a great job starting the rebuilding process, but it will be a long while before it returns to what it was. And that's the sappiest this post will get. BACK TO THE ANGER. Because of the wide-spread devastation in CHCH, many of the downtown eating establishments are close, making lunchtime options rather limited. I wandered around town for a bit, took some pics and eventually figured I'd have to find the bus stop from where I'd be leaving to Kaikoura. During my wanderings, I noticed a far off BK sign, and while I didn't have time to go there before my bus left, I made a mental note to stop in on my way back through on Friday (this is a literary device called FORESHADOWING. I am, after all, studying to become an English teacher). So, I grabbed a muffin from a corner store and hopped on the bus, with visions of Sugar Plum Whoppers (or Whopper Plum Fairies?) dancing in my head.

Throughout the course of the next 5 days, I did quite a lot of walking, and especially in the Abel Tasman, had some pretty boring "hiking" meals. Cheese and crackers. Canned Tuna. Scroggin (NZ name for trail mix, always reminds me of my ol' OMC buddy Russ. A real beaut). Water. As you can see, not the most exciting fare. Needless to say, that future BK was really playing heavily in my mind (please keep in mind point #3, BK is GOOD in New Zealand), especially as I returned to Nelson after my hike was done. Compared to most NZ towns, Nelson is quite large (40,000+ residents), and as such, it has all the trappings of big city life - namely, fast food establishments. BUT, I remained faithful to my earlier promise. BK. DINNER. FRIDAY. GLORIOUS.

So, Friday morning rolls around, and I board the bus at 8:30am for the start of a 15 hour, 800km journey back to Dunedin. First stop, Blenheim. Uneventful. Second stop, Kaikoura. Half-hour lunch break. I decide to eat only a granola bar, to keep myself primed for a dinner feast. Finally, rolling on to the next stop: CHCH and an audience with the King. We roll in to town about 3:30, and I have until 5:15 for this operation. I hop off the bus, tummy growling like a lion on the Sahara (note: did not research if there are lion on the Sahara. If not, substitute Serengeti/Kalahari/I DON'T CARE. LET ME TELL THE STORY. THIS ISN'T THE GODDAMN PULITZERS). I should also mention at this point that the 55km hike had left my right foot feeling a little tender, so the trek from the bus stop to BK was going to be a painful one. But I was willing.

This is where things start to go wrong. As I approach the strip mall where the sign is located, I begin to sense that things aren't quite right. But I soldier on anyway, gamely hobbling along, knowing that a scrumptious treat awaits me. Finally, I'm withing about 20 feet of the sign, when a secondary sign, lower to the ground and obscured by a SHRUBBERY comes into view. On it, my doom: "Burger King Closed for reconstruction. Opening in 2012." AAAARRRGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. IT CAN NOT BE. I NEED BURGER KING. IT'S 2012! WHERE IN HELL IS THIS PLACE! NOOOOO!!!

So there I was, hobbling around, dragging my injured foot around like a lion dragging a gazelle across the Sahara (screw off) searching, in vain, for the home of the Whopper. Gone. Vanished. SHIT.

I had to eat gas station sausage rolls for dinner.

Fuck you Burger King.

Never again.

"What's that? You want to eat at MY restaurant? HAHAHAHHAHA  no."
Seriously King, fall in a hole. Filled with snakes. On fire.